‘Nonsense.’ She gestured with her hands to the space below the window. ‘You could put a window seat in here, about so high.’ She showed him with her delicate hands and neatly manicured nails. ‘You’d be able to sit here and see the ocean.’
When Rosie put both hands on his shoulders, he froze. She was so close.
‘Crouch down so you’re a bit lower than my height,’ she instructed. ‘And now imagine there’s a seat right here beneath the window.’
He did as he was told and was impressed at her ability to see what he’d never been able to. Out of the peaked window and between the roofs of two houses were the frilly, white foaming edges of the waves on the ocean as they broke and a strip of sunlight glimmering across the surface of the water. ‘Perhaps I should up the rent.’
When she laughed his stomach did a weird lurch, but then she was off again, checking out the en suite, running back downstairs – quicker with her dainty feet than he was with his size elevens – and mumbling something about the ornate fireplaces in the front bedroom.
‘So what do you think about having a window seat?’ she asked when she’d inspected as much of the house as she wanted to.
‘It’s a lovely idea, but I’m not sure it’d be worth my while.’
‘I disagree.’
He wanted to laugh at her stern face, her stance as she looked at him, hands on her hips just like the first night they’d met.
‘I think it’s those types of extras that could make all the difference,’ she said.
Owen didn’t usually listen to anyone else when it came to his property portfolio – with the exception of his sister-in-law, Sadie, who came over and gave places the woman’s touch before he advertised for sale or rent, adding a vase of flowers here, a pot plant or painting there. But Rosie did have a point about the little ‘extras’.
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll do a quick inspection if it’s okay with you, and then we can eat.’
Owen left Rosie smelling the agapanthus and the cherry blossom in the rear courtyard while he walked around checking the wooden floors for extra marks or dents other than what could be put down to wear and tear. He checked the kitchen appliances were all in working order and looked beneath all the sinks for leaks that could’ve been missed and which could prove costly if he left them while the place was untenanted. He was pedantic, but the only place Owen was willing to cut corners was out on the open road on his motorbike.
‘How’s it looking?’ Sunglasses perched on top of her head, Rosie came indoors as Owen opened kitchen cupboards and stepped back to ensure they were clear and clean and ready for the next tenant.
‘I didn’t need the tools after all. It’s all looking good.’
‘You’re a perfectionist.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ She wasn’t wrong. He’d bought property after property and turned monstrous, ugly dwellings into something out of the pages of one of those fancy home magazines, and he got a real buzz in doing it.
Owen held her gaze a moment longer than he’d intended and then patted the top of the esky filled with food. ‘Are you ready for a picnic at the beach?’
‘I’ll get the industrial strength sunscreen and I’m good to go.’
Rosie disappeared into the bathroom to apply her sunscreen, and when she came back to the kitchen he borrowed the tube himself – it was the only way to stop her harping on about the UV index and how everyone had to be careful these days – and they headed down to the beach, away from the Sand Bar to where the crowds thinned out.
He set the esky down and Rosie rolled out a picnic blanket. They unloaded olives stuffed with cheese, breadsticks, kabana sausages, quiche, meatballs and a quinoa salad.
‘What can I tempt you with?’ Rosie asked, ready to fill a plate with his choices.
What could she tempt him with? There was something, but it wasn’t on the list.
‘I’ll have whatever’s within reach,’ he said, hoping food would distract him from having thoughts that would get him into trouble.
They watched the ocean as they ate, his mind calming with each wave that broke onto the shore. And when he’d eaten enough he lay back on the blanket, propped up on his elbows, shades pulled down. He watched Rosie carefully put all the lids back onto the containers. ‘You’re very domesticated.’
‘Well one of us has to be. This food will all go yucky if we leave it in the sun for too long, and you might want some more later on.’
