“Don’t worry, Grandpa,” I say under my breath. “I’ll cook you an entire pig before then.”
“With the crispy crackle bits?”
“The whole hog.”
Trent looks over at me flatly. “I’ve yet to see you make more than two-minute noodles in the kitchen.”
Grandpa cheers. “A man of hidden talents, my Ika.”
“Very hidden,” Trent says.
I lean over the table, raising a brow. “You must admit, I’m good atfaking it.”
Trent hesitates, lowers the paper and rises, collecting all our dishes. “It’s a two-person job anyway. I’ll help you until you make it.”
Grandpa barks out a laugh, and I wonder if this is another act. If Trent and I will end up eating half a pig each to save Grandpa from himself.
After cleaning up and seeing Grandpa off, I head to the bedroom to change. Audition first. Studio later. What to wear?
The front door slams—Trent leaving. Good. I can dress here instead of the bathroom.
I exhale, turn up my music, and pull out shirt options.
The wardrobe is open to the inside mirror and I angle it away from the light spilling through the windows. It means I have a better view of my body and Trent’s side of the room behind me. Neatly made bed, folded clothes, lingering scent from an earlier shower. Not even here, and I can sense him.
I shake off a stray shiver and pull on the blue shirt. My eyes catch in the mirror. Kind of cool, kind of sharp. Blue makes them stand out more.
But the green one... yeah. That’ll be better.
I slide out of the blue shirt. The swishing reflection as it falls catches my gaze, followed by a familiar navy canvas sitting atop Trent’s desk. I realise too late what it is. His work bag. He’s forgotten it.
He’s coming back for it.
Correction, he’s come back for it.
The bedroom door swings open and Trent steals all the air out of the room as he strides in.
Maybe if I didn’t move so quickly to shove on the shirt, he wouldn’t have looked.
But I do, and of course, he glances over.
His gaze flicks, quick and processing.
His eyes meet mine, then move away. He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t react.
Instead, he crosses the room, picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder.
At the doorway, he hesitates, his back to me.
He clears his throat. “Are you working today?”
I snap my arms properly into my shirt, fumbling with the buttons. “Studio from lunch on. Why?”
His grip shifts on the strap of his bag. “For the next month I’m tracking kelp regrowth near Island Bay. If you’ve got the space, could I work there? Do some data analysis.”
Mid-button, my knuckles brush the long, jagged scar that runs down and around my side. My scar. My mistake. My clammy fingers press too hard, the button slipping from its hole.
Working at the studio. Regularly. Him, around. When it’s the only chance I get to nap. “Sleep deprivation is all the rage these days.”
