Kiwi Rules (New Zealand Ever After Book 1)

by Rosalind James

  After that, there was the sound of a toilet lid banging against the tank, some distant retching, and a piping little two-year-old voice saying, “Unkow Jax, I did a poo in the potty. Mummy says I can’t go like a kitty, but I wanted to go like a kitty.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Uh . . . well done.”

  “I need somebody to wipe me, and Mummy is being very sick. Can you come and wipe me?”

  “No, sorry,” I said. “Too far away. Wait for Mummy.” The sound of the toilet flushing, fortunately, and I said, “Give Mummy back her phone,” and escaped. Poppy could ring me back when she remembered the person’s name. If she remembered.

  On the other hand, the buyer’s representative, whoever he was, would surely ring her and ask where she was, eventually, and she could tell him to look for the one-legged man. It was like a spy novel. One with kids in it, and spies of inadequate suavity, if suavity was a word. While I was waiting for the action to start, I could chat up Karen.

  “Sorry,” I told her, putting the phone back into my pocket. “My sister. She’s pregnant, as well as various other issues. I’m meant to meet somebody here, but it turns out I don’t know who, so I may as well get a coffee. Do you want something?”

  “What?” she said. “No. It’s me.”

  Women were not making sense today. I said, “Yours is cold, though, surely.” Her bowl-sized mocha, in fact, still had the elaborate design of a fern drawn in milky foam across the cocoa-sprinkled top, like she hadn’t taken a single sip. She hadn’t even eaten the chocolate fish. Everybody ate the chocolate fish.

  “Oh,” she said. “I forgot about that. I do that sometimes. Forget. No. That’s OK. I mean . . .” She drew her hand through her short hair, which was sticking up some today as if she were some kind of rocker chick, a look she’d intensified with black eyeliner. I liked it. “I mean,” she said again, “I’m the person you’re supposed to meet. I’m Hemi Te Mana’s sister-in-law. You were supposed to be Poppy Cantwell, who was going to be showing me around various overpriced campgrounds for the next week or so. I’ll warn you, they’d better come up to a pretty high standard if they’re not aimed at Kiwis. Americans are not paying top dollar to go to the bathroom in a hole on the forest floor. Which they dug themselves.”

  She was negotiating already. That was interesting. “You sound like my niece,” I said. “Or her opposite. We were just discussing that, in fact.”

  “Going to the bathroom on the forest floor?”

  “Oddly enough, yes. She’s two. So. Let’s start again, shall we?” I stuck out a hand. “Hi. I’m Jackson MacGregor, here to represent Kiwi Luxe Eco Stays. Happy to meet you. Consider me your tour guide.”

  She looked away and muttered something. I thought it might be, “Fuck my life.”

  This never happened in the movies.

  Karen

  Had I actually said the amputee fetish thing? Surely not. I’d been tired and stupid yesterday, but not that tired and stupid. Then why had he said it?

  Also, why did it have to be him? Hadn’t I made enough of a fool of myself already? And did he have to look that good? His hair was neat once more—not too hard, when it was that short—he’d shaved, and he was wearing a black T-shirt, in a radical departure from yesterday’s khaki T-shirt, that wasn’t one bit too loose, but also wasn’t tight enough that it was saying, “Hey, girls.” The T-shirt a man wore when he had a very good body, and he was used to having it.

  He was also wearing shorts, like every other self-respecting Kiwi male. Somebody else might have worn jeans and hidden the leg. Jax, once again, was putting himself out there, and I thought that might not be easy. Before, people’s first thought would probably have been, “Wow.” At least if they were female people, it would be. Now, they’d see him and think, “Amputee.” I’d hate that. He probably hated it more.

  “So that was my sister,” he said. “As we’ve established. She was planning this trip as a break from the kids. Besides that she needed to do it, of course. Turns out she’s pregnant again and sick with it, so I said I’d do it, as I had the time. Hang on. I’m getting a coffee. I’ll order you another as well.”