If anyone could hear them, they’d think they were an old married couple. That had never happened before with any of the girls he’d dated, and he minded it less than he thought he would. This situation was weird, like a temporary relationship to try out what it would be like before he went back to his lifestyle of living between projects, driving in and out of town whenever he felt like it. Had Rosie not been at the house and had he not wanted time to snoop around, Owen knew he’d have left by now. But without the parent cloud that usually hovered over him, Magnolia Creek really felt like home and he was happier than he’d been in a long time.
Rosie sat on the blanket, but it took her a while to drop back onto her elbows like he had. When she did, her hair blew gently across his shoulder and made him shiver.
He sighed. ‘I love the beach.’
‘Me too, even if my skin doesn’t.’ She reached inside her bag and pulled out a wide-brimmed straw hat.
‘I thought you got sunburnt at the pool yesterday, but your arms aren’t red.’
She fidgeted. ‘I think I overheated, but I’ll be more careful today.’ She looked around them. ‘This beach is beautiful.’
‘You’ve never been here?’
‘Not that I can remember. Apollo Bay was the family favourite when I was little. Although Mum would never go in the ocean – lifelong fear of sharks,’ she explained. ‘It terrified her when I’d swim out of my depth, give her a wave.’
He looked out at all the unsuspecting swimmers now. ‘Wasn’t a shark found there recently?’
The bottle of Pellegrino fizzed when she twisted the top off. ‘You’re thinking of Lorne.’ Her smile reached those brown eyes, richer in colour out here in the open air, with the ocean and the golden sand a picture-perfect backdrop.
He scooped sand into his palm and let it fall through his fingers. ‘So are you worried?’
‘About what?’
‘Sharks.’ He pointed to the ocean. ‘Out there, today, right now, swimming amongst us?’
She pulled a face.
‘You are!’ He laughed. ‘You’re a big scaredy-cat.’
Rosie stood up, flicked open the buttons down the front of her dress and let it fall to her ankles. She pulled out a brilliant turquoise rash vest from her bag, tugged it over her head and wiggled it down over her breasts, covering the same bikini she’d worn yesterday.
‘You’re the scaredy-cat still lying there on the picnic blanket,’ she giggled, and while he was still trying to get over seeing the vision of her stripping down, she was off.
He leapt up. Two could play at that game. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and chased after her down to the water’s edge. He loved the playful Rosie, the Rosie who’d told him her confusion over his pager, the Rosie in front of him now.
‘Last one to go completely under the water has to cook dinner every night for the next week.’ He caught her only ankle deep and waded in past her, up to his shins.
He reached back and grabbed her hand, pulling her in further just as a kid carrying a boogie board came hurtling into the oncoming waves. She shuddered as her body was splashed with cool water. The bumps covered her thighs until the water level met with her bikini bottoms and crossed her tummy, then she stopped, grinned at him, dropped his hand and dived into an oncoming wave like a mermaid. He saw her head surface seconds later, and she was chuckling away as she trod water well out of her depth.
‘Dinner’s on you!’ she yelled back at him.
They swam around for a while, and if it wasn’t for his fitness, she woul
d’ve been one step ahead of him the whole time. When her back was to him, he dived beneath the surface and knew he’d scared her when he purposely grazed past her legs. He emerged and their two heads bobbed in the ocean as they trod water, both lost in the moment.
This was more than harmless flirting, he knew it was. This was flirting with intent. And it wasn’t one-sided. The signals Rosie was sending his way weren’t telling him to back off, not in the slightest.
Once out of the water, they were both ravenous and feasted on the remainder of the picnic. They sat on the golden sands talking about other places they’d been to in Australia, the countries Owen had seen when he’d travelled for six months, the European travel Rosie yearned for.
‘You should go,’ he told her.
She held the stem of a strawberry and bit into the succulent flesh. ‘One day I will.’
Owen suspected Rosie had been playing it safe ever since she was old enough to make her own decisions, and it was a hard habit to break. He offered her the last meatball, but she shook her head.
When she took off her rash vest and lay back, hat and sunglasses in place, water droplets formed and tumbled off around her waist, breasts and her thighs. ‘Do you need more sunscreen?’ He cleared his throat.
