by Nikki Logan
‘You looked me right in the eye after we shook hands.’
‘Only after you spoke. I used the position of your hand and your voice to estimate where your eyes would be. And the moment either one of us moved it wouldn’t have worked until I recalibrated. I don’t have super powers, Elliott.’
His next silence had a whole different tone to it. He was absorbing.
‘You’ve been very generous with your information, considering what an intrusion my questions are. But it felt important for me to understand. Thank you, Laney.’
‘It’s no more an intrusion than me asking you what it’s like being tall.’
‘How do you—? The angle of my voice?’
‘And the size of your hand when I shook it. Unless you have freakishly large hands for the rest of your body?’
‘No. My hands are pretty much in proportion to the rest of me.’
Cough.
Not awkward at all...
Wilbur snuffling in the distance and the chirpy evening cicadas were the only sounds around them. The only ones Elliott would hear, anyway.
‘I’m tall because my father was a basketball player,’ he volunteered suddenly. ‘It means I spend my days looking at the bald spots of smaller men and trying very hard not to look down the cleavages of well-built women. My growth spurt at thirteen meant I made the school basketball team, and that was exclusively responsible for turning my high school years from horror to hero. It taught me discipline and focus, sharpened my competitiveness and gave me a physical outlet.’ He took a breath. ‘Without that I’m not sure what kind of a man I might have grown into.’
His words carried the slightest echo of discomfort, as if they were not things he was particularly accustomed to sharing. And she got the sense that he’d just given her a pretty fair trade.
She palmed the packed earth wall of the chalet and opened her mouth to say Well, this is you, but as she did so she stepped onto a fallen gum nut loosed by the wildlife foraging in the towering eucalypts above and her ankle began to roll. Her left fingernails bit into the chalet’s rammed earth and her right clenched the fabric of Elliott’s light jacket, but neither did much to stop her leg buckling.
The strong arm that slid around her waist and pulled her upright against his body was infinitely more effective at stopping her descent.
‘Are you okay?’ he breathed against her hair.
Other than humiliated? And way too comfortable in his strong hold. ‘Occupational hazard’ she said, when she really should have been thanking him. ‘Happens all the time.’
He released her back onto two feet and waited a heartbeat longer as she tested her ankle for compliance. It held.
‘I’m sorry, Laney. Guess I don’t have Wilbur’s years of training as a guide.’
Guilt saturated the voice that had been so warm just moments before. And that seemed an ungrateful sort of thanks for his catching her before she sprawled onto the ground at his feet.
‘It wasn’t you. My bottom and hip are peppered with bruises where I hit the dirt. Regularly.’
Talking about body parts suddenly felt like the most personal conversation she’d ever had, and it planted an image firmly between them that seemed uncomfortably provocative.
She released his jacket from between her clenched fingers. ‘Thank you for those basketball-player reflexes.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he breathed, and his smile seemed richer in the silence of evening. ‘Are you okay to get yourself back?’
She whistled for Wilbur, who bounded to her side from out of the night, and then forked two fingers to touch his furry rump in lieu of a harness. ‘Yep. I’m good. I walk these paths every day.’
Not that you’d know it by the wobble in her gait.
Then she set off, turning for the house, and Wilbur kept careful pace next to her, making it easy to keep up her finger contact with his coat. But she wasn’t entirely ready to say goodnight yet, although staying was out of the question. Something in her burned to leave him with a better impression of her than her being sprawled, inelegant and grasping, in his arms.
So she turned and smiled and threw him what she hoped was a witty quip back over her shoulder.
‘Night. Sorry about the possums!’
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T THE possums that had kept him up half the night, though they’d certainly been having a ball, springing across his chalet’s roof in a full-on game of midnight marsupial chasey. Kiss chasey, judging by some of the sounds he’d heard immediately afterwards.
Because if it had been the possums he would have been able to fall asleep when they’d finally moved on to foraging in the trees surrounding the chalets for the evening, instead of lying there thinking about the gentle brush of Laney’s fingers on his arm, the press of her whole body against his when he’d caught her. The cadence of her laugh.
Her amazing resilience in the face of adversity.
Except that Laney genuinely didn’t see it as adversity. She understood that she experienced the world differently from the rest of her family, her friends, but she was pretty happy with those experiences. The world was just as much her oyster as his.
More so, perhaps, because she was so open to experience.
And right about then his mind had flashed him back to watching her dance, wet and bedraggled and beautiful, down at the cove. Then to an imagined visual of her perfect skin marred by small bruises from falling. And then just her perfect skin, and the all-consuming question of whether that dusting of freckles might continue beyond the hem of her dress.
And any hope of sleep had rattled out of the chalet to join the possums.
Pervert.
As if he’d never seen a pretty woman before. Or held one.
Did it even count as holding if you were the only thing stopping someone from falling unceremoniously on their arse? It was more community service than come-on, right?
