Then I remind myself I’m not the kind of girl who rides off into the desert with a man who makes condescending comments about my dancing.That sort of thing only happens to people who say things like ‘I’m not like other girls’ without irony.
And also – this place is a goddamn sauna.
I’ll take my chances with emotionally avoidant men and overpriced lattes back in the city, thanks.At least they come with ducted air conditioning and a job that doesn’t follow them home.
Surely.
SIX
At last, Abbey follows me out of our room, lured by the scent of freshly baked bread and sweet, sweet coffee.We wander into the main house and spot Ella’s dad, Steven Beaumont – aka Phil Dunphy – in the kitchen.He’s smoothing back his greying hair with a small comb like he’s got a press conference to deliver.He spots Abbey first, mid-pastry beeline.
‘Morning, ladies.’
‘Morning, Phil!’Abbey calls, arm outstretched for a pain au chocolat.She’s the one who coined the nickname when we were thirteen after he brought home a Chinese water dragon on impulse.He’s been Phil Dunphy ever since.
The kitchen is half full of wedding-weekend stragglers.I’m ninety per cent sure the woman by the fruit platter was in last night’s conga line.You don’t forget hips like that.The sight of a coffee machine in the butler’s pantry distracts me and I nearly sob with relief.Salvation in pod form.
‘I would’ve thought you two would be getting ready with Ella by now?’Steven says behind us.
‘Me too!’chirps a glowing, silk-robed vision of womanhood.Ella floats into the room, her hair wrapped in a towel, her skinalready glowing like she lathers it with angel tears.Ella’s eyes scan Abbey – who’s now double-fisting pastries – and then land on me.‘You can grab coffee,’ she says with the casual generosity of someone who knows this is her world and we’re just living in it.‘Then meet me in my room for hair and make-up.’
I nod diligently.Honestly, I’m flattered she thinks I’m still worth making presentable.
The coffee machine is not my usual pour-over cold-brew situation, but the moment the coffee hits my taste buds, I no longer care.
I cradle the mug reverently and whisper, ‘Chocolate bean juice tastes good, makes me go fast.’
And of course – that’s when I hear it.
A throat clears behind me.
I whip around.
Luke.
‘You following me now?’I croak.Impressive that I can even formulate words, considering he found me whispering to my coffee like Gollum.
This time Luke’s once-over lands somewhere between medical triage and mild entertainment.He smiles and steps closer, his hand reaching for one of the coffee mugs on the shelf above my head ‘Maybe you’re the one following me?’he asks, eyebrow raised.
I take another sip, let it burn a little.‘Unlikely.I have everything I need – hot, strong, silent.His name’s Nespresso.’
‘You know, your coffee order says a lot about you.’
‘Yours probably says: enjoys solitude, trusts no one, secretly obsessed with Kylie Minogue.’
‘Shania Twain.’
‘Seriously?’
He grins that maddening grin.‘When she says, “Let’s go, girls”, I feel like I could kick a door down.’
I fight the smile tugging at my mouth.This is a game, after all.
‘Let me guess.’I squint.‘Straight long black.Served in a chipped mug, warmed over a campfire.’
‘Spot on,’ he mutters, as if I’ve read his star chart and found something embarrassing.
I take another sip as the coffee machine sputters to life again.‘You’d get more joy licking the side of a tractor.’
