AS LEAVING DOS WENT, this one was a disaster. Not because no one had come, but because everyone was here, from his direct boss and shift colleagues to the admin staff, the call receivers and the boss’s boss’s boss.
Either they were all sad to see him go or it was just a good excuse for a booze-up. Either way, the bar was heaving, the chatter and laughter closing in on him. It always happened: that sense of disconnection, of being an observer rather than part of it all. As if he were floating out of his body and looking down on himself, sitting at a table on the first floor of a crowded bar, overlooking Auckland’s Viaduct basin out onto a marina full of very expensive yachts, hemmed in by people he’d likely never see again.
He’d clearly had too much of the delicious craft beer they sold here. Time to make a discreet exit.
He went to stand but Lewis, his boss—senior Intensive Care paramedic—and good friend, clapped him on the back. He was swaying and his eyes looked unfocused—another victim of the craft-beer allure. ‘Brin, my mate. Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay?’
Brin laughed. ‘Ah. If you could have a word with Immigration and get them to magic me a new visa, that would be amazing. I love New Zealand.’
‘Not enough to commit to a permanent job, though? They won’t issue a visa on a temporary contract.’
But that was all Brin was prepared to sign up for. He shrugged; he had his reasons to keep on moving. ‘I might come back—you never know. I just need to see a bit more of this side of the world first.’
‘Australia’s lucky to have you. But there’s always a job for you here.’
‘Cheers, mate. Thanks.’ Brin squeezed out of his seat and indicated he was heading to the loo. But, once out of eyeshot of the crowd, he swerved left, took the escalator to the ground floor and walked out into the pedestrianised area filled with bars, restaurants and hotels, where he took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
He wasn’t big on goodbyes. Had anyone noticed? He glanced up to the first floor, where laughter floated a decibel above a regular bass beat. No. He stuck his hands in his pockets, still looking up at the bar, double-checking for anyone noticing his departure, and strode towards his fancy hotel—a treat for his last night in the country.
The first thwack hit his gut.
The second took out his right hip.
What the hell?
Fists clenched, he whirled round one-eighty degrees, but there was no apparent assailant. He hauled in a breath.
God, that hurt his belly.
Then he heard a groan. A woman was sprawled on the ground in front of him. She must have tripped and grabbed him as she slid to the ground. She was wearing a sparkly silver dress and some seriously sexy stilettos.
And noticing them was entirely inappropriate. He squatted down to make eye contact. ‘Hey. Are you okay? God, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking—’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t looking.’
They both spoke at the same time.
‘Well, that’ll teach us.’ He quickly assessed her. She didn’t seem injured, just a little stunned. Clearly, she hadn’t had the wind knocked out of her, as he had. ‘Yell out if anything hurts.’
‘Only my ego.’ She looked up at him, all big brown eyes and amazing mouth, silky with red lipstick. Then she shifted position to sit on the ground and check her legs. ‘But if I was wearing tights they’d be ruined.’
Which drew his eyes to her legs: good legs, a great body and pretty face. She had the kind of tan that came from being outdoors, not a bottle, a cloud of blonde curls and soft, large brown eyes.
Then she glanced behind her, the way he’d done a moment ago, as if checking she wasn’t being followed.
His sore gut squeezed. ‘Hey, are you in some kind of danger?’
‘Of being caught leaving a thirtieth birthday party at the crucial tequila-shots-and-dancing-on-the-tables-stage...?’ She laughed and something about the sweet sound was a balm to his heart. She put up her hands. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Aw, that’s the best bit. Dancing Queen on repeat.’
‘Over there.’ She pointed to a nearby bar displaying a Private Party sign outside. ‘Feel free. I doubt anyone would mind.’
‘No thanks. To be honest, I’m escaping too.’
‘Oh? Tell me everything.’ She undid her sandal straps and slid them off her feet, then stuck out her hand, which he took as a sign to help her stand. Which he did. As he levered her up, he noted a few things: she was light as air; her scent, with a hint of jasmine and sea salt, wrapped around him and made him think of warm summer nights; she was entirely happy to walk barefoot—a real New Zealand thing, he’d learnt; and she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
She walked to the marina railing, leant against it, took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, as if she was trying to calm herself. All thoughts of telling her why he was running away from...well, life...disappeared. ‘You sure you’re not hurt?’
‘Sure.’ She nodded. ‘Where’s your accent from?’
‘Ireland.’
‘Ah. I couldn’t decide if you were Scottish or Irish.’
‘Like me and the Kiwi and Australian accents. I always get them mixed up. And probably cause offence in the process.’
‘Too right.’ She gaped at him. ‘We sound nothing alike.’
‘You sound exactly alike. But I’m heading to Australia tomorrow, so maybe I’ll notice the difference when I’m there.’
Her head tilted to one side as she looked at him. ‘You’re leaving? Tomorrow?’
‘Aye. Australia for a four-month contract. Then...who knows? Maybe Asia or South America.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you running from, Mr Irish?’
Ah, yes. That. ‘Brin. Sure, you don’t want to know.’
Her smile was all kinds of seductive. ‘Oh, I really do, Brin.’
‘Seriously, the less you know about me, the better. What’s your name?’
She turned to look out at the boats. ‘Mi...chelle.’
He wasn’t sure if she’d hesitated or hiccupped. And he also wasn’t sure if she was telling him the truth. Or maybe that was just