gold through the
front door’s frosted glass and through it, she could make out a dark
silhouette.
She clicked the lock, opened the door a
crack, and felt her heart bounce.
Owen.
Before the melting sensation in the pit of
her stomach made her sigh out his name, she remembered the resolve she’d made
driving home from the vineyard. Keep your distance.
Liv blocked the gap in the door with her
body. Icy air seeped through the crack and helped calm the hot flare in her
cheeks. “What is it, Owen? It’s late.”
An enormous bunch of flowers thrust through
the door and she had to take a step back or cop a camellia in the nose. Owen’s
shoulders jostled in behind the bouquet. “I want you to come for a ride with
me. You ran off so fast this afternoon I didn’t get the chance to ask. I’ve wanted
to ask you all day.”
The Pantah was at the kerb, gleaming under
a streetlight. It was quiet now, static, but Liv knew the power that engine
concealed.
The Ducati was like Owen—it could be
dangerous in the wrong hands.
And mine are the wrong hands. Silently, she amended: the wrong hands for Owen, not for the bike.
“Come on,” he said, using his most
disarming grin. He glanced around her shoulder to where the lights from the
television flickered against the hallway wall. “What else are you doing
tonight? Knitting?”
“I don’t feel like going on a motorbike
ride,” she lied.
“What are you afraid of?” Owen said,
switching his gaze back to her face, eyes suddenly serious. “I thought we were
getting on great this afternoon and then you ran away.”
“You were busy.” It sounded feeble, even to
her. Busy with Vanessa.
“You’re safe with me, Liv. We won’t crash.”
“I’m not afraid.” Not of crashing.
In that split second she calculated the
odds of telling Owen to leave—get him on the Duke without causing a scene that
would make the neighbours’ eyes pop. The look on his face told her those odds
weren’t good.
“Come inside before you wake the whole damn
street,” she said with an exasperated sigh, opening the door wider. “How the
heck did you find me anyway?”
“Aunt Margaret rang old Mrs Gepp. That
woman knows everyone who ever lived on Church Street, all their kids,
grandkids. I think she knows the name of every cat and dog too.”
Owen bent to remove his boots then
straightened and stepped across the threshold. Liv shut the door and followed
his shoulders down the hall. He was kitted out for the road, dressed all in
black, and he looked every bit as thrilling as the bad-boy biker boyfriend
every girl’s parents’ dreaded. And here she was, caught in her comfort
clothes: a grey tracksuit grown baggy in the bottom. Explorer socks.
“Where can I put these?” He waved the
flowers. Pink and white petals sprinkled the floor.
“It’s fine for me to mess up this house.
Not you,” she grumbled, scooting past him to the cabinet her mother kept for
glassware.
She saw him inspect the bird paintings, the
ornate polished cabinets, the stiff coffin of a couch. His eyes absorbed the
colour schemes of alabaster and ivory, lace-edged cushions, everything layered
white on white.
He put the flowers on the bench, leaned his
hips on the bevelled edge and folded his arms across his chest. “You really
live here?”
“It’s my parent’s house.”
“Yeah. But you live here? I don’t
get that. How old are you?”
“You can talk. You’re squatting at your
aunt’s. What’s the difference?” She fumbled around in the crystal cabinet,
concentrating on not smashing her mother’s neat rows to smithereens.
“I’m staying with Aunt Margaret because
Mark is on the invalid list and she needs a hand. It’s not the same. You could
move out on your own. Cut the apron strings.”
“You think I want to live with my
parents?” Liv fumed. Her hand closed about a heavy rectangular vase and she
came up from her crouch thinking how ready she was to drop it on Owen’s toe.
“You don’t
front door’s frosted glass and through it, she could make out a dark
silhouette.
She clicked the lock, opened the door a
crack, and felt her heart bounce.
Owen.
Before the melting sensation in the pit of
her stomach made her sigh out his name, she remembered the resolve she’d made
driving home from the vineyard. Keep your distance.
Liv blocked the gap in the door with her
body. Icy air seeped through the crack and helped calm the hot flare in her
cheeks. “What is it, Owen? It’s late.”
An enormous bunch of flowers thrust through
the door and she had to take a step back or cop a camellia in the nose. Owen’s
shoulders jostled in behind the bouquet. “I want you to come for a ride with
me. You ran off so fast this afternoon I didn’t get the chance to ask. I’ve wanted
to ask you all day.”
The Pantah was at the kerb, gleaming under
a streetlight. It was quiet now, static, but Liv knew the power that engine
concealed.
The Ducati was like Owen—it could be
dangerous in the wrong hands.
And mine are the wrong hands. Silently, she amended: the wrong hands for Owen, not for the bike.
“Come on,” he said, using his most
disarming grin. He glanced around her shoulder to where the lights from the
television flickered against the hallway wall. “What else are you doing
tonight? Knitting?”
“I don’t feel like going on a motorbike
ride,” she lied.
“What are you afraid of?” Owen said,
switching his gaze back to her face, eyes suddenly serious. “I thought we were
getting on great this afternoon and then you ran away.”
“You were busy.” It sounded feeble, even to
her. Busy with Vanessa.
“You’re safe with me, Liv. We won’t crash.”
“I’m not afraid.” Not of crashing.
In that split second she calculated the
odds of telling Owen to leave—get him on the Duke without causing a scene that
would make the neighbours’ eyes pop. The look on his face told her those odds
weren’t good.
“Come inside before you wake the whole damn
street,” she said with an exasperated sigh, opening the door wider. “How the
heck did you find me anyway?”
“Aunt Margaret rang old Mrs Gepp. That
woman knows everyone who ever lived on Church Street, all their kids,
grandkids. I think she knows the name of every cat and dog too.”
Owen bent to remove his boots then
straightened and stepped across the threshold. Liv shut the door and followed
his shoulders down the hall. He was kitted out for the road, dressed all in
black, and he looked every bit as thrilling as the bad-boy biker boyfriend
every girl’s parents’ dreaded. And here she was, caught in her comfort
clothes: a grey tracksuit grown baggy in the bottom. Explorer socks.
“Where can I put these?” He waved the
flowers. Pink and white petals sprinkled the floor.
“It’s fine for me to mess up this house.
Not you,” she grumbled, scooting past him to the cabinet her mother kept for
glassware.
She saw him inspect the bird paintings, the
ornate polished cabinets, the stiff coffin of a couch. His eyes absorbed the
colour schemes of alabaster and ivory, lace-edged cushions, everything layered
white on white.
He put the flowers on the bench, leaned his
hips on the bevelled edge and folded his arms across his chest. “You really
live here?”
“It’s my parent’s house.”
“Yeah. But you live here? I don’t
get that. How old are you?”
“You can talk. You’re squatting at your
aunt’s. What’s the difference?” She fumbled around in the crystal cabinet,
concentrating on not smashing her mother’s neat rows to smithereens.
“I’m staying with Aunt Margaret because
Mark is on the invalid list and she needs a hand. It’s not the same. You could
move out on your own. Cut the apron strings.”
“You think I want to live with my
parents?” Liv fumed. Her hand closed about a heavy rectangular vase and she
came up from her crouch thinking how ready she was to drop it on Owen’s toe.
“You don’t
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