Which is exactly when I hear footsteps.
The door next to ours creaks open.I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see one of Ella’s relatives or a country bumpkin with rosy cheeks and a summer dress.
Of course, it’s not.
It’s him.
Blue Eyes leans against the doorframe as if deciding whether to pick another fight or give silence a try.Sandy blond hair tousled, crooked smirk already in place – smug, and somehow hotter for how little effort he’s putting into being the problem.
‘You again,’ he drawls.
Jamie, one.Blue Eyes, zero.
‘It’s hard to sleep when the air is Satan’s armpit,’ I mutter.
I don’t look up at him right away.Instead, I cross my arms, which reminds me I’m not wearing a bra and life is a cruel, vindictive joke.
‘Sure,’ he says reluctantly.‘But it’s a pretty hell.Sunrise and dehydration – what more could you want?’
I glance sideways.His hair’s still damp.He smells of eucalyptus and lemon.
‘Let me guess,’ I say.‘You’ve been up since four, wrestling livestock or learning to read or whatever it is men like you do out here.’
He grins.‘Something like that.Followed by writing a very meaningful journal entry.’
I blink.‘Did you just make a joke?’
‘Is that so hard to believe?’
‘Yes.You give off strong “calls therapy a scam” energy.’
He sits beside me, the wood creaking under his weight.‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to talk about my chakras.’
‘Thank God,’ I mutter.
A pause.Then, ‘You went pretty hard last night.’
I groan.‘I did the Nutbush, didn’t I?’
He leans forward, resting an elbow on each knee.‘Worse,’ he says, eyes dancing.‘ABBA.The singalong was loud.The choreography was … unique.’
‘Whatever you think you saw,’ I say, determined to keep my eyes forward, ‘you didn’t.’
‘I didn’t say it was bad.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
He’s quiet for a beat, and I think maybe,maybe, he’s done.
He isn’t.
‘I still don’t find you interesting,’ Blue Eyes offers.
I scoff.‘Then stop orbiting me like I’m the only latte for fifty kilometres.’
‘Two-hundred and thirteen.’
‘Huh?’