She opened one eye suspiciously.
‘I’m not suggesting I rub it on for you, I just meant you’re wearing next to nothing and it’s the hottest part of the day.’
Satisfied with his explanation, she shut her eyes again and wiggled her shoulders to get comfortable. ‘I’ll only have five minutes lying here. I want my bikini to dry so I can put my dress on again for the trip home.’
Owen lay back too. He figured it was safer than staring at her. His skin tightened as the sun beat down and dried his body and board shorts. When he heard a giggle, he opened one eye. ‘What?’
‘Either you don’t have another tattoo as you implied, or it’s on your arse or somewhere equally as inconspicuous.’
He grinned. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I only have the one.’ When she flipped over to expose her back to the sun and let it dry, he asked, ‘So are you ever going to tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’ The soporific effects of the sea and the sun made her sound sleepy.
‘About your tattoo.’
‘Oh, that.’ She shifted on the sand, her face resting on her forearms, making it impossible to read her expression. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘You’re lying. The cello clearly has a significant meaning in your life given the necklace and the tattoo.’
‘Leave it, Owen.’ The sun’s power got too much for her, or maybe it was his line of questioning, and she sat up and pulled her dress on over her bikini. She plonked her straw hat on her head and from behind her sunglasses she said, ‘My dad taught me to play the cello when I was little, and I love music. What more do you want me to say?’
Her face was fixed towards the vast expanse of the ocean laid out before them.
‘Is your dad a cellist?’
Rosie nodded.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I thought we were friends.’
‘We are.’ She tidied away, packing the rubbish bag into the esky, throwing in her empty bottle of fizzy drink. She gestured for Owen to stand up so she could shake out the picnic blanket.
‘I’ll do that before we get in the car, Stevens. The sand will go over everyone else otherwise.’
‘Fine.’ She picked up the miles-too-heavy esky and set off across the sand.
They walked back to the house in silence, and Owen shook out the picnic blanket at the side of the road before folding it away to stow in the boot along with the esky.
He climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Would you mind if we stopped by the apartment I own in St Kilda before we go home?’ It was the first thing he’d said to her since she’d stormed off. ‘The tenant said he’d leave the newly signed agreement in the letter box. I’ll sign it and pop it back in for the agency to collect.’
‘Sure, just let me know where to go.’ The engine purred into action and Owen forgot all about the fact he was bubbling around in a pink car.
They drove along Beaconsfield Parade and when they arrived at Fitzroy Street, Owen directed Rosie until they pulled up in a narrow side street with a cream-coloured apartment block to one side.
‘I won’t be a minute.’ He grabbed the pen and the letterbox key he’d brought with him and jumped out of the car and over to the mail boxes standing in a row like obedient soldiers. He scribbled his signature on the papers, slotted them into the post box and climbed back into the car next to Rosie.
‘Let’s keep the roof down all the way home,’ he suggested. ‘I’m quite enjoying posing in this thing now.’ But when he turned, laughing, towards her, she was staring up at the apartment block looking anything but amused.
‘When did you buy the apartment?’
He opened his mouth to respond, but she was on a roll.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘is it number four?’
‘How did you—’
‘How did I know? Because you’re the arsehole who stole it from under our noses, that’s how.’
She pulled away from the kerb so violently he was surprised he didn’t end up with severe whiplash. Lucky for him he hadn’t muttered a glib ‘all’s fair in love and property dealing’ remark because he suspected he would’ve had a lot more than whiplash to contend with.
They drove in silence all the way back to Magnolia Creek. Every time he tried to open his mouth to talk, to reason with her that she was being bloody ridiculous, she turned the music up, and when he turned it down she used the controls on either side of the steering wheel to override him.
And that was how their fantastic day had ended: silent treatment, then deafening music to drown out his words, followed by one hell of a huff from Rosie as she stomped upstairs and slammed her bedroom door.
