Anders frowned, shuffled his stool closer. His hazel eyes found hers with a seriousness she wasn’t anticipating. ‘You okay about this?’
Was she okay? She assumed she would be because she had made peace with her appearance. But that was when she wasn’t being inspected close up. All at once, the weight of her scar grew.
It wasn’t a small thing, nor something she could cover with make-up or melt away under the right lighting. This scar, one of many—the others were hidden under her winter clothing—was, despite the skin grafts and post-op creams, prominent.
It had altered the shape of her brow, her cheek, her lip, skewing her features slightly. Usually, she was okay with that because behind the scar was still her. Her eyes, her expressions, her smile. And she was alive. Healthy. She was still Neve.
A part of her wanted to make sure that’s who Anders saw. Only her. Not the scar and all it represented.
She forced a smile. ‘Of course. Why would you think I wasn’t?’ Okay, she was putting him in a difficult position, but she wasn’t about to admit her insecurities. Her mum had always said that when you pointed out your own insecurities, it gave the wrong type of person permission to use that against you.
Not that she thought Anders was the wrong type of person, but you never knew. Her radar had proven wrong in the past.
‘You looked … scared.’
She laughed. ‘Really? Because I was actually remembering you naked.’
‘Thank you,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I’m so sorry to have horrified you like that. Luckily for you, we get to do this with clothes on.’
She giggled. ‘So lucky.’
Emily came up beside them. ‘Of course with clothes on. What kind of peep show operation do you think I’m running here? Seriously, after the way Jager grilled me, I wouldn’t dare.’
Anders’ head tilted to the side as his brows rose. She waved away his curiosity. ‘It was nothing. You know what Jager’s like.’
He nodded emphatically as though, yes, he knew very well what Jager was like.
Emily pointed to the champagne. ‘Anders, if you could open that bottle and pour yourselves a glass, we’ll get started.’
He narrowed his gaze at Emily, but the corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. ‘Are you trying to get us drunk?’
She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not drunk. Friendly. Got it?’ She winked.
‘Of course. Friendly. I’m sure I can find that in my bag of tricks somewhere.’
He glanced back at Neve and his smile held a hint of ‘you sure you’re okay about this?’, but she didn’t acknowledge that undertone, merely smiled back as confidently as she could.
Drinks were poured. The room was hushed.
‘Did you want to go first?’ Anders asked.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll do you first. I mean, um, I’ll … you know what I mean.’
He grinned, sat up straighter. ‘Go ahead.’
Her gaze, at first, didn’t want to rest on any one particular feature. Having to describe someone to an artist who had never and would not, for the length of the activity, see that someone, forced her to notice so much more than she ever had.
‘A rectangular face,’ she began. ‘But the jaw is broad. Right where the jaw hinges together is prominent. His face narrows to a defined chin.’
Anders smiled and shifted in his chair. He actually looked a little self-conscious.
His smile made her focus on his mouth. ‘Broad, full lips. The top thinner than the bottom.’ He had a small, pale scar on the right side of his bottom lip. ‘What happened there?’ she asked, leaning over and touching that faint line.
‘Under 17s football. A parent ran on the field and laid into me. Knocked me out cold.’
She gasped, held a hand over her mouth. ‘Are you serious?’
He nodded.
‘Why didn’t I know this?’
He shrugged. ‘It made the local paper.’
She shook her head. ‘I hope he was charged.’
‘He was.’
‘Good.’
The artist cleared his throat.
She smiled. ‘Sorry. Got a little sidetracked.’ She focused again on Anders. ‘Two deep dimples when his smile is generous. But only the left one is visible when his smile is smaller.’ Perfect dimples. ‘About three days’ of dark, stubbly growth on his chin, upper lip and jaw.’ Her focus drifted back to his mouth as she imagined how that sharp stubble would feel against her skin if she were to lean over and kiss him ever so lightly.
She licked her lips, a growing desire burning inside her to do exactly that.
