Just My Luck (Escape to New Zealand #5)

by Rosalind James

  “You’re right. That’s occurred to me more than once since I’ve been here. Lots of open space, lots of outdoor activities. But more ocean here, and you have better weather.” She smiled at him. “And now you’ve got me doing it.”

  He smiled back, but persisted. “Surprised you didn’t stay there, then. Since outdoor activities are what you do.”

  “There seemed like more opportunities in the U.S.,” she explained. “My parents thought so too. And, of course, the relationship I was in, that’s another reason I stayed in the Bay Area. Besides, I didn’t think at the time that I was going to do this kind of thing, the outdoor stuff, as a career. I just thought it was fun, and it turns out that I’ve never wanted to do anything else. And I want—” She stopped herself. “I thought it was fun,” she repeated.

  “What? What do you want to do?” he pressed.

  “Never mind. You don’t want to hear about my hopes and dreams.”

  “I do, though,” he protested. “But we can save it for next time, if you’d rather. Conversational topic, eh.”

  Yeah, right. She was going to confide her ridiculous career ambitions to somebody who’d achieved the pinnacle of his by the time he was in his late twenties.

  “So,” he prompted. “Calgary.”

  She shrugged. “It has a huge statue of a bull in the middle of it. That’s about all you need to know. That pretty much sums it up. How about if we talk about you instead?” He had to be a more interesting topic than her unexciting childhood. She might not know much about dating, but she had a feeling it was better not to actually bore the guy to tears. Besides, you were supposed to ask them about themselves, weren’t you?

  “Hannah told me that lots of New Zealand rugby players play their whole careers for the team closest to where they’re from,” she went on. “Drew’s only played for the Blues, I know. Which surprised me, because U.S. athletes move around a lot. Every year or two sometimes, I think. There’s usually no local connection at all. Which makes it a little harder, I think,” she mused, “for fans to feel that sense of loyalty to a team. When the guys come and go so much.”

  “Anyway.” She’d drifted away from the original topic, she realized. “Did you grow up in Wellington? Or someplace close by?”

  “Nah. Pretty far away, in fact. In Gore. Well, outside Gore. Which is in Southland,” he added at her blank look. And when she still looked lost, elaborated further. “The bottom bit of the Mainland.” He sighed. “The South Island. Of New Zealand. Which is where you are now. I could draw you a map, if you like.”

  “The Mainland?” she asked, trying hard not to laugh. “The South Island’s the Mainland? I thought hardly anyone lived there.”

  “Oi,” he protested with a straight face. “It’s heaps bigger than the North Island. And we have twenty percent of En Zed’s population. Not to mention half the sheep, and almost all the mountains. And don’t get me started on our sandfly advantage.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” she said with exaggerated politeness. “I stand corrected. I’m sure that . . . Gore . . . is quite the metropolitan center.”

  “Oh, yeh. I’ll see your bull statue and raise you a sheep.”

  “You have a statue of a sheep?” She lost the battle and started to laugh. “Where?”

  “At the entrance to town,” he admitted, beginning to chuckle himself. “And that’s not the only decorative object. There’s a trout sculpture down the other end, not to mention a pretty massive chainsaw on top of the farm equipment shop. All the Kiwi essentials, and all on the one street too. It’s a regular cultural wonderland, Gore.”

  “Actually, that’s not true,” he corrected himself. “It’s also the country music capital of New Zealand. So there you go.”

  “Sounding more and more like Calgary all the time. And I still think my bull wins,” she said sternly. “It’s a very big bull. A rodeo bull.”

  “Nah,” he said. “My sheep and trout win. Because a bull’s actually exciting. Not too many sheep rodeos around. Sheep riding, now, that’d be a boring event. And there you go again. You have rodeos, and we have Farm Days. I win right there, even without the sheep statue.”

  “Well, mutton-busting,” she pointed out.

  “Huh?”

  “Riding sheep. In rodeos. Kids do it.”

  “Never mind,” she said as he continued to look puzzled. “I guess you don’t do that. But what about sheepdog competitions? Those are fun. I saw Babe, and I know.”