Now this really did feel like they were in a relationship.
Chapter Thirteen
That night Rosie dreamt about the cottage in Daisy Lane. When she woke she remembered how she’d left things with Owen yesterday. She’d been childish, she knew, but he’d scuppered her plans to move in with Adam, whether it had been intentional or not. And sometimes it was easier to put the blame onto someone else.
When there was a knock on her bedroom door, she curled into the duvet more and pretended to be asleep. When the knock sounded a second time, she called out, ‘I’m asleep … leave me alone.’
The door opened anyway. ‘Charming,’ said the voice.
‘Adam!’ She leapt out of bed and flung her arms around his neck, pulling him into the room.
‘Evel Knievel let me in.’
Rosie heard the bike roar away from the house. She locked her lips onto Adam’s, tugged at his shirt, loosened his belt and welcomed the feeling of closeness, the sanctuary of them as a couple.
Their lovemaking was frantic, urgent, and when they’d finished Adam rolled over and both of them caught their breath.
‘I could get used to this kind of welcome.’ He propped himself up on an elbow and ran a finger along her jaw. ‘What’s up? I’ve known you long enough to know something’s on your mind.’
She didn’t want to tell him about the apartment in St Kilda. It was in the past and she couldn’t rewrite history. Besides, she wanted to enjoy Adam being here until he had to up and go again, and the last thing she needed was to create tension between Adam and Owen.
She turned to face Adam. ‘When are we going to be together, Adam? Properly, I mean.’ The question had been propelled by dreaming about the cottage in Daisy Lane. She had no time to think about whether she really wanted to know the answer.
‘It won’t be like this forever,’ he promised.
Rosie could tell he was too relaxed for the serious conversation she needed to have and so she settled for a reassuring cuddle. Before long his breathing slowed into the familiar pattern that meant he was on the brink of sleep. Rest
less, she pulled on some cotton shorts and an old T-shirt and headed downstairs, glad of the headspace. Her limbs ached pleasantly from the ocean swim yesterday, the current more challenging than the crystal calm waters of the pool she looked out at now.
She had some gardening chores to do this morning, but before she headed outside she perused the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining one wall of the lounge. She delved into a thick, leather-bound gardening book, flicking through the pictures and imagining what the cottage in Daisy Lane could look like with manicured gardens and roses around the door. She read a section on fungal diseases such as black spot – a pest in late summer and autumn – rust and the importance of removing dead leaves from the ground to minimise the risk. She imagined what it would be like to have her own garden one day and read up on how to best encourage blooms and keep existing plants going long into winter.
Slotting the book back in its place, the travel section fit for any city library was next to catch her eye. She ran her fingers along the spines of travel guides for London, Paris, Rome, Tuscany, Prague. She paused when her finger landed on a guidebook to Florence, Italy. She pulled it out and sat back on the arm of the sofa as her eyes hungrily devoured pages depicting the Ponte Vecchio, the Piazzo del Duomo, the bustling cobbled streets. She could feel the Italian voices falling like soft pillows around her ears, imagine the chatter in the restaurants late into the evening where wine was savoured rather than consumed.
The room darkened as though a blanket had fallen over the entire house, and Rosie looked out to see dense grey clouds hovering in the sky above. Anxious to get at least some of her gardening chores done before the heavens opened, she went to the shed and took out the tools she needed.
Kneeling on the mat, she started with the yellow roses. The majority were still healthy blooms, but a couple were spent, and as per Jane’s guidance, she moved the secateurs down to where there was a section of five leaves on the stem, plus a healthy looking bud, and cut off the rest. She hoped she was doing this right. It was a big responsibility for a novice gardener.
As she moved round to the next rose bush and pulled dead twigs from the ground, throwing them into the bucket beside her, a low rumble made her look up. But it hadn’t been thunder, it was Owen’s motorcycle. She busied herself but knew he had come outside the second he’d seen her tending to the roses.
What Rosie Found Next Page 10