“Maybe you and Keats can drive to Mt Coot-tha after your lesson next week and make out.” Jillie sounds totally sold on this idea as she chews on the fluffiest-looking sponge cake I have ever seen. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her about my upcoming non-date with Keats. She’s bad for my sense of reality.
“Yeah, right—not gonna happen. For one, he’s not interested in me at all. He’s only letting me near his precious car because of our deal about Isabella. And two, he thinks I’m sleeping with a Neil, remember?”
“Neil the Mailman is so into you,” Jillie says.
There are two Neils in our building that we know of. One is Neil the Mailman, a rotund guy who works in the mail room. He’s been taking his sweet time delivering mail to reception in recent weeks, eager to chat me up.
The other Neil is one of the executives who works for the PR firm in our building. For the longest time until we found out his real name, Jillie and I referred to him only as my Baby Daddy. As in whenever he walks in the lobby, Jillie would give me a nudge and sometimes a little too loudly, say, “Hey, Jess, there’s your Baby Daddy,” because she said one time that if anyone could convince me to have kids, it would be him. Now we call him, Baby Daddy Neil.
Some nineteen-year-olds are mature. Jillie is not one of them. It’s probably why we click. I’m lacking in maturity myself.
“No thanks.” There’s a contradiction here, I know—I want a hot guy not to be so critical of my looks but I want a free pass on being shallow. But I rationalise that the real reason Neil the Mailman turns me off is he’s too eager—aloofness is much sexier. I’m sure a shrink would say I set myself up for rejection. “I still can’t believe I told Keats I sleep with ‘Neil’. He’ll think I sleep around.”
“But you do sleep around.”
“Not for a few months now, and not with anyone named Neil.”
“You could fix that. Oh, shit, I’ve got the best idea to get you laid by Baby Daddy Neil and then it wouldn’t be a lie anymore!”
***
I relax my hand when I realise I’m creasing the business-size envelope in it. Why do I listen to Jillie? I’m the older one. I shouldn’t allow myself to be peer pressured into stupid stunts. I don’t even have alcohol to blame this time.
But I’m already in the lift on the way to the thirty-fourth floor. I’ve committed myself to it now, so I square my shoulders and try to look like I belong on that floor as the elevator doors open to office space that is all glass and chrome and views of the Brisbane City skyline. Everywhere I turn, very presentable men and women with no excess body fat are zipping around looking very busy.
Oh. My. God. I’ve reached the Hot Floor. How does anyone get any work done around here? But maybe they’re all just so used to being gorgeous, they don’t even notice it anymore?
I spot a woman in a tailored grey and black outfit chatting to an equally attractive guy in a grey suit while they stare at a computer screen together. Every now and again, her elbow ever so slightly touches his, and his lips would quirk every time.
Flirt central. I’ve hit the mother lode.
“Can I help you?” I look to my left and notice a sleek woman behind a shiny semi-circle reception desk.
Shit. I forgot they have their own reception desk here. Whenever a call comes through downstairs for the people up here, we just redirect to one number. Duh, Jess. I have not accounted for this hurdle. The envelope in my hand crinkles as my grip tightens around the now-abused-looking missive.
“Yes.” God, this place makes me feel extra fat. I feel like I’m ambling as I walk over to her. “We accidentally got one of your staff’s letters. Um,” I check the name on the envelope like I hadn’t charmed it off Neil the Mailman specifically so I have an excuse to come up here, “Neil McReedy.” Baby Daddy Neil even has a cute name. I wouldn’t mind being Jess McReedy. It would be an improvement from Haugen. But not from McAllister.
Oh wait. I’m not planning to get married.
“Neil. Yes, I’ll give that to him.”
I bet you would.
She reaches for the envelope and has to tug it out of my grip.
“Is there anything else?” she asks in a friendly enough manner.
“No.” I give the office another sweep with my eyes—no Neil McReedy in sight, and everyone so gorgeous and professional—I don’t belong up here. But I want to. “Nice offices.”