  He was gone before I could say more, and I sat there, went over my notes again, and tried to marshal my forces. I’d been exploring the company’s website and making notes. Impressions, questions, things I wanted to check out. And, yes, you could say that it would’ve been better to do that, oh, say, any day before today. Hey, I’d been depressed. At least I was pretty sure that was what it had been. I’d never actually been depressed before. I was planning on avoiding it in future, because it sucked.

  Jax came out of the café, putting his wallet into the back pocket of his shorts, which was a good look—biceps, et cetera—and stepping aside for a couple of young women, the kind with good hair and C cups—at least C, because I never got cup sizes right, except that they were “bigger than mine”—who wore cute clothes like they’d just thrown them on, and were never over five foot six. They looked at him, and then they stopped and looked again. After that, they said something, and he said something back. One of them shoved her long dark hair over her shoulder and did some posing, and I thought, Hey. No.

  Jax looked over at me, smiled with his eyes, and said something else, at which the girls went inside at last. After that, he came over to the table and sat down, and I tried to remember what I’d been working on.

  “I was feeling sorry for you,” I told him, “before. I just decided to stop.”

  “And I was just thinking,” he said, with, for once, no warmth in his eyes, “that I liked your honesty. I changed my mind.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t tell me that,” he said. “Have you ever actually known a man?”

  Talk about bumping back down to earth. “Yeah,” I said. “It went about . . . uh . . . about . . . as well as you’re thinking.”

  His face went still, and he said, “Aw, no,” and put his hand over mine. It was a big hand. It had some scars, too. I knew that, because I was staring down at it. His voice was completely different when he said, “We’ll rewind those last bits, eh.”

  I was choking up. It was like being with Koro the day before. The tears were rising, my throat was closing, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I sat there, instead, staring down at his hand, concentrating on its warmth and trying not to panic. He wasn’t Koro, and this was . . . it was way too . . .

  “Karen,” he said. “Breathe.”

  Oh. Good idea. I did it, and after a minute, he said, “All right?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I need a napkin.” I’d managed to hold back the tears, but my nose hadn’t gotten the message, and it was running. Some women cried beautifully. I melted down like a candle, and not one of those beautiful candles. The kind that puddled all over, so you had to scrape the wax off with a knife, and you wondered who the heck had decided that candles were romantic. Which was why I worked so hard on not crying.

  I thought about that, because it was so much more appealing than thinking about what he’d said. I said, “Shoot. I do need a napkin. Hang on.”

  I was standing up, but he was faster. He said, “I’ve got it. Glass of water, too.”

  By the time he came back with them, I had myself under control, but my nose was also really running. I grabbed the napkins from him with more haste than delicacy, mopped up, took a drink of water, and asked, “So where were we? I was establishing dominance, business-wise. At least that’s the way I’d like to remember it.”

  He gave me some more of his sweet smile, and I said, before I could stop myself, “Do all men really like long hair that much better? I’m not changing if they do, because screw that. I don’t need that aggravation, and I work out a lot. I’m just asking.”

  He was still smiling. He wasn’t holding my hand anymore, though, which was too bad. It was shocking how good that had felt.

  I’d never wanted to be protected. I’d never needed to be protected. And yet it had felt exactly like that. Huh.

  “
Some men do,” he said. “For other men? It probably depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how they feel about the woman.”

  Whoa. Talk about knocking your socks off. I was having some more trouble breathing. Fortunately, the coffee came at that moment. I said, “Thanks,” he said, “No worries,” and I took a sip. It was delicious, so I took another one. Nobody did coffee like New Zealand, the country responsible for my most expensive habit.

  He said, “You’re still not eating your chocolate fish.”

  “That’s because it’s disgusting. Fake marshmallow, artificial strawberry flavoring, cheap chocolate coating.”

  He had a hand over his heart. “You realize I took a bullet for Kiwiana.”

  “Really?” I asked. “You got shot, too? For chocolate fish?”

  “Figuratively.” He snatched the fish off my saucer and ate it in one bite. “Delicious.” I rolled my eyes, and he laughed. “It’s all in the comparison, eh.”

