“Come watch with me. I think we both need to switch off for a bit.”
I didn’t need to be asked twice. Sidling around the lounge, I dropped down beside him. He didn’t speak again, and I turned my attention to the TV, where Simone Riley, River’s mum, was installing a composting toilet into one of their glamping tents.
“His parents are not at all what I imagined,” Henry said thoughtfully. I glanced at him. His hands were linked behind his head, and a curl had fallen across his forehead. I itched to brush it away. To trail my fingers down that chiselled cheekbone, over those full lips. Maybe follow that path with my mouth…
“What did you imagine?” I asked instead, cursing myself for these aching feelings.
“River’s savvy, and driven. And they seem …”
“Flaky?” I finished for him. His mouth tilted upwards.
“That’s a succinct way to describe them.”
I huffed out a laugh. “They’re very passionate about their little ecolodge, but they’re completely clueless about reality. It’s part of the fun of watching their journey. I do have a confession, though …” I leaned closer. “Weet-Bix the Wombat is my favourite character. There’s an episode where River’s mum was trying to plant a new veggie patch, only to get to the end of the row to find Weet-Bix had ‘helped’ by digging up every seedling she’d just planted … I think I almost wet myself laughing!”
Henry chuckled. “We might have to locate that episode.” He returned to the channel screen, scrolling through countless thumbnails. “They’ve really figured out a formula for success—they’re worth multiple millions of dollars now, and it’s not the lodge that made them the money. It’s their content.”
“The power of social media. It can be very lucrative for some.” I fell silent, my mind straying to my own, up-until-now lucrative social media account. And the reasons I’d had to shut it down. My chest started to get tight again. I closed my eyes, hoping Henry wouldn’t notice as I struggled to breathe.
But he noticed everything.
Warm arms enveloped me, his chin resting on my head. “You don’t have to talk about it. But let’s breathe together.”
He inhaled deeply, his chest rising against my head. I copied, my breaths shaky at first, but evening out as I focused on the sound of air moving in and out of his lungs where my ear pressed to his sternum.
“Would you like to use my vape?” he asked tentatively. I shook my head, nuzzling my face against his T-shirt. It smelt so nice, I could just sit there and sniff him all day.
“I just need a hit of Henry,” I mumbled. He stilled, and too late I realised all the dirty ways that could be interpreted.
“No, not … notthat, I just meant that taking a nice big deep breath of your smell is enough for me—all that fresh linen fabric softener and warm man-skin!” My face burned, and I chanced aglance up at him. He was as red as I felt, but his eyes met mine, searching.
I took a very exaggerated sniff of his shirt then pasted a smile on my face. “All better now!”
Pizda, had I ever been less sexy? What was wrong with me? Was this the best I could come up with? Where had my flirting game gone?
Flirting is easy when it’s just physical … but it’s so much more than that with him, isn’t it?
The colour deepened in Henry’s cheeks. I wondered if he was feeling second-hand embarrassment for me, and I wished the lounge cushion would just swallow me whole.
“That’s a coincidence, because I find the smell of you calms me too.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, my heart vibrating in my chest, and butterflies rioting in my stomach. Did he not realise how these little things he said affected me? He could fluster me more with one earnest sentence than I ever had been able to fluster him with flirty innuendo.
“Did you have a chance to call about my visa?” I asked, needing something less fraught with fuzzy emotions to focus on.
“I did,” he replied stiffly, and I wondered if I’d messed up by changing the subject. “Your application is still waiting to be assessed.” His fingers found his knee, and he squeezed. “We just have to be patient, Catnip.”
“Ah, patience. One of my best qualities,” I joked, forcing back that all-too-familiar rising panic. I didn’t have time to be patient.
“Wewillmake it happen, Ri,” Henry rasped, his lips brushing my temple. “We will fix this for you.” I shivered when he straightened and removed his arms from around me. He stood and left the room, and I hopped up, watching him retreat to his bedroom and wondering what on earth had just happened to make him want to escape me like that.
But then he returned, an envelope in his hand. He passed it to me, and I noticed the Births, Deaths and Marriages logo on the front.
“I think it would be smart for you to carry this with you. Just in case. It at least gives you some form of proof that you have a right to be here.”
I pulled the marriage certificate from the envelope, scanning thedocument. Irina Daciana Rusnac—my full name—listed at the top, right above …
“HenryCélineBaxter?” I teased, quirking an eyebrow in his direction. I knew our names had been said in full during our wedding ceremony, but I’d been floating in a cloud of disbelief for most of it and barely remembered a word that was spoken. “As in … Céline Dion?”