She grins and nods. “Thanks. And thanks for bringing Neil’s letter up.”
“No worries.” I turn to leave.
Well, this was a bust, but I guess I got to see the natural habitat of Baby Daddy Neil. I stab the elevator call button, feeling awkward just standing there with my back to the friendly receptionist while I wait for the lift. When the elevator doors open, I hit the Lobby button and press the Close Doors one like I’m playing a pinball machine.
Come on doors, close already. If I was being chased by a murderer, I would be dead now.
When the elevator eventually moves, I lean against the back with a sigh. I catch my reflection on the shiny doors in front of me. It would’ve been nice if Baby Daddy Neil saw me today—my clothes are pretty flattering, and the weight loss is beginning to show on my silhouette. The elevator stops just as I’m checking out my butt in the pencil cut skirt I have on. This time, the doors open quickly before I have time to straighten up.
And of course, there’s Neil McReedy in all his put-together glory, brow raised at my slightly bent over position.
“I lost a contact lens,” I say.
“Oh. You need help to look?” He steps into the elevator before I can answer, bending down to search in the general direction I’m facing.
The door closes behind us. Neil McReedy seems ready to go on the knees of his expensive suit for a better look so I quickly say, “Oh, wait. It just went behind my eyeball.” I fake blinking rapidly like I’ve seen Isabella do to rehydrate her eyes. “There it is. Yes, I’m okay now. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he says with a grin. “I hate contacts—keeps drying up on me. But better than glasses, I suppose.”
I nod and smile back politely. I can’t imagine him with glasses but I bet he would look gorgeous regardless.
“I work at Achieve PR upstairs. I’m Neil.” He extends a hand to me.
I resist the urge to wipe my slightly clammy one on my skirt first. His grip is firm and warm, sending a little buzz up my arm.
“Hi. I’m Jess.”
“You work the front desk in the lobby, right?”
“Right.” I try not to appear too flattered that he remembers me from reception below. Every morning, a lot of the people who work in the building walk like zombies past Jillie and me, like we’re part of the furniture.
“I didn’t know you get to ride the elevators, too.” His easy smile tells me he’s flirting with me, maybe just a little bit.
“Well, actually, I was just up on the thirty-fourth floor, delivering mail we incorrectly got downstairs. Yours, I think.”
Another ping and the lift doors open to reveal the lobby. Neil presses the Open Door button and keeps his thumb there while I exit the lift.
“Really? Well, thanks.” He smiles at me, effortlessly charming.
I shrug. “I had fun riding the elevator. Aren’t you getting out?”
“No. I need to go to the thirtieth floor—you made me forget to press the button.” He flashes me a wry smile.
“Well, have fun riding the lift.”
He nods, still smiling. “See you later, Jess,” he says as the doors close between us.
I turn on my heel slowly, tickled at the thought that Baby Daddy Neil McReedy was still smiling even though he needs to ride another extra thirty floors because of me. I can’t believe how well I handled myself—slightly aloof but friendly, professional but flirty. Cool.
That is, until I look up and see Jillie grinning at me from ear to ear with her two thumbs up. I just bet she’s had that expression on her face the whole time she was watching my exchange with
Neil. And from where he was standing in the lift, he would’ve totally seen my personal cheerleader ridiculously happy and obvious behind me.
Chapter 12
Early-June
There are three cars at an intersection. In what order do the cars go?
Shit. I hate give way rules. I can’t believe Keats is making me take a 30-Question practice test from the Queensland Transport website, and apparently, I have to get a perfect score to get behind the wheel of his precious car.
“Do you have to watch over my shoulders?” There’s testiness in my voice.
“You don’t have this much time to decide in real traffic.”
God, he’s annoying. I can’t believe I actually missed him not being around. He’s already made me drive around the video game track without crashing. Twice. I came dead last both times.
I click on option B, and press Continue. The green “Your answer is correct” message pops up. I stop myself from sighing in relief—no need to show him that was a lucky guess. I move on to the next question and tackle it a bit more confidently.