  We drank our coffees, and it was a whole lot better. “So,” he said. “I seem to be taking you on a tour of some glamping properties. Four of them, is the plan, starting day after tomorrow. Two nights each, is what we have booked, so we’ll have a chance for you to explore, get the full experience, talk to staff, or just poke around. With a break in between, since the second two are in the South Island. By the way—thanks for not being Hemi Te Mana. I wasn’t sure what the hell I was going to talk about with the bloke for a week. I don’t know much about fashion anymore, and I’m not sure I see him in a kayak.”

  “He’s surprisingly normal,” I said. “In New Zealand, at least.”

  “Mm. Can I say that I’m glad you came instead?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t a shy person, but that was how I was feeling right now. Stupid breakdown. “You can.”

  “I can see you in a kayak, though,” he said. “Ecotourism’s all about adventure. Whatever you fancy.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because I fancy everything.” And got a look from him that sucked all the oxygen out of the air.

  Whoa. The man could smolder.

  I’d forgotten all about his fan club. Until the two girls came over to the table, that is, and the brunette said, “Pardon me. Jax? Can we get a selfie with you?”

  “No worries,” he said, then stood up, took a couple photos with an arm around a girl’s shoulder, handed the phone firmly back, sat down again with me and ignored them, and said, “Now. Where were we? Oh, that’s right. Planning our adventure.”

  Jax

  Karen could have left it there, possibly thinking, Not really my business, or Could be awkward for him, so I’ll wait and see if he volunteers the information.

  That didn’t happen, of course. I did my best to move things along, saying, “Why do I think I’m about to hear that there’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team,’ and that we’ll be taking up your eminently logical arguments concerning the many ways I’ve already mucked up the plan for our working holiday? I’ve decided I need to be eating second breakfast while that happens. Won’t have the emotional strength otherwise. And you’ll want second breakfast as well, I’m thinking. Don’t tell me. Cream donut. Almond croissant. Chocolate brioche.”

  Some women were experts at the cool, reserved face, keeping you off-balance and eager to please. Either nobody had ever taught Karen that game, or she refused to play it, or maybe she just wouldn’t recognize “reserved” if it bit her on the backside.

  That created a brief thought-diversion. Talk about your word pictures. I was still dragging my reluctant mind back to reality when she said, with the kind of fire in her eyes that I’d already come to recognize, “There is so much to unpack here. First—why would I go around eating cream donuts? Why wouldn’t you assume I’m as disciplined as you are? Well, other than the gigantic mocha, but you just saw me running and swimming yesterday. I was about to win, too.”

  “Dunno,” I said. “It’s not that I think you’re not disciplined, or not exactly. I suspect it’s more like ‘headed full tilt toward the objective,’ though, and less like ‘dutiful diligence.’ I also think that anybody who lives as hard as you do burns calories doing it, and probably forgets to eat as well. And—no. I was going to win. But women tend to want sugar when they’re hurting. Possibly chocolate as well. Or sugar and chocolate, of course. Cream donut with chocolate icing, maybe.”

  “I am not hurting. It was a few scrapes. How fragile do you think I am? Also—one word. Rematch.”

  I’d forgotten about the scrapes, possibly because she’d ignored them from the start. I said, “Yeh, nah. I wasn’t thinking about your body. Not that way, anyway. I was thinking about your heart. That kind of healing can take longer. You don’t want sugar? Avocado toast, then. An eggs benny. They do one with smoked salmon and spinach here that’s quite good. I told you—whatever you fancy. Decide, though, because I know what I want. Smoked salmon benny with avocado on the side. And I want it now.”

  “How do you know about my heart?” she asked. “And—wait. Why are we talking about my heart?” As if she couldn’t imagine a man caring that she’d looked like that, had fought the tears back that hard. That told you something. Mostly about the bastard who’d done it.

  “Maybe I guessed,” I said.

