“There were reasons. Mainly because everyone’s awful at poetry.” Garrett reached for another slice of bread.
“You don’t have to entertain me,” Sophie said. “I don’t need a city experience.”
“That’s lucky,” Tarryn said. “Because you won’t get it. Where do you take a date in Sydney?”
Sophie shuffled in her seat. “A café for lunch, if it’s a first date with someone I don’t already know.”
“So the two degrees of sapphic separation still holds good in Sydney.” Will sighed. “Here in Quandong, it’s less. Just ask our resident serial dater here.”
“That’s you?” Sophie asked Tarryn.
“It is,” Garrett answered. “Our Tarry’s a hot mess, but she attracts women like bees to a honeypot.”
“I didn’t realise there was such a dating pool here.” Sophie finished her soup and set the spoon down.
“There’s not.” Tarryn glared across the table at Garrett. “Garrett, king of exaggeration, lives up to his title.”
Will rose and collected the soup dishes. “Take a breather, pour more wine, and relax.”
“Hot mess, eh?” Sophie raised an eyebrow. “So should I know who you’ve dated here? For potential issues. Difficulty working together, that sort of thing.”
“I’m friends with all my exes.” Tarryn backed up the bold-faced lie with a direct stare. “It’s a lesbian thing, as you doubtless know.”
Sophie’s gaze slid away, and she took a sip of wine. “It must be different here. Sydney’s not like that.”
“Are you friends with your exes?”
“No. The last one threw her coffee at me.”
“So the sweet and kind sort.” Tarryn huffed a laugh.
Garrett leaned forward. “Sophie, do you have a girlfriend—or partner? Maybe they’ll be visiting on the weekend?”
“No, I’m single.”
Tarryn let that sink into her mind. Interesting. Not unexpected—Sophie had never mentioned anyone, but then again, why would she? This was a work contract, not really the place for social chit-chat. But here, at Will and Garrett’s, well, it was different. A buzz started in her stomach. Sophie was free and available—if she wanted to go there. Maybe not. She seemed somewhat prissy. Restrained. The irritation of Sophie calling her out for being late rose in her mind.
Will bustled over and put a serving dish of roast potatoes and green veggies on the table. He returned with warm plates, a gravy boat, an opened bottle of red, and then finally a platter containing a magnificent—and massive—beef en croute.
“You can voice your admiration now,” he said and clasped his hands. “I’ll start. I think it looks like something fromMasterchef.”
“Better thanMasterchef,” Garrett said. “There was no smoke, minimal swearing, and you don’t look as fake-worried as the contestants do.”
“The pressure was intense. In here.” Will thumped his chest. “What if the pastry’s hard? What if I burned the decorative shape on the top?”
Sophie leaned forward. “The shape is very different. Imaginative.”
Garrett hooted. “He had to use his imagination, love. Look closer.”
Sophie tipped her head on one side. “I’m not entirely sure what it is? Some sort of flower?”
Tarryn looked as well. At first, she couldn’t see it—the pastry had spread slightly in the cooking—but the golden-brown shape, a bit crusty on one side, suddenly became clear. She laughed, “Some may call it a flower. I may have, in my more poetic moments.”
Sophie scrunched her nose. Surely, she could see what it was with that enormous clue? And then the ball must have dropped with a clang, and that adorable flush stole up her neck again. It was worth embarrassing Sophie just to see that again. “It’s a vagina croute?”
Will cackled like a maniac. “Of course. In honour of you gorgeous sapphic women.”
If anything, Sophie’s flush became deeper. “Well, thank you.” She glanced away, up at the wall.