Beside me Keats is tense and smelling of chlorine. Apparently, before coming to my apartment, he’d gone for a swim to relax. He seems anything but relaxed now. Tension emanates from him in waves, mixed with what I’m sure is disappointment every time I get the right answer.
Last question: Can two cyclists ride side by side?
Not if I’m on the road.
Two answers make a lot of sense. But I have a vague memory of Option A. I click on it, hear Keats hold his breath as I hover my mouse over the Continue button. I click.
It’s green! “Yes!” Fist pump moment and I give in to the dorky gesture. “Hand over your keys, mate. Let’s go.”
Keats covers his face with both hands, looking like he’s just lost a major bet and goons are about to break his legs. I’m tempted to let him off the hook and tell him I can learn to drive in a driving instructor’s car. But only for a second. I’m giddy at the thought of controlling that Audi coupe like a kickass Bond Girl.
“Come on.” I shoulder my handbag and walk over to my front door, practically bouncing from foot to foot while I wait for him.
With a big sigh, he unfurls himself off a beanbag, grabbing his keys and phone as he slowly struts towards me. I don’t think he means to strut—a powerful combination with his bedroom eyes—he just always walks with a swagger, even when he looks like he’s on his way to the gallows.
“That’s it. You can do it,” I say with exaggerated enthusiasm while I wave him over impatiently.
“Yeah, yeah.”
The chilly winter morning cools us as we take the stairs to the visitors’ car park. Downstairs, his black sports car awaits, glistening proudly in the sun. Keats unlocks it and I practically skip to the driver’s side. My grin strains my cheeks.
“Not so fast, Hay-gen.”
I look at him over the roof of the luxury vehicle.
“This is a high performance vehicle. It’s not a cheap car, darlin’.”
My heart just stopped. When he calls me “darlin’” in that Oklahoma accent of his, I want to slap him—a difficult task when the diminutive also turns me into a melted pool of girly-ness.
I toss my hair over my shoulder like he hadn’t fazed me. “Time for my lesson, darlin’.” I open the car door and slide behind the flat-bottomed steering wheel and into the bucket seat. If my butt was any bigger, I don’t think I’d fit within the leather-covered padding.
Keats gets in the vehicle a second later, mouth tight as he fastens his seatbelt. He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Okay. Seat belt on, then adjust your mirrors.” He shows me the buttons to press. Again.
“What does this do?” I ask, pointing at one of the buttons near the gear stick. It’s like I’m in the cockpit of a jet, and it’s totally distracting being surrounded by all the switches and gadgets within reach. They look different from this side of the vehicle.
“Don’t touch that. That activates the rear spoiler. You won’t need it. We’re not going over sixty today—that’s kilometres, not miles.” He runs a hand down his face fuzz and studies me with his bedroom eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want me to hire you a driving instructor? I could even buy you a reliable second-hand car to get you started.”
“A deal’s a deal.” I hope lightning doesn’t strike me because I’m double crossing him.
“Well, right now it’s not feeling like I’m getting much out of it. Why isn’t Neil whatshisname teaching you to drive?”
I shift in the tight seat to face him as well as I can. “Neil McReedy didn’t make a pathetic deal with me to get back someone who doesn’t want him anymore.” I’m so glad I know Baby Daddy Neil’s full name now—makes him seem less made up. “You got me to divulge how Isabella felt about you, and quizzed me about her for hours. Now it’s my turn to torture you, and you agreed to grin and bear it.”
He bites the inside of his cheek, looking like he’s struggling not to argue. “Fine. But you’re learning automatic.”
“But this car can be put in manual mode. I just flick this switch, right?” I’ve been checking out its features on YouTube and the Audi website.
It takes him a second to get over how much I know about his vehicle. “Yes, but most makes and models don’t have paddles on the steering wheel to shift gears. Anyhow, you need to concentrate on your road position and road rules first. You can learn to drive manual when you’ve gotten your license…”
My face brightens up. Did he just make a way-in-the-future plan with me?