  “Wait,” she said again. “You’re buying all this? Smoked salmon? Avocado toast? Who are you? You didn’t lose that leg in Afghanistan. You’re living too high to be any kind of soldier. I don’t know much about soldiers, but I know that their families can be on food stamps. Which is wrong, by the way, but you’re not buying smoked salmon or staying at that address if you’re on food stamps. Of course, your sister owns all this pricey property we’re visiting, so maybe you’re on a per diem from her. Hot girls don’t usually line up to get their pictures taken, though, with anonymous guys who are poor and have scars and—” she waved a casual arm—“so forth, not unless they also have something else. OK, one more. Women with crushed hearts probably don’t pay off that well, investment-of-your-time-and-money-wise, so why bother with me? Or do they pay off? Huh. Interesting question. I never know those guy-type answers, and you’d know and actually tell. Is it a problem for you, being somebody’s revenge sex? Or do you even care one way or the other? Does that even work? Does it make you—the other person, I mean, not you—feel better? Because I don’t think so.”

  When you get hit by one of those sudden wind shifts out sailing, you find out pretty bloody quickly what it feels like to heel over. That was what Karen kept doing to me. There my rudder was, out of the water and no help at all. I said, “I’m both seriously insulted in a whole variety of ways, and reluctantly amused. Can’t decide which is winning. Right, then. First, I did lose my leg in Afghanistan. Believe me or not. Second, I can afford to buy you an avocado toast, anyway. Third—is this third? They didn’t recognize me because of my remarkable accomplishments, no worries. And, yes, I’d mind being your revenge sex, so never mind whether it works.”

  “I didn’t say mine.”

  “Fine. Not yours, then. What do you want to eat?”

  “If you’re going to keep talking about smoked salmon, I have to have it. Also a cream donut. If they have one.”

  I was smiling all the way into the café, despite all the insulting, or because of it. You’d never wonder where you stood, anyway. How would a woman with that much vitality make love? It would be hard work for a man to keep the upper hand.

  They did have a cream donut. With chocolate icing. Score.

  Karen

  When Jax came out again, I closed my laptop hastily and said, “You should have had me order that. You got the coffees.”

  “Nah,” he said. “Call me old-fashioned.” And then just shut up and sat there, ankles crossed in front of him like he had nothing to prove.

  I said, “I looked you up. Just now.”

  “Oh?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh?’ Aren’t you going to . . .” I waved an arm. “Blow up at me about the Afghanistan thing? Wrong choice of wo
rds, I realize. And all right, I was wrong. Sorry.”

  He laughed. Which was aggravating. The man was the coolest person I’d ever met, with the exception of my brother-in-law. I’d thought Josh was cool, but what I’d told Hemi was true. Compared to Jax, Josh was cake mix.

  “You’re laughing,” I informed him.

  “I am.” He was still smiling, in fact. “I don’t think any bloke in the world has ever said ‘Sorry’ as reluctantly as you did just then. No worries.”

  “Except,” I said, “that the reason the Afghanistan thing made the news at all is that you’re a newsworthy guy. Rich-lister. Model. Bad boy. You could just have said.”

  “What, that I’m a rich-lister model? Not so much. Not a bad boy, either, whatever that is besides ‘arsehole.’ Or just a stupid kid who thought he was tough. I joined the Army for a lark and wished I hadn’t about a week later, but too late. Eventually, I wasn’t quite as much of a stupid kid anymore, and then I wasn’t a kid at all. Also, I’m not rich. My family’s rich.”

  “That’s what rich people always say. Next you’ll be telling me that you’re not rich, you’re comfortable.”

  “If you’re Hemi Te Mana’s sister-in-law, you probably know.”

  “Yes and no. Hemi’s awesome, and he sent me to college and business school, because he loves my sister and she loves me, but he’s not my dad. I’m not in the will, and that’s fine. But I grew up poor-almost-to-homelessness until the age of sixteen, and are-you-kidding-me-rich after that, and I know the difference. When ‘new couch’ means, ‘Look what somebody threw away, right here on the sidewalk,’ you’re poor. And when ‘Actually, quite a comfortable flight’ means ‘first class,’ or even ‘private jet,’ you’re rich. I’m doing all right, but I’m sure not rich. In fact . . .” I drew a breath and said it. “I’m unemployed. You could call it ‘fired,’ or you could call it ‘severed.’ That sounds appropriately bloody and abrupt.”