Chapter Sixty-Four
A mercifully long shower clears my mind and expels the devil-odour from my body. I hate being unclean, and unless I shower shortly after crawling out of bed, I know I’ll spend the rest of the day in a total strop. A shower is my grumpy body’s alarm call. So shower, then a caffeine infusion. Failing that, prepare to stay clear of me, or risk losing your head.
Scrubbed shiny and wrapped in a massive, fluffy towel, another wrapped around my head, I creep back into the bedroom, not that it looks like I need to be quiet. Kai lies on his back, arms held across his chest, apparently sleeping the sleep of the dead. It’s kind of an appropriate description as he looks a little like an effigy on some tomb. Other than, you know, the breathing, and the colour in his skin, but stately and sort of regal, all the same. I stand in the doorway just looking at him, resisting the urge to go to him, to touch, to cover him with my fingerprints. But he so obviously needs this sleep, and it looks like jetlag has finally claimed him.
He’s so heart-achingly handsome, sleep stealing the tension from his face. I can imagine what a beautiful child he must’ve been; dark wavy hair and large soulful eyes, I’ll bet. My thoughts slip from one to another, and before I know it, I’m imagining what our children would look like. And if that isn’t a mind-fuck, then I don’t know what is. I grasp the back of a chair, set in front of a French-style dresser, sliding my butt into the seat.
I’m getting married to a man I’ve only known a few weeks, and that doesn’t freak me out one bit. And neither does thinking about kids.
Ankle biters. Carpet grubs. Rug rats. Don’t I get enough of them at work?
I’ve never imagined having kids, beyond the way you do in a kind of distant, fleeting way. Like everyone does, I guess. Becoming a parent seems such a grown-up thing to do, and I’m pretty sure I’m not ready to grow up.
But what if he doesn’t want children? Or what if he wants them, like, immediately? Or a dozen! What was it he said once about families in Dubai being like tribes? I don’t want to breed a dozen—Christ, my body would be shot! Stretch marks as wide as a highway and a vag like a gumboot top!
My chest tightens under the sudden effort of breathing, my heart banging in my chest like a runaway horse. I lean forward, planting my head against the cool, cool wood.
Get a grip. You’re overthinking again. None of that is happening. Pull yourself together—maybe you need a distraction, or maybe you’ve got low blood sugar or something?
My gaze slides back to Kai; my fingers itching to move the hair that’s fallen across his brow. It’s hard not to go to him, knowing he has the ability to make all thoughts fall away, bringing me ecstasy and white noise to fill my head. But it actually might be a good idea to go grab a bite to eat. Build up some stamina, because, you know, sustenance.And sugar.
Clothes. Of course, I’ve got none here, so I decide to swipe one of his shirts. On one of those hotel suitcase-rack-thingies, Kai’s luggage sits: a folded leather suit carrier and a bag that would probably be more appropriately called avalise. Posh bugger. Heaving the suit carrier off, I open the case and grab the first shirt.
And out falls a little black box, emblazoned withDamas. The jeweller.
If my heart was banging before, this time it’s fit to explode. Which is exactly how I treat the box. Like a small, unexploded bomb, as I gently place it back inside the bag.
I’m getting married, I think.And his asking me wasn’t some off-the-cuff desperation thing... he hadn’t known what had driven me away, only that he wanted me, at any cost.
He planned to ask me, only knowing he wanted me for keeps.
Relief floods my veins thick and fast. An acknowledgement of a tension I’d not sought to understand. I slip on his shirt, filled with a joy ofDisneyproportions. Like Niamh said, where are the mice and bloody bluebirds when you want to sing and dance about being in love?
I’ll go make myself a coffee and leave my darling fiancé to sleep!
Practically skipping out of the bedroom, I halt at the top of a very grand, glass and steel staircase.
What if it wasn’t a ring? What if it was more high-end nipple clamps? Jewelled, maybe?
My heart falls slightly, before jolting quickly.
I suppose that would be okay, too...
Whoever designed this house was a huge fan of white: various shades of white sofas, white-washed furniture, and walls lead the way to an open plan kitchen which runs across the back of the house. A sparkling rectangular pool is visible from the wall of glass as beyond, the nearby breakfasting area looking onto a sleek timber deck via massive bi-folding doors. Outside, low-slung chairs, loungers and potted palms dot the pool’s periphery and an immaculate lawn leads to a pontoon deck and the ocean. And, of course, there’s a boat. Nothing like Kai’s super yacht, though it’s certainly big enough to get to the Gold Coast, its high-rises and beaches shimmering on the horizon.
In the kitchen, gleaming white cabinets—the sort that are far too stylish to have handles—sit beneath stainless steel worktops reflecting bright sunshine onto the startlingly white walls.Should’ve brought my sunnies.A row of tiny potted agaves are the only items in the room that lean towards homely, the setting more high-end restaurant than a place of residence.
I try to open a couple of the drawers and cupboards, or whatever combination of storage is concealed, by pushing at the corners, the middles, all in an effort to get one of the damn things to open up. I even break a nail trying to wedge my fingers between the tiny joints, all in search of a glass. Dry of throat, I give up and open the commercial-sized silver fridge, pulling out a carton of OJ—not my favourite style, this one has bits—and drinking it from the tetra-top instead.
‘Nice day for it.’
Orange juice is propelled from my mouth, hitting the glass shelving of the fridge, a carton of eggs and some cheese. I cough my way through the liquid I’ve inhaled in surprise. What the hell? I thought we were alone!
‘It sure is,’ I say wheezing, though what it’s a nice day for, I’m not yet sure.Causing death by choking?I keep the fridge door open, shielding me from the person behind the voice, wiping the orangey bits from my chin and brushing the droplets from Kai’s shirt.
‘Hi,’ I add brightly, although a little hoarsely, closing the fridge door to see a spikey-haired and brightly bleached blonde. A blonde with no dress sense? No, wearing a uniform.Chef whites?She’s a chef! The house chef, maybe? This placeisgrand enough to have an army of staff.
‘G’day.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Jazz.’ It takes me a split-second to realise that was an introduction and not some random demand to pop on the radio. ‘Hey, don’t I know you?’ she asks, staring intently, giving me one of those looks where sheer force of will demands an answer.