  “One event. One. Everything else? Dead bore. Besides,” he went on when she would have argued further, “I’ve actually heard of Calgary. I could even have told you it was in Canada. How many people does it have?”

  “Not that many. Maybe a million.”

  He pointed a triumphant finger at her. “Ten thousand. I win.”

  Motorcycle Boots

  “D’you want to stop and look?” Liam asked, the third time he saw Kristen’s eyes stray to a shop window. They’d finished their climbing already on this sunny Saturday, their fifth time together. Had already knocked another few weeks off her seven months. Pity there were still six long months to go. He’d suggested they take a stroll up Lambton Quay, have lunch there for a change. He’d had a hunch she’d enjoy window-shopping, and he’d been right, he saw with satisfaction.

  “Oh, no,” she said hastily. “No, that’s fine.”

  “Because I don’t mind,” he insisted. “Come on. Show me what you like.”

  “Do you really want to know?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I really want to know,” he assured her. He stopped on the busy pavement, forcing the passing pedestrian traffic to veer around the pair of them. “That shop back there. That was the most interesting one, eh.”

  “Well, yes, it was,” Kristen admitted, looking back. “I shouldn’t want to look at clothes so much, I suppose, since I do it all day for work.”

  “Why not? Just means you’ve found the right job for you. How much rugby d’you think I watch? Heaps.”

  “But you probably have to do that,” she said, moving back toward the windows of that shoe shop all the same, as if irresistibly drawn there.

  “I’d do it anyway. Because I love footy, just like you love fashion. It’s work, and it’s fun. Neither of us is performing brain surgery here, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with what we do, or what we love.”

  They were in front of the shop now. Mi Piaci, he saw. Shoes.

  “Which d’you like best?” he prompted. “Those purple ones,” he suggested, pointing to a pair of high suede heels, “they’d go with those lace things you were wearing at Toro’s party, eh.”

  “Mmm,” she said dubiously. “I probably wouldn’t do that. Too matchy-matchy.”

  “Really,” he said in surprise. “I thought matching was the point.”

  “It makes an outfit a little boring,” she explained. “It’s a lot more fun to have a little surprise, a little contrast. A little . . . funk.”

  “So which of these would be a better choice? What would be funky?”

  “Hmm,” she considered, studying the colorful array in the window carefully, then nodding with decision and pointing. “Those. Yeah, those would be super fun.”

  “Right. Let’s go, then,” he said, indicating the shop door.

  “What?” she laughed. “You mean, try them on?”

  “Well, not me,” he said with a grin of his own. “I was thinking you. Why not? You have something better to do today?”

  “No,” she said slowly. “If you’re sure you want to.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Watching Kristen put shoes on and take them off, he thought a few minutes later as she slipped the studded, buckled motorcycle-inspired black boots on, stood and walked to the mirror with that unconscious sway that came from a body put together absolutely perfectly—well, it wasn’t the very best thing he could imagine. But it wasn’t too far off.

  “So fun,” she said wistfully, turning and posing, looking back over her shoulder at her
self in the mirror, lifting one foot to stand on a toe, smoothing both hands over her hips. And making Liam seriously doubt, all of a sudden, that this celibacy thing was going to work after all.

  “What do you think? Cute, huh?” She pivoted, peered over her other shoulder at him with a smile, then turned again, struck a pose, and did a model-glide across the floor to him. Just having fun, he knew, and was glad of it, though it had steam all but coming out of his ears.

  “Yeh,” he said, smiling up at her from his spot in the chair. “Cute.”

  She laughed. “I meant the boots.”

  “Yeh, those are cute too,” he agreed.

  “Lovely on you,” the saleswoman put in. “They go a treat with those skinny jeans, but they’d be awesome with a short skirt too, for a fun look.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking!” Kristen said with delight, giving the woman a warm smile. “So funky and fun.”

  “But,” she sighed, sitting down to take them off again, “not in my budget, I’m afraid. Not today.”

  “Nah,” Liam protested. “We’ll take them.”

