‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ Cruz muttered. ‘It’s my first night back here and it’s harder than I anticipated, so I’d rather be alone.’
She bit back her first response—Why didn’t you say that?—and nodded. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’
His eyebrows arched a little, as if surprised she’d let him off the hook.
She should leave him alone, considering he’d just admitted to having trouble being back on the farm. But the photos she’d taken on their quad tour had sparked a few ideas regarding a profile piece on Kinstead Avocados’ owner and she wanted to capitalise on her creativity. Considering her online research had raised more questions, she hoped he’d elaborate on the twenty-four-month gap between finishing school and becoming a chef with a little coaxing. She’d ease into some light conversation, a little flattery, and go from there.
‘I’ve been doing some research about you online,’ she said, drawing him into conversation despite his overt reluctance.
‘I’m sure that made for riveting reading.’
She chuckled at his drollness. ‘You keep a low profile for a celebrated chef.’
‘I believe in letting my food do the talking.’
‘From what I’ve sampled at Tiles, it doesn’t just talk, it yells. You’re exceptionally talented.’
Some of the tension grooving his brow eased. ‘If you’re trying to sweet talk me into sharing dinner with you, you’re wasting your time.’
‘You’re not very comfortable with compliments, are you?’
‘I’m not very comfortable, period.’ His lips clamped shut, like he’d said too much, before he sighed. ‘Cooking is my passion, running Kinstead Avocados isn’t, yet here I am, hence my foul mood. So trust me when I say I don’t want to inflict my crankiness on you tonight, and it’s best you eat alone.’
Touched by his honesty, she said, ‘Your crabbiness doesn’t scare me, but I respect your need to chill. My advice is to stream the corniest nineties comedy you can find, stuff your face with a tub of salted caramel ice-cream, and if all else fails, soak in a lavender-infused bath.’
‘Are those recommendations from personal experience?’
‘Yeah.’ Though no amount of comedies, ice-cream or baths had soothed her tetchiness after Jason’s betrayal. Not that she intended on telling Cruz that. Besides, he sounded like he really needed some quiet time tonight, so she’d shelve her subtle grilling for tomorrow.
‘Thanks for dinner.’ She crouched and picked up the containers. ‘Have a good night.’
As she closed the door, she could’ve sworn his disappointment matched hers.
CHAPTER
9
Ferne knew she should’ve waited until tomorrow to make the six-hour drive to Melbourne, but she didn’t mind night driving. She felt lighter with every passing kilometre. She felt free.
By the time she parked outside the low-rise apartment building where Mac had kept his secret bachelor pad for the entirety of their marriage, she could’ve skipped to the front door. But as she grabbed her bags and swiped the key card to enter the modern foyer with its chrome and marble accents, her sense of freedom vanished as fear about what she would find in her husband’s love nest gripped her.
Finding out he’d owned an apartment had been a godsend, until she’d learned why Mac had bought the apartment in North Melbourne and who he’d lived with during his regular trips to the city. Her moody, cold husband had led a double life while making hers a misery.
He could’ve set her free years earlier, after Cruz left Rosevale Grove, but Mac valued keeping up appearances, though Ferne had no idea why. His parents had died two decades earlier, leaving him the farm, and while Mac worked hard, she’d never believed farming was his passion. She blamed the farm for his sullen, cantankerous demeanour, though when she’d asked him about his glumness once, he’d been offended and said she didn’t know what she was talking about and to leave well enough alone.
After he died, she’d discovered what made her temperamental husband so irritable all the time. She’d be constantly pissed off too if she’d been leading a double life.
The ping of an elevator roused Ferne from her mopey thoughts, and she waited until a mother and toddler exited before stepping in and jabbing at the button for the third floor. The mother and child barely glanced at her but, for a moment, Ferne second-guessed her quest for freedom. Back in Rosevale Grove, everyone knew her. Walking down Main Street, locals would acknowledge her with a smile or greeting. People took the time to ask about her day. They were there in a crisis, like the time she broke her ankle after toppling off a ladder during picking season, dropping off copious casseroles, apple crumbles and books. And she’d volunteered extensively in her limited downtime—mostly to get out of the homestead and away from Mac’s moods—becoming a prominent figure in the local community.
Ferne knew life in the city would be different, and while she didn’t regret leaving her past behind, she hoped her new life would be all she dreamed of and more.
As she stepped out of the elevator and headed down the third floor corridor, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of apartment 303, her hand trembling as she tapped the key card against the sensor. She had no idea what she’d find inside Mac’s apartment. The photos she’d discovered on his second phone had been more focussed on the person draped all over him than the background. They’d appeared so in love, her husband beaming in a way she’d never seen.
Sorrow sat like a heavy weight on her chest as she pushed open the door and dragged her suitcases inside. The faintest hint of Mac’s aftershave hung in the air, a blend of bergamot, vetiver and sandalwood that she’d been addicted to when they’d first met at the Grand Hotel in Wodonga. She’d been on her way from Sydney to Melbourne in search of adventure and a new job; he’d been meeting a mate. With his tousled black curls, caramel eyes and the dimple when he smiled, he’d been the handsomest bloke in the pub. To this day, Ferne had no idea why Mac had offered to buy her a drink that night. Had she seemed gullible? An easy target? Someone who would buy into his bullshit?