She hadn’t noticed how great his skin was. How deeply defined and strong each of his features was. ‘Great symmetry. His nose is long, but not too big. A slight bump at the bridge.’
Those eyes. There was something in the way he was watching her—anticipation, and dare she say it, affection.
God, she wanted to kiss him. Her lips were tingling, willing her to do it. Why the hell was this happening all of a sudden? It was as though a light switch had been turned on in her brain and all she could see after so many years of knowing Anders was how gorgeous he was.
How had she not recognised that before now? ‘There’s a fierceness to his eyes I’ve never noticed. No, not fierceness, determination.’ She moved her stool closer, so she could see his eyes more closely. There was also a hint of sadness; it surprised her to see it hidden in their depths. She thought it best not to mention that to the artist. ‘Hazel, like a leaf that is starting to gain its autumn colours. The outside ring is darker. Tiny little flecks of honey.’
His breath was warm on her face. His chest was rising and falling more sharply. ‘Sorry,’ she said with a wry smile and shifted her chair back.
He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. Do what you need to do.’ His voice was a little deeper and it strummed on the strings of desire in her belly. ‘Dark lashes. Quite long for a guy. I’m jealous.’
He grinned.
She ran a finger along her lashes. ‘I have to pay for mine.’
‘They’re beau … fine.’ He cleared his throat, then reached for his champagne, downing half the glass in a single mouthful.
‘Upturned eyes with wonderful lids.’ As a make-up artist, she noticed that kind of thing. The shape of the eyes and lids determined how she applied the shadow. ‘Thick brows, but well groomed. A nice arch. A few crease lines in his forehead. A scar that runs horizontally through his right brow. How’d you get that?’
‘Head clash. Under 19s.’
She shook her head. ‘I should have guessed it was another football injury.’
‘Comes with the territory.’
Her focus moved to his hair now. ‘Thick, dark brown hair that’s clipped short at the back and sides. Longer on the top. A fringe that has been swept upwards neatly. And just your everyday, normal looking ears. Not too big. Not too small.’
He sighed and his shoulders relaxed. ‘That wasn’t so bad.’
She arched a brow. ‘You were worried?’
‘Maybe a little bit. It’s weird being studied like that.’
Her own nerves about undergoing such scrutiny swelled in her belly. ‘Be kind.’
‘You’ve nothing to worry about. You’re stunning.’ He held her gaze for what felt like long minutes, while she wondered how to take that compliment, then he looked away. ‘Sorry, that was probably overstepping …’
She shook her head. ‘It was lovely.’
Emily swung by and filled Neve’s champagne glass. ‘How are we going here?’
‘Finished with mine,’ Anders said.
‘Excellent. Strike a pose, Neve, because you’re up.’
Neve swallowed a mouthful of champagne, quenching her nerves. Why was she so anxious? Did she really care so much about the possible words Anders would choose to describe and define her?
Get a grip. He’s like a big brother to you.
‘You’re thinking about me naked again?’ Anders asked with a smirk.
<
br /> Heat crept up her cheeks. ‘Not quite.’
‘It’s just that you had that look of fear in your eyes again.’
She blew out a long breath and wiggled her arms to try and stem the flow of anxiety through her body. ‘Nope. All good. Let’s start.’
He studied her for a moment, then smiled.
‘I’m ready when you both are,’ the artist piped up.
‘Hmmm, okay. Where do I start?’
‘Face shape would be good,’ the artist said.
‘Her face is oval.’
Neve watched him as his gaze roamed over her in concentration. He was right; to be so seriously studied was a strange sensation, but she wasn’t sure if that was because Anders was the one looking or if it would feel this way with anyone.
‘Small, rounded chin.’ His focus drifted upward to her mouth. He licked his lips and those emotions she saw earlier in his stare returned. ‘Short, but full lips. The top has a defined bow and the bottom is like a ripe peach—plump and with a crease down the centre.’ He stopped to take another mouthful of champagne, then his gaze settled on her face again.
