Her Aussie Holiday

by Stefanie London

But it was never enough.

  “‘The funny thing was, Kylie had never wanted to get married before,’” Cora continued reading to the bird. “‘She was always the independent one, the career-driven one. But now that she’d returned home to Little Creek, a town so small it could be mistaken for a speck of dust on a map, she knew things had to change. Her grandma was dying. And she’d never seen any of her grandkids get married. Not a single one in all fourteen of them.’”

  Cora looked at Joe, who turned his head away.

  “I’m guessing, judging by the cover, Miss Kylie gets herself tangled up with a fireman,” she said to the bird. “But she shouldn’t settle for less than love.”

  Love had always been her goal. Watching her parents’ marriage go from rocky, to rockier, to holy shit the bridge is about to blow! had been painful. But it all became clear one day when she found her mother in a drunken stupor in their smoking room—which was a ridiculous name, since no one ever smoked in there—rambling about all the mistakes she’d made in her life.

  “I should never have done it,” her mother had croaked, one talon-tipped hand sliding around the back of Cora’s neck as she attempted to lift her mother from the couch. “I should never have married that sonofabitch. He never loved me and I never loved him.”

  The conversation—if you could call it that—had stuck with Cora. Love was important, and settling for anything less would lead only to misery. Too bad Cora seemed to fall for jerks time and time again.

  Her BS radar was officially broken.

  “But we’re not going to think about any of that, are we?” she said to Joe. The white bird swung his head back and forth. It wasn’t quite a “no,” more like the love child of a yoga stretch and some heavy metal headbanging, but she’d take it.

  Just as she was about to dive back into the story, her phone rang. A familiar picture appeared on the screen, and she swiped her thumb across it to answer the call.

  “Hi, Dad.” She smiled.

  “Is that… Are you carrying a parrot on your shoulder?” Her father peered at the camera, getting so close that the image blurred a bit. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, as usual. The man could barely see a thing without them, but he was vain as hell about it.

  “It’s a cockatoo,” Cora replied, and Joe made a trilling noise in response. “He says hi.”

  Her father frowned. He wasn’t big on the outdoors, and the whole “no pets” rule was one of the only things he and her mother had actually agreed on.

  “Well, anyway,” he said. “I wanted to give you a call about the book.”

  She stifled a smile. That was her dad, always and forever about business. He’d probably forgotten she was even in Australia. Well, if the cockatoo hadn’t given it away.

  “I was worried when I didn’t hear back after I sent that email. I know I can be a tough critic—probably the toughest—but I want you to know it’s for your own good, Cora. I would never send you into the industry unprepared.”

  She bobbed her head. “I know, Dad. I appreciate that you push me.”

  Even if the hollow ache of his disappointment felt like it might split her in two sometimes. It had taken her months to work up the courage to tell him about her manuscript. Months beyond that to show him anything. No matter how Cora tried to brace herself, at the heart of it, she was a sensitive soul, and every rejection cut like a knife.

  That’s part of being a creative person—you need to draw on that pain for your stories.

  “This industry is…” Her father sighed. “It’s brutal. I’ve seen authors come and go. I’ve seen the rejection tear them apart. Only the most talented and resilient have even a hope of surviving.”

  “I’m resilient,” she protested. Lord knows that resilience was the very thing she’d required to get through her childhood. “And Professor Markham said I had real talent. It’s raw, maybe, but I’m a hard worker. I don’t mind putting my pedal to the metal if it means a shot at my dreams. I know…I know this story could be something great.”

  She was meant to be a writer. Books were her life, and the time she spent dreaming up worlds and characters to inhabit them was the only time she felt truly like herself. The rest of the time, she was drifting.

  “I can do this.”

  “Cora…” Her father’s forehead folded into a deep crease. “You know I want only to protect you, right? I saw what fame and a life in the spotlight did to your mother. The rejection and constant criticism twisted her. It turned her into someone I didn’t even know anymore.”

  The pain in his voice lashed like a whip across her heart. Her mother had been wrong that day—he had loved her. They’d loved each other.

  Maybe, on some level, he still loved the woman her mother used to be.

  “I’m not her,” Cora said stubbornly. “Trust me, I spent every waking hour of every day making sure I am the very opposite of who she is as a person.”

  Her father nodded. For a moment, he said nothing, simply looked at her through the phone screen a whole hemisphere away. Cora wanted to plead with him. Beg him.

  Trust me. Believe in me.

  But she couldn’t open herself up like that. Rejection for her work she could handle, even though it hurt. Rejection of herself, however, was a whole other—deeper—wound.

  “I have to get back to work,” he said gruffly. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay after I gave my feedback.”

  “I can handle it,” she said, pasting on a cheery smile. In return, she saw some of the worry evaporate from her father’s face.

  “That’s my girl.”

  The call clicked off, and Cora stared at the tattoo peeking out from where her silky robe had parted over her thigh.

  Metamorphosis.

  She wanted to be better. To be good enough to do all the things she craved in life—publish a book, fall in love, have a happy marriage strong enough to erase the scars created by her parents’ tumultuous one. Eventually she would find the right combination to unlock those things, right?