Elliott shook off the early-morning tiredness and wiped his loafers on the Morgans’ mat. But he only had one foot done before the door opened and Laney stood there, resplendent in white overalls straight off the set of Ghostbusters.
Except he couldn’t remember Murray or Ackroyd ever looking this good in theirs.
‘I feel underdressed,’ he commented.
Laney’s smile was the perfect accessory. ‘You won’t miss out. I have a pair for you, too.’
‘I take it today’s bees aren’t as friendly?’
‘We’re doing a run to check the migrating hives. I prefer the farmers to see us taking it seriously. Preserve the mystery.’
‘We?’
‘Hey, mate.’
Only a brother would shove past a blind woman in a doorway with quite so little regard. That was what gave him away. That and the fact he was basically a short-haired male version of Laney.
A stupid part of Elliott bristled at seeing Laney treated with such casual indifference, though she barely noticed.
‘You must be Owen.’ Elliott gripped the proffered palm in his, introducing himself and swallowing back the disappointment that today wasn’t going to be all about him and Laney. ‘Many hands make light work?’
‘Owen and I work together on the remote hives,’ she said. ‘We’re checking two off-sites today.’
If there had been any question that the intimate truce of last night was going to continue today, he’d just had his answer. Laney Morgan was all about business this morning.
‘We’re going to take the back gate out of our property so you’ll get to see more of Morgan land. Come on.’
She stepped past him and brought a white stick out from behind her leg. The first time he’d seen her with one. The first time he’d actually thought of her as blind. And instantly he understood why she didn’t use it more often.
‘No Wilbur today?�
��
She swept the stick ahead of her as though it were a natural part of her body, pausing only to slap the folded overalls and hood she’d been clutching towards him.
‘Captain Furry-Pants has the day off. I think three guides would be excessive.’
Owen was already in the front of the Morgans’ branded utility.
‘So what will we be doing today?’
His question paused her just before she turned and felt her way up onto the tray of the truck, and she waited as he clambered up behind her. Once they were both on board, safely wedged between large, empty hives, she knocked twice on the window of the cab and Owen hit the accelerator. Hard.
They lurched up to speed.
‘Today we’re checking for beetle and propolis. We do these hives once a month.’
‘Propo what?’
‘Bee spit. They produce it to patch up any tiny holes in their hive and keep bacteria out. Humans use it for everything from treating burns to conditioning stringed instruments. Every one of our hives has a single propolis frame in it and the bees will totally cover it a couple of times in a year. We’re exchanging those frames today.’
Bee spit. The potential for new markets was greater than he’d imagined. And as long as those obscure markets were buying, Morgan’s was selling.
Man, they were so the right client for him.
They rumbled through the back roads of the property between fields full of bright, fragrant wildflowers and then skirted the edges of dense, tall forest.
‘National Park,’ Laney said when he queried. ‘Between it and our own lands, it means our bees have a massive tract to forage in and we can leave hives right on our perimeter.’
The ute hit a dip in the road, sending Helena crashing across his lap. A man could get used to this catching and steadying thing. She slid to sit at right angles instead, bracing her feet and her back on the hives packed either side of them. The move meant she wouldn’t lurch into him again—a loss—but it meant her long legs bridged his.
Surprise benefit.
‘You really couldn’t get a more idyllic location—’ he started, over the sound of the motor.
‘Thank you. That’s what I think.’
He’d been about to add...for your business, but is that what she’d meant? Or did she just love and value the property because it was home? She couldn’t see its beauty, so what was it, exactly, that she loved about it?
‘Someone knew what they were doing when they started farming here.’
‘My great-grandfather—though Morgan’s was mostly a dairy operation then. Mum and Dad focussed on the apiary side of things when they went organic.’
When their daughter was born sightless.
He filled the rest of the journey with questions about yields and methods and percentile measures and she spoke as comfortably about numbers as she did about bee husbandry. There wasn’t a single question she couldn’t answer.
‘You’re being amazingly open today.’
‘Given how amazingly closed I was yesterday?’
Well...yeah. Before their big discussion under the half-moon. ‘Yesterday I felt sure you were going to send me packing.’
‘I see no harm in helping you understand our business. Besides, I’m under instructions from Dad to be civil.’
Oh. Right. ‘Not my natural charm, then?’
The ute lurched again and her hand went out automatically and grabbed the first solid thing she could find. His knee. She released it immediately.
‘I tend to distrust charming men, actually. I haven’t always had the best experiences with smooth talkers.’
‘Why’s that?’ This had nothing to do with business but he was easily as interested in her answer as in anything else they’d yet discussed.
‘Most people don’t accept my vision as easily as—’ She stopped, crunched her face in a frown and then changed direction.
Had she been about to say as easily as you? He struggled against the desire to smile so she wouldn’t hear any trace of smugness in his voice.
‘People tend to want to either rescue me or show me off. As if dating a blind girl somehow improves their status. Neither of which I appreciate, particularly.’
‘You don’t think they’re asking you out for more...traditional reasons?’