‘High cheekbones. A narrow nose.’
She wanted to turn her face when she recognised the heat in his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair as he inhaled deeply. ‘Pale blue eyes, with a deep blue ring around the irises. Almond shaped. Long, curled lashes.’ His focus moved upwards. ‘Perfectly sculpted brows. A blonde fringe that sweeps across her forehead and the rest is tied up into a ponytail that hangs over her left shoulder.’ He finished with a self-satisfied grin. ‘How did I do?’
‘I think you missed one important feature.’
‘Oh, yeah, her ears are small and cute.’ His schoolboy grin followed.
She didn’t want to, but her finger lifted to her face and fluttered down the length of her scar. ‘And perhaps this.’
‘Of course. A silvery pink scar that starts at her left eyebrow and finishes just above her lip. Gives an overall sexy bad-ass vibe.’
For a moment, all she could do was stare at him, lips parted. Even after replaying his words and his expression over in her mind, she couldn’t find a trace of insincerity.
He was still smiling. ‘See, not so bad, hey?’
She shook her head, her lips quirking upwards. ‘A sexy bad-ass vibe?’ They weren’t the words she would have used to describe her scars, but she had to admit, she liked it.
His smile broadened. ‘Yeah, like a Bond girl.’
Neve tipped her head back and laughed. ‘And my make-up brushes are my murder instruments of choice. So watch out if you see a blusher in my hand.’
‘I can only imagine what you’d do with a lipstick.’
She giggled, lowered her focus to her lap. When she looked back into his eyes, she whispered, ‘Thank you.’
He shrugged, but his lips were curled. ‘I just tell it how I see it.’
When the rest of the bridal party were finished with their descriptions, they were allowed to finally see the portraits for themselves.
The artists clipped the paintings to the screens and spun them around for each couple to see.
The paintings were good but predictably generic. Of course, without seeing, the artist didn’t capture their innate characteristics, but the attempt deserved credit, nonetheless.
‘Not bad,’ Anders said.
The best man, who was Wil’s brother, and his partner for the wedding, Xanthi, who was Emily’s best friend from Melbourne, took out the prize for the portraits bearing the most likeness.
Anders frowned as he finished the last of his champagne. ‘Rigged,’ he yelled, followed by a deep boo.
The room of strangers erupted into laughter and for the first time tonight, everyone relaxed. Neve could understand now the importance of this activity. If it had taken this long for them all to get comfortable with each other in a comfortable environment, it would be worse on the high-pressured wedding day. Particularly as the crew from Catch Me a Cowboy would be there to show Australia that they had produced a romantic success story.
As they sat around together, chatting and laughing deep into the evening, those excited flutters for the wedding grew. Yes, she was happy about Emily getting married, but she was also excited about spending the day with Anders. Even more so after tonight.
He may be her brother’s best mate, and until only a short time ago she had seen him as nothing else, but now, maybe, she was seeing more.
She wasn’t expecting anything serious between them. Perhaps just a kiss or two. Maybe even a night together.
Since her accident, she hadn’t slept with a man. Sure, there were undercurrents of physical desire, and she’d kissed a couple of guys, but when intimacies progressed, she pulled back hard because she hadn’t been emotionally ready to take that step with anyone.
Could she risk her brother’s friendship with Anders for something that could never be serious, though? After all, Jager had a stake in this. A bigger stake than her own. One that was formed well before this moment.
She had to acknowledge the potential dangers of pursuing Anders and be sure to tread with light but sure feet.
Chapter 6
Sunday, as Anders dragged himself out of bed in the small hours of the dark, frosty morning, his entire body was aching from yesterday’s footy match. Ruck was a physical position, and he usually came away from each game with scrapes and bruises.
His eyes were stinging with the need for more sleep. He never slept well after a match—his body ached too much and the adrenaline took too long to leave his bloodstream. But he promised his stepdad that he would do the morning’s milking. He did this about once a month, so Tony and his mum could have a lie-in—something that was impossible for dairy farmers.