  If only she worked hard enough. If only she kept trying to do her best. Eventually good things would come.

  Chapter Ten

  That night, when Trent came home from work, Cora was still engrossed in the romance novel. She’d taken a break midday to go for a walk around Liv’s property, stopping to pick some pretty flowers along the way. The long walk had also taken her past a little corner store, which they called a “milk bar,” that had basic things like milk—hence the name—eggs, cereal, bread, etc.

  She’d bought enough to make her favorite egg salad and lettuce sandwiches for lunch (secret ingredient: cayenne) and picked up some supplies for dinner. The rest of the afternoon had been spent cutting out the photocopied pictures for the scrapbook, then reading. Despite her belief that poor Kylie was headed for marital disaster, she couldn’t stop turning the pages. At this rate, the book wouldn’t last her much longer.

  The fall of heavy-booted footsteps made Cora sit up. A second later, the door rattled and there was a gruff noise, followed by the jangle of keys. One in the regular lock, then the deadlock.

  “Oh wait!” Cora jumped up and ran to the door as Trent tried to push it open, where it yanked against the chain she’d slid across after returning home that afternoon. “You won’t get too far with that.”

  Trent shook his head, laughing as he stepped into the house, his dusty boots abandoned outside. “City girl, you don’t need three locks on the door, you know.”

  “Well, it’s better to be safe,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “And why have the locks in the first place if you’re not going to use them?”

  “I think the guy who used to live here was paranoid. The only thing you need to worry about round here are the kind of things that aren’t stopped by locks.”

  Spiders. She shuddered. Thankfully no creepy crawlies had come into the house yet, but Co
ra remained vigilant. She’d raided Liv’s pantry of all cans of bug spray and kept them dotted around the house.

  She really was a city girl.

  “I’m only teasing,” he said softly. “Picking on city folk is a local sport.”

  “Well, I’m sure you would struggle with things if you were staying at my place,” she said. If Trent wanted to tease her, then she would give it right back.

  “Oh yeah, like what?”

  “Well, you have your spiders and snakes and things, and we New Yorkers have rats. Big rats.” She nodded. “And raccoons.”

  Trent looked at her skeptically. “Raccoons are adorable.”

  “No, they are aggressive trash pandas who will rain hellfire down on you with their tiny, angry hands if you get in the way of their meal. They’re very dangerous.”

  Trent snorted. “Whatever you say, city girl.”

  He walked past her, aiming a panty-melting smirk in her direction.

  There was something so insatiably sexy about a man who worked with his hands for a living. It definitely wasn’t something she’d ever thought would be attractive—because she’d grown up lusting after suited Wall Street types, lawyers and bankers and hedge fund managers with their Omega watches and smooth, manicured hands.

  But seeing Trent like this—his shorts showing off that his legs were grimy and muscular and his skin was tanned and slightly pink from the sun, blond hair bleached almost white in spots—was doing some sexy trickery to her insides. Who would have thought she’d find dirty so incredibly sexy?

  “How’s the book?” His gaze drifted to her novel sitting on the coffee table, which was already starting to look well-loved from her intense reading session that afternoon.

  “It’s good. Very engrossing.” There’d already been a pretty steamy kiss, and Cora found herself blushing the whole way through, mainly because, as the scene played out, she’d imagined it was her kissing Trent and doing all those wonderful things—sliding her hands up his chest, pressing her hips against his, feeling the hard length of him through his pants.

  “Certainly looks like you’ve been enjoying it,” he said. His eyes were dancing, a smile barely contained on his lips, and Cora knew her face must be beet red. It was obvious from the shirtless man on the cover exactly what one would find inside. “Anything you want to share with the class?”

  “No,” she squeaked. “Just…great character development.”

  Trent paused and sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  “Dinner. I made my totally not world famous but still very delicious pasta sauce.” She grinned.

  “You didn’t have to cook.”

  “I wanted to.” She bit down on her bottom lip. “You’ve made me feel so welcome and I wanted to say thank you.”

  Trent’s blue gaze locked on hers, and with each second Cora’s heart beat a little faster. But then he glanced at the kitchen. “I certainly won’t say no to a home-cooked meal, and it looks like you’ve been working hard all afternoon.”

  There were pots in the sink and a fine coating of flour on the benchtop from when she rolled the pasta dough out. Not to mention a little spray of red sauce up the backsplash behind the stove. “I’m not the cleanest of cooks,” she admitted.

  “No, you’re not.” He reached up and swiped a thumb over her cheek. “You’ve got flour everywhere.”

  How could he touch her like that—so bare and so fleeting, her mind could be tricked into thinking she’d only imagined it—and yet make her whole body feel gooey and warm like a brownie straight out of the oven? No wonder they called him the town charmer. His charms were certainly working on her.

  All the more reason to watch your step, Cora. He makes everyone feel like this…not just you. You’re not special.

  Cora tried to cover her face, but Trent laughed. “You look adorable. Like a kitchen fairy, sprinkling your flour dust all over the place.”

  She laughed. “I should probably freshen up before we eat.”

  “Me too.”