‘A high-maintenance blind girl? I don’t think so.’
Pfff. ‘You’re the least high-maintenance person I’ve ever met.’
‘They don’t know that when they start sniffing around.’
Okay, whatever had happened to her in the past was clearly still a touchy point. ‘Maybe they just want to get to know you? Maybe they’re just attracted for regular reasons?’
‘Knocked off their feet by my beauty?’
Given she’d never seen a sarcastic facial expression in her life, the one she flashed him now had to be innate. And it was a corker. ‘You may not prioritise the visual, Laney, but I can tell you for certain that the rest of the world does.’
‘Then that’s a bonus for them. Poster child for the vision-impaired and passable to behold.’
‘Laney, you’re more than passable. You have amazing bone structure.’
The compliment hung out there in space, awkward and impossible to undo. She opted to ride through it as though it was any other conversation. ‘Actually, I’ve heard that before.’
‘From a man?’ Wow—that thought bothered him more than was comfortable.
‘From the friend who tattooed eyeliner on me.’
That stopped him flat. He stared at her. At the subtle shaded highlighting around her lashes. ‘Your friend tattooed you?’
The eyes in question crinkled with her laugh. ‘Kelly was training to be a beautician. She needed subjects to work on. She knew I didn’t bother with make-up but she said if I only did one thing, ever, to my face it should be that. So we went for it.’
‘Kelly was right. You have beautiful eyes.’ Eyes that didn’t meet his nearly often enough for his liking. He’d work on that. Make a point of touching her and speaking at the same time. ‘But what happened to not thinking in visual terms?’
‘I’m still a woman, Elliott. And as you pointed out the rest of the planet is so very visual. I saw no reason to go out of my way to look bad.’
Her hands twitched as if they wanted to go to her hair or face or something. It was very typically female. Very human. And really, really endearing.
‘Laney, there’s not... There’s very little chance that what I’m about to say won’t sound like a cheesy come-on, but I want to say it because you are nothing if not stoically honest about everything. I think you deserve the same in return.’
For a woman with limited eye expression, the rest of her face certainly managed to convey her nerves just then. ‘Okay...’
‘Those lightly made-up eyes, in that totally un-made-up face, are pretty much perfect. I give you my word, as a man, on that.’
Her lips parted in surprise.
‘Healthy, natural and young, with eyes straight off a billboard. That’s what I see.’
She frowned. ‘A what?’
He blinked. ‘A billboard?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s a giant advertising poster.’ He knew she knew about those because she’d commented about her brother’s bedroom walls, which were still plastered with posters of grunge bands from his youth. ‘As big as the side of a house, mounted on freeways and the sides of high-rises.’ And suddenly he realised how it was that she’d never encountered a billboard before. It wasn’t just because she was blind. ‘Have you ever been to the city, Laney?’
‘I went when I was little, for a lot of tests. But, no. Not since then.’
‘Have you been off the Leeuwin Peninsula? Out of the district?’
‘Not for
very long.’
And suddenly those eyes that saw nothing revealed so much more. The subtle change in their shape, the flick away from him. And he realised that after everything she had been prepared to talk about he’d just hit something that she wasn’t.
Her homing instinct.
He filed it away for later. ‘Anyway...that’s a billboard. They tend to plaster beautiful models or hot cars all over them. Sometimes together.’
‘And you think I have a billboard face?’
Eyes, technically, but... ‘Yes, definitely.’
The left corner of her mouth lifted just slightly. As if she wouldn’t allow herself to be pleased about that but a tiny bit had leaked through anyway.
‘Do you, Elliott?’
Should he be excited that she was curious about him or worried about what the truth might lead to? It crossed his mind to exaggerate—not lie outright but just...embellish. But that felt dishonest and entirely without purpose. ‘No. Not me. I’m okay, but nothing poster-worthy.’
‘Mum’s liberal with the word “handsome”, so I really don’t know how to imagine you.’
‘You want me to describe myself?’
She frowned. ‘Yes. For what it’s worth.’
‘I... Well, you know I’m tall. Six-three, to be exact. I have dark hair—’
‘What kind of dark?’
Right. Dark was effectively a colour. Okay, this was trickier than he’d imagined. Not that he’d imagined in a million years he’d be having this conversation.
‘Dark like night.’ As lame as that sounded... ‘And my eyes are the same colour as that cove where I saw you swimming.’
However she perceived that.
She smiled, settled back against the empty hives behind her. ‘What else?’
Jeez, this wasn’t easy. ‘Hang on...’ He pulled his phone out and got online.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I have a corporate photo on our website. I’m going to that.’
‘You don’t know what you look like?’
‘I can’t describe myself unless I see me.’ He clicked a few more times. ‘Okay... So... Hair like night, eyes like your ocean... I have a wide forehead, if not for the bit of hair that flops down over it, fairly dominant brows, but not out of control. Hmmm...apparently I have “Jules Vernian” sideburns.’ Then, under his breath, ‘Which will be gone by morning.’