He layered up in warm clothing, threw a beanie on, thick socks and boots, and made for the front door.
The sun was a slow-burning ember in the distance when he arrived at his parent’s farm. Each of his movements was loud—the car door closing, his feet on the gravel—in the startling silence of the morning. The beasty scent of the Holsteins, mud and manure greeted him.
The loping milkers began their march towards the fence from deep in the paddock. Sparse lows of impatience became a part of the shadows. They were ready for milking to relieve their udders that would be full and tight after a long night.
‘Good morning,’ he said to them. Tony always insisted he treat his girls with the utmost care and patience. No stressed cow was ever going to let down their milk. But Anders hadn’t needed to be told this; he had a soft spot for these social creatures with their big eyes, long lashes and trusting natures.
Another couple of cars arrived—regular employees and two agricultural students Tony employed for extra hands in exchange for some pocket money and experience. They nodded their greetings and started on setting up the enormous milking shed with homegrown silage for the cows to munch on while in there.
Before long, he opened the paddock gates and went in. ‘Come on now,’ he said and the cows began their unrushed parade out of the pasture and up the fence ramps that led them into the milking shed.
‘Come on now.’ One after the other, they marched out of the gates.
The sun was bleeding with bright orange and pink as it made its way higher in the dusky sky, highlighting the endless green paddocks. Cockatoos and rosellas were waking from their slumber, letting off squawks and cheeps in the distant trees.
With all the girls heading along the fenced ramps, filing into the shed and onto the carousel, Anders put on an apron and boots, and set about cleaning and sterilising their teats with the other farm help. Suction cups were secured into place and the milking process started, one by one up the line.
Nothing romantic about a milking shed; it was noisy and busy, and by the end of the rotation, the floor would be covered in piss and cow shit, but despite all that, he found the scents, activity and intermittent chug of the pulsators nostalgic, for they represented the happier side of his childhood.
&
nbsp; As each cow had let down all they could for the morning, he walked along the carousel unplugging the suction cups, disinfecting the teats and directing each cow out into a new pasture where they’d spend the day grazing on fresh grass with their herd.
He helped hose out and sterilise the shed, ran tests on the milk, filled out paperwork, and organised the transfer of the cooled raw milk into big tankers ready to be transported to the nearby processing plant.
Dairy farming could be his life if he chose—he would be the third generation to run it. But as much as he enjoyed the work, it wasn’t what he saw for himself.
A little after nine, Anders headed up to the farmhouse. His stomach was hollow and grumbling. Waiting for him would be a strong coffee and a cooked breakfast.
He took his boots off and strode into the house. He had already washed up in the sheds. ‘Good morning,’ he bellowed, making his way down the hall.
The scent of bacon, eggs and sausages spoke to his hunger, stirring it more.
‘In here,’ Mum called.
He was smiling when he rounded into the kitchen. Mum was turning bacon over in a frying pan. Tony was in charge of coffee.
‘Come here,’ Mum said, holding out her arms, still clutching the tongs. She kissed his cheek as he cuddled her comparatively much smaller frame. There wasn’t too much about him that resembled Mum, except for his eyes. He got his height and colouring from his father—some characteristics he could be thankful for.
‘Hi, Mum.’
She leant back and showed him her loving smile. ‘So good to see you.’
‘You too.’
He went to Tony and shook his hand. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Yeah, you too, mate. Thanks for helping out in the shed this morning. All go okay?’
‘Good as can be expected. One of the raw milk tests came back a bit iffy, though. I’ve quarantined the cow and left the details in the office. Not sure if you want to call a vet in to take a look at her or not.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on her.’
‘Great game yesterday. Another win,’ Mum said.
‘Oh, you were there?’
‘We got there a few minutes into the first quarter. But we had to leave straight after the game, so we couldn’t catch up with you afterwards.’
Meet Me in the Middle (Wattle Valley, #2) Page 4