  Kristen looked up at him sharply, arrested in the act of pulling a boot off her foot. “What? Liam . . .”

  “We’ll take them,” he said firmly, bending to scoop up the box, motioning the woman toward the counter. “Leave them on if you like, Kristen.”

  “You really can’t buy me clothes,” she was still objecting when they were on the street again. “Lunch is one thing, but those boots were expensive.”

  “Good thing you wore them then, isn’t it? Letting me see them on you, giving me my money’s worth. And talking of lunch,” he added, “this is a pretty good spot.” Not too noisy, he knew, and comfortable. Homey.

  “You don’t have a—” she started to say, then broke off as they entered the little café.

  “A what?” he asked. “A purple dinosaur? A vestigial tail?”

  She laughed in surprise, then sobered. “A . . . you know. A foot fetish,” she whispered.

  He laughed himself, which caused a few heads to turn, a few eyes to sharpen in recognition. “Nah,” he said with a smile. “No vestigial tail, and no foot fetish either. At least, your feet wouldn’t be the first thing I’d kiss. Put it that way.”

  He regretted saying it when he saw the almost imperceptible drawing back, her hasty turn toward the counter.

  “Sorry,” he said penitently. “I can do the celibacy. Can’t always do the celibate thoughts, though. That gets away from me, I’ll admit. Let’s order. Then we can talk about it more, if you like. Or not.”

  She didn’t like, it was clear. So he concentrated, instead, on chatting, once they’d placed their order and sat down at a table near the window to await their lunches.

  “What are you buying now, at work?” he asked. “Motorcycle boots?”

  “No,” she said, but she smiled again, at least. “Though it’s not a bad thought, because we’re looking at autumn clothes right now. You’re always two seasons ahead. But, unfortunately, our shoe selection is really limited. It always has been, I guess, which I don’t understand, because shoes are great. Shoes are a big draw. At least they are for me,” she said with another smile. “As you saw.”

  He’d asked a couple more questions, could see her starting to relax again when they were interrupted by the appearance of a young Maori woman carrying a baby.

  “Can I just ask,” she said apologetically, “can I get a snap of you with her? Her dad would love that.”

  “Course.” He reached for the little girl with her halo of dark curls, her bright eyes and perfect rosebud of a mouth.

  “Eh, sweetheart,” he crooned, settling her into his arm and bouncing her a bit so she laughed, then turning to face the mum, holding her camera phone now. He waited while she took the snap, then asked, “What is she, eight months or so?”

  “Seven,” the mother confirmed.

  “Got a tooth coming in, too.” He peered into the little mouth while the baby favored him with a beaming smile featuring one tiny dot of ivory on the bottom.

  “I’ve got a niece a bit older than this,” he told the mum, handing the little girl back. “She’s been dead slow on the teething, though. Still got a mouth full of gum.”

  “I’m almost wishing Eva didn’t have any either,” the mum sighed. “Been making her right fussy, these past couple days.”

  “Have you tried a frozen bagel?” he asked. “One of those little ones? The taste keeps them sucking it longer than those rings, and the freezing helps. Gets a bit messy, but well worth it.”

  “I’ll try that. And I’ll let you get back to your lunch. Cheers for the photo.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “What?” he asked Kristen in surprise. She was sitting over there laughing at him. Better than the withdrawal he’d sensed earlier, he supposed. “What’s funny?”

  “Let’s see,” she said, still smiling. “You go shoe shopping with me. You hold babies and talk about teething. If you suggest we watch The Notebook together because it’s your favorite movie and you need a good cry, I’m going to know you’re just trying to impress me.”

  “Oi.” He did his best to sound pained. “I’m actually a pretty sentimental fella. I’m Maori. We’re romantic, haven’t you heard? That’s our specialty.”

  “I thought that was war. Or maybe rugby.”

  “All of the above,” he said firmly. “Or, you know, could be I’m a secret cross-dresser. Using you as a decoy, eh. Could be popping back into that shop later on the sly, asking if they’ve got those shoes in a 13. Though I’d probably go for the purple ones, myself.”

