Do not think about sinking into anything. A quick check, and you’re done here.
Unfortunately, she was holding a bottle of wine. And an empty glass.
“I got un-lazy,” she said. “Or I thought you deserved a break after all that. All that … effort and everything.” She set the bottle and glass on the table. “Did you eat, though? Should we order food? I don’t know what rugby players eat after the match. Protein, probably. Burgers? Chicken? You must be starving.”
I’m starving, all right,he thought.But not for that.“No worries,” he said. “Ate in the sheds.” He took the seat beside her and stuck his legs out in front of him. What a luxury to stretch out, even in a plastic chair.
“Oh,” she said. “What do they offer you?”
“Sushi. Bao buns. Curries. Smoothies. Yoghurt. Chocolate milk. Like that.”
“Sushi.” She pushed back some curls and laughed. “Sounds too sophisticated for what I saw.”
He smiled. “Quick protein and heaps of carbs, is the idea. What did you eat?”
“I’m afraid it was a hot dog and chips. In my defense, that’s what was on offer. I skipped the mini donuts, though.” She raised her glass. “Saved the calories for wine, I’m telling myself, though I should’ve packed my beans and greens and grains one more time and eaten that. Unfortunately, I’m a bit tired of them.” She poured him a glass of wine, and he didn’t object. He didn’t have to drink it all.
“You packed the wine, though.” He tapped his glass against hers. “Cheers. And why shouldn’t you have a hot dog?”
“Calories. As noted.” She had her legs stuck out herself, and she was wearing fuzzy slippers. Pink. “And I didn’t pack the wine. Granddad must’ve left it at the desk, because when we got back here, he and your Nan sort of melted away, and when I went into my room, the bottle was there along with a note.”
He frowned. “What note?”
“Here.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it over. He unfolded it and read,
Check on the other kids, will you? M. will worry otherwise. Here’s some wine for afters. Take a lovely bath, maybe.
“A lovelybath?”Zane blinked. He tasted the wine. Mostly cab sauv, with some merlot and cab franc. “Pretty choice, though, this.”
“We have one bath at home,” she said. “I’m normally in and out of the shower pretty fast, as you can imagine.”
“And they left all the kids to you. They left allmykids to you.”
“Well, to be fair,” she said, “they mainly left them to Scarlett, but I lent a wee hand. And as this outing was Granddad’s shout …”
“And his idea, too.” Zane was still frowning. “Or Nan’s, more likely. I’ll have a chat with her in the morning.”
“Or,” she said, “you could say that as our families seem to be getting more … more entwined, it was good for me to interact with your kids a bit. Duncan especially, of course, as I haven’t had him in class. Scarlett is much the same as before, I’d say. Bound to be Head Girl.” She looked at him sidelong, a little smile on her pink lips. That was nice, and so was that husky voice. Even though they were talking about his kids. “Tell me you weren’t Head Boy yourself.”
He shifted in his chair. “Probably gave it to me because of the rugby. I’m no kind of anointed prince, or whatever you’re thinking. Hard worker, that’s all.”
“Ha. Please remember that I’m a teacher.” She was laughing a little, the green of her eyes barely visible in the dim light, but he could still see her, and he could practically feel her warmth. “And that’s not how it works. I’m guessing you feel uncomfortable when you’re given too much credit, unless that’s just some reflexive humble-Kiwi thing. Interesting, because I think I told a story about you tonight. About you and your brothers. To your kids, that is, not mine. I’d love to know if I was right. If I see you as well as it feels like I do.”
This was why wine could be such a bad idea.
He’d never exactly slouched—couldhe slouch?—but now,he sat up straighter, that intensity on his face again, and she shivered. All the way down her body. And she knew he saw it.
He’d think she was pathetic. Some sort of rugby groupie, whatever that was called, excited by the big tough rugby captain. Which was probably more than a tiny bit true. What a cliché she was.
She was still trying, in a somewhat wine-fuzzed moment—the half-glass she’d drunk had gone straight to her head—to come up with a way to back out of all that when he asked, “What kind of story?”
“I’m afraid you and your brothers were rats,” she admitted. “Feel free to be outraged. My brain tends to make … connections, and before I know it, they’re out there. It was watching the match, of course. I’m sure you get tired of people telling you how impressed they were. Especially women. That’s the reason for the comment earlier. Ugh, am I right?”
“Sorry to say, not necessarily.” The dark eyes were more focused than ever. “Depends on the woman. I could be interested in what you had to say.” He smiled a little. “About the rats. And the match.”
“Oh.” She explained. Briefly. “Because it was a story for Georgia, though she fell asleep halfway through it, and she adores you. And I was probably curious to hear what they’d say. Which rat they’d pick.”
“And you said that. That the second rat was more carefree, and the third rat was the stroppiest. Had an attitude, eh.”
