Page 19

He wondered what time Hazel woke up. Was she a morning person?

He wondered if she liked eggs or pineapple juice. Or perhaps she preferred cereal.

He wondered if she would be embarrassed about last night. Would she want to stay and spend the morning with him, or would she want to go home?

Mind becoming overloaded, Sam closed his eyes. He had to stop driving himself mad thinking about her.

Eggs. Focus on the eggs. Cooking always helped him regulate his mind. It was kind of meditative.

He whisked, trying to put as much air into the eggs as he could. He melted some butter in a pan over low heat. Adding the whisked eggs, he cooked them low and slow. Butter on the warm toast, perfectly scrambled eggs on top. He was quite good in the kitchen, and he didn’t mind cooking.

He wondered if Hazel liked cooking.

Get it together, bro, he chastised himself. Shaking his head, he grabbed the plate of eggs and sat down at the table, determined to think of anything but her.

Sunlight streamed through the window. A strip of light moved across Hazel’s face, startling her awake. She felt disoriented as she gazed around the unfamiliar room. The room was mostly dark, with a long line of morning light piercing through the gap in the curtains. She shifted, moving her head away from the line of fire. Snuggling into the pillows, she closed her eyes for a moment and let herself rest.

Eventually, she sat up a little and, realising she could reach the curtains from the bed, leaned over and pulled them open. The room was brighter than she’d been expecting. Sunlight smacked her square in the face, her eyes flickering as they adjusted to the sudden influx of light. Hazel sat back against the bed frame and let herself gaze out the window.

Tall trees towered outside, the green leaves swaying with the wind. Speckles of sunlight kissed the grass outside, little spots of sunlight shining on the lawn. Hazel could see the dips and swells of the hills that lay in front of the house, her eyes following them all the way to the sparkling azure of the bay, with the church beyond. Sam’s view. The one he loved.

She stretched out her arms and slowly rose from the bed. Her dress was crumpled, so she smoothed it down before turning to make the bed.

Hazel felt a knot in her stomach. Propping the pillows up on the timber headboard, she hesitated, unsure how to leave the room. It was safe in there.

A little embarrassed about the night before, she wondered what she would say to him. She could hear him in the kitchen, so she knew he was awake.

Forcing herself out the door, she wandered down the hallway. She could see him. He was poking his fingers into a baking tray. Perplexed, she kept walking until she was standing by the island bench. He was poking dough. What kind of dough, Hazel had no idea.

“Good morning,” Sam said, a wide smile on his face as he gazed at her.

“Morning.” Hazel smiled back. “What’s that?”

“Focaccia. I was up early, and I thought maybe you’d like some fresh bread for breakfast?”

Hazel narrowed her eyes. “Are you kidding? I could never say no to fresh bread. I’m so impressed,” she exclaimed.

“Well, great. It’ll be ready soon.” Sam sprinkled flakes of sea salt and fresh rosemary over the top of the dough. He turned and popped the tray into the oven. “Would you like a drink? I’ve got water, tea, coffee, juice?”

“A juice would be lovely, thanks,” Hazel replied as she plopped herself down on a velvet bar stool. Everything in his house was so well considered.

Sam busied himself pouring her a glass of juice. He placed it on the counter in front of her and began tidying up the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Hazel murmured. She took a sip. “Pineapple! My favourite,” she exclaimed. “It’s not often people have pineapple juice. Do you love it too?”

Sam chuckled to himself and nodded with a smile. “It reminds me of being on holiday.”

“Exactly! It’s tropical paradise in a cup. Orange juice and apple juice seem so boring to me, like they are real life juice. Pineapple is holiday juice. And who doesn’t wanna be on holiday?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t want to be around people like that.”

They talked some more about Sam’s house after Hazel complimented a light fixture. He told her all about the issues he’d had with the plumbing, the tradies who never showed up and the tiles that arrived that he definitely had not ordered.

As they spoke, the smell of fresh bread filled the room, and Hazel found herself salivating. When it was finally ready, Sam selected two small bowls that he filled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Placing the bread on a wooden board between them, he ripped a hunk off the end and dipped it in each bowl. Hazel followed suit and nearly drooled when she shoved it in her mouth.

Warm, pillowy bread with crispy edges that was slightly tart from the vinegar.

“Oh my gosh,” she tried to say, mouth full of food. It came out as a warbled mixture of incoherent words.