“…using your own car,” he finishes.
I frown at him, making him chuckle. The bastard purposely got my hopes up just to let me fall.
“Okay, let’s get on the road. Time to turn the engine on.” I put my foot on the brake and reach for the Start button.
“Not yet. We have to go through all the buttons and levers first. I don’t want you dry-wiping my windscreen when you’re trying to indicate.”
“You are so not cool right now.” I shift in my seat and get comfy while he runs through the car’s features again.
“Foot on the brake before you start the engine,” he instructs. He’s worse than a good dad teaching his little kid to ride a bicycle.
Something in my belly cramps. It’s been doing that a lot recently, and it’s not because of my diet. Whenever I think of Keats and babies, I get clucky. It’s scary. I even feel sorry for Linda who only wanted to bear his children. I’m discovering that this feeling-stuff business is a slippery slope to getting hurt. I mean, I’m feeling bad for other people. It’s hard enough worrying about me.
The engine purrs a low grumble as I press the Start button, but the car groans when I step on the accelerator before releasing the handbrake. Keats tenses up in his seat, his face drawn like I’m killing him a little bit at a time.
I put my foot back on the brake.
“My bad,” I say, totally horrified. I bet he reneges on our deal.
“Get out,” Keats says on cue, but I’m still surprised by his reaction.
“What? No. I studied the whole bloody rule book for weeks! I—”
“Just get out, Hay-gen. We’re swapping seats.”
“No. You owe me a lesson. Ten lessons.” I cross my arms in front of me. Let’s see if he can make me move.
His sigh is filled with frustration. “I am going to teach you to drive. Okay? But not here. Too much traffic. Now get out so I can drive us somewhere more suitable.”
I give him a sideways glance, gauging how much I can trust him. Would he drive away before I can get back in his vehicle?
I climb out—a tough task to do gracefully when the seat fits my butt like a leather glove—and rush over to the passenger side so that I am securely buckled in before he’s even in the driver’s seat.
He gives me a sidelong glance as he readjusts the mirrors. “You have trust issues, you know that?”
I tense up, instantly defensive. But a closer look tells me it was an
offhand comment to him.
“Okay, I’ll drive in automatic mode so I can talk you through it.” He has a nice, deep voice with a lilt that makes me want to picture him on a horse in a cowboy hat, and nothing else. “You need to check behind you and your side mirrors the whole time. Don’t just rely on the reversing camera.”
I find myself checking him out the whole time as he reverses out of the space. He’s wearing a striped jumper today, his toned arms covered as he places one against the back of his seat and mine, eyes out the back window.
“Okay, now we change the gear to drive, and indicate because we’re leaving the parking lot.”
“Parking lot”. The Americanism reminds me of his roots, and the cowboy-hat-wearing lion on his chest. Two months and I still haven’t seen it in person.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“Somewhere a lot quieter. I need to make sure you can make the car go forward and back and turn before we have to worry about other drivers.” He indicates left, checks his blind spot, then changes lanes. I know all this because he tells me. “So, you heard from Isabella recently?”
I was wondering when he’d get around to asking about her. I look at the clock on his dash. An hour and a half since he knocked on my door—a record for him.
“Yes. She’s excited about her flight home in the second week of July. She’s dying to see the church and to get the venue sorted. Those hotels are still fully booked for the Saturday she wants. Plus, she and Byron have to take that couples counselling thing that the church makes people do.”
“I can’t believe I’ll see her next month.” His voice sounds upbeat.
Ouch. Like the rest of us, bar Byron, Keats hasn’t seen Isabella in person since she left again for London last September. But did he have to sound so excited about seeing her again?
“Well, expect to see a lot of her. She also wants to go to Moreton Island to spend some quality time with the bridal party.”
“Including me?”
The soft way he asks this breaks my heart and stirs new resentment inside me towards the bride for breaking his. I can tell from his halting way of querying about Isabella that it hurts his pride to sound so needy.
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