  “I guess I’ll worry when you encourage me to shop for lingerie,” she said.

  “When I encourage you to shop for lingerie,” he couldn’t help saying, “it won’t be because I want to wear it. That’s a promise.”

  Sharing Another Beer With Nate

  Pretty good, Nate thought on Monday. He’d even talked Ally into a beer at the brewpub this time. And she’d smiled, looked happy to see him instead of nervous when he’d arrived at the gym tonight, the last thing on her schedule as always. Getting better every time, and it was only Lesson Three.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” she said, smiling her thanks at the server who’d just set down her glass. “I got so distracted last time by the sheep and bulls—”

  “Not to mention the trout,” he put in. “Don’t forget the trout.”

  “And the trout,” she agreed, “that I didn’t think to ask you the obvious question. Why are you in Wellington? I looked it up, and there’s a rugby team down there, near where you’re from. Not in Southland, but in O— however you pronounce it. Why don’t you play for them?”

  “Otago. Yeh, the Highlanders, in Dunedin. Which is a lovely city.”

  “No, really,” he protested at her skeptical look. “I’m not just saying that because I realized, belatedly, that I’m not meant to be slagging off the sheep of my homeland. Let alone the farmers,” he said with a shudder. “Got a bit too relaxed there, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t have to watch yourself,” she said. “I’m not going to tell anybody that you weren’t the Perfect New Zealand Ambassador. You can be honest with me. Heaven knows I have been with you.”

  “Cheers for that,” he said with real relief. She seemed to understand, to his surprise. Well, she did know Drew and Hannah. But Drew never put a foot wrong, he thought glumly. You’d never catch Drew making a disparaging remark about Farm Days. More likely to see him riding the tractor to open the show. And looking as if life could offer nothing finer.

  “Anyway,” she persisted, “why Wellington? Was it too much of the sheep and cows? Because I have to say, you don’t strike me as that much of an urban animal.”

  “Nah. I’m not, really. I like being out in the bush as much as any other Kiwi joker. But I do like Welly,” he said hastily. “Being in the capital, the excitement of the place. That it’s lively, like you said.”

  She sighed. “
Quit worrying about what I’d be writing if I were a journalist, and just tell me what you think.”

  “Right.” She had him confused again, this time because she was being thoughtful. Understanding. Why was he always so off-balance with her?

  “I came here for the footy,” he began, actually wanting to explain. And wasn’t that a novel feeling. “Well, for everything, really. Though none of it was my idea. I was fifteen, starting to get pretty good at it, at rugby. And Gore’s small, like I said. So I needed to go somewhere else, someplace I could play in the First Fifteen. The schoolboy competition,” he explained at her blank look. “And my mum wanted me to go to a better school too, one that would challenge me more. She never really took to me being a rugby player. Not her dream for me, and all the injuries as well. But anyway. I had an uncle in Wellington, so . . .” He shrugged. “This is where I came.”

  “And lived with your uncle,” she said slowly. “It must have been hard to leave your family, though, wasn’t it?”

  “Cried every night for weeks, in bed,” he found himself admitting. “Missed my mum. My dad, my uncle . . . they’re pretty . . . tough. Typical Kiwi blokes. All the softness came from my mum. I missed my big brother, too. Tagged around after him my whole life, and when he wasn’t there, crikey, I missed him. And Wellington was so big, and I kept getting lost. New school, no mates . . . it was a bit rough.”

  “More than a bit,” she guessed. “It must have been brutal.”

  “Yeh. At first. But I wanted to play, and my mum was right, the school was better. It all worked out in the end. Made some good mates, most on the team, of course, but some not. And we came third in the First Fifteen, eventually. Then I made the En Zed Under-19s squad, went to Uni, played in the Under-20s . . .” He stopped, feeling self-conscious despite the many times he’d shared this story with interviewers. “And, eventually, the Hurricanes, then the All Blacks. There you go. My life story.”

  “Condensed,” she said slowly. “Because to do all that . . . everything you’ve done. And to do it so well. The captaincy, too, of both teams. How old were you when you became captain of the Hurricanes?”