  They were standing close, tension crackling between them like tiny fireworks. Fizzing and popping and snapping. Every time they were together, the chemistry became more combustible, like a bubble swelling. Cora had gone to sleep last night playing the moment at the beach over and over—the way Trent had guided her body, the heat of him standing behind her. Then the scene of him stepping into the shower, water streaming down his work-honed body.

  No wonder she’d slept in this morning. He kept her up all night…well, the fantasy of him, anyway.

  “Don’t forget this spot.” His finger brushed her cheek again, and then he turned and headed toward his bedroom, throwing her one searing look over his shoulder.

  Cora lingered a moment, feet rooted to the ground by the attraction surging through her. All she wanted was to skip dinner completely and follow Trent into his bedroom.

  What is wrong with you?

  She’d never been the kind of person who struggled to control her urges. Cora was, if nothing else, good at following the rules. Very good. Maybe that’s why she was feeling so conflicted—her rule system had been shattered. Her ideals that if she tried hard enough, smiled hard enough, did what she was told, then she’d end up with everything she wanted in life.

  Yet she still had nothing.

  Well, that wasn’t true. Compared to many, she was extremely fortunate—she knew that. She’d never worried about her next meal or where she might sleep or how she’d pay her rent. But the stuff that was further up Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs—belonging, love, esteem—was sorely lacking.

  Cora went to splash some water on her face. Oh, and she had to get the flour out of her hairline and her ears. It looked like she’d rolled in the damn stuff. No wonder Trent had given her that amused little smirk the second he’d laid eyes on her.

  She stared at herself in the mirror. By New York standards, Cora wasn’t exactly a knockout. But she wasn’t unattractive, either. Her best assets were big blue eyes inherited from her father’s side of the family and high cheekbones from her mother’s side. She had pretty decent boobs, if she did say so herself. But her hair…well, there was not much that could be done with it in summer, and it was too damn hot in this house to plug in her flat iron. So, it was scraped back into a poofy blond-brown ponytail for now. Her eyebrows also had a tendency to go from normal to overgrown shrub overnight. And her nose was a little on the big side.

  She was…normal. Despite her mother trying to push her to be more, despite the expectations placed on women to look as good as the touched-up photos on Instagram, Cora was totally and utterly normal. Not amazing, not terrible. And after a lifetime of sucking it in and fluffing it out and turning it up, she was happy to be here with a bottle of wine and a cute guy and some yummy food and to just be herself.

  In a world selling perfection, it felt almost rebellious.

  You’re going to enjoy every single second of this, no matter what comes of it.

  She wasn’t going to let herself get tangled up by Trent, she wasn’t going to place any expectation on whether it should or shouldn’t lead anywhere, because that was going to make her stress about how many times she’d been rejected before.

  They had plans to eat and drink and enjoy the evening. That was it.

  Easy, simple, normal stuff.

  “Be cool,” she said to her reflection. “You’re making something out of nothing.”

  She stripped off the clothes that she’d been in all day and pulled on a breezy green dress. The fabric was rumpled, because who wanted to iron on their vacation? It was cool against her skin, and with her hair up and away from her neck, the heat felt a little more manageable. At the last minute, she reached for a slender gold necklace.

  “The pasta will only take a few minutes,” she said as she walked barefoot through the house, the cool tile a pleasurable contact to her warm skin.

 
; Trent appeared a few minutes later as she was sprinkling salt into the bubbling water on the stove.

  “Wow, you went all out.” Trent watched as she grabbed the freshly made pasta.

  “I really enjoy cooking, and it’s not something I get to indulge in very often,” she said. “Hardly seems worth the effort for only one person.”

  The words slipped out before she had a chance to assess whether they gave too much away. But Trent bobbed his head, a knowing look on his face, and she felt a sense of camaraderie. Maybe he’d been hurt, too.

  “Most of the time I eat at the pub or have dinner with whichever one of my siblings is home.” Trent grabbed plates and silverware and set the table.

  “What are you planning to do when Liv comes back?” she asked, stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon.

  Trent shrugged. “I’m going to build a house, but I haven’t found the right design yet. It’s a big decision.”

  “Absolutely.” Cora watched the water bubble away in the pot, her eyes flicking to the timer on the stovetop every few seconds. “But you still have to live somewhere, right? Do you think you’ll stay here until you find a place?”

  “You sound like Nick.” Trent nudged her with his elbow and, while the gesture was playful, Cora got the impression she’d hit a nerve.

  “It’s a reasonable question, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. But I’m not always in search of answers,” he replied with a cavalier lift of one shoulder. “People get too hung up on wanting to know how everything will turn out. If we already knew everything, what would be the point to living? I thought you’d agree with that, what with your caterpillar theory.”

  “I think we should embrace the process of changing, but there’s a big difference between being okay with life’s uncertainties and not having a place to live.” She cocked her head. “Being open to change doesn’t necessarily mean not making plans.”

  Trent winked. “Don’t worry about me, I got options.”

  “I’m sure you do.” A man like Trent would have open arms wherever he went—people loved him. That much was already obvious. The people on his cricket team, the woman in the café who spouted his praise when Cora mentioned the Walters name. He was beloved.