‘I try,’ I deadpan.‘It’s all very highbrow.’
Luke grins, slow and easy.‘And here I thought you’d be running a publishing house by now.Or starting a podcast.’
I snort.‘The night’s still young.’I take a sip of the martini that Jodie places on the table, trying not to focus on how much my hand is still shaking.
He tilts his head.‘Still in Clovelly?’
I nod.‘Still pretending I enjoy city noise and rooftop bars.You?’
‘Still arguing with cattle and occasionally falling off horses.’
I smile into my drink.‘Been thrown lately?’
‘Only once,’ he says, like it’s a confession.‘Skip hates me.’
‘I’ve been riding,’ I say, nudging the conversation forward.‘Moore Park.It’s … not the same.’
‘I can imagine,’ he teases.
‘Less manure.More mums with Bugaboo prams.’
He chuckles.‘Sounds like hell.’
‘You’d last five minutes.Maybe three,’ I add with a smirk.
He grins, eyes gleaming.‘You know exactly how long I last.’
My breath catches.
I laugh it off, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, hoping to recover my balance.
He’s still watching me – not like I’m a memory, or a maybe.But like I’m real.Here.Right now.Like he’s seeing me for the first time and recognising something that never changed.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I never stopped wanting to be seen by him.
I break first.Of course I do.
‘So …’ I say, my voice quieter than I want it to be, though knowing the words might bruise if I say them too loud.‘What are you doing here?’
Luke leans back in his chair as if we’re old friends and not two people tiptoeing over the wreckage of almost-love.He’s casual in that way that never feels truly casual – it takes effort to look that at ease.
‘Abbey and Ella,’ he says, lips tugging up at the corners, ‘are very persuasive.’
I let out a short laugh.‘They’re relentless, I’ll give ’em that.’
‘They are,’ he says with a grin.
There’s a quiet pause while we dance around the elephant on the table between us.
He looks at me then –reallylooks at me.A gaze that feels like a spotlight, but not the bad kind.The kind that makes you sit up straighter, makes you want to be worthy of it.
‘You look incredible,’ he says.
And my heart?My achy breaky heart?It ricochets against my ribs.
I duck my head, pretending to smooth my dress, even though there are no wrinkles and no composure to recover.‘Thanks,’ I say, but it sounds like I’m trying not to fall off a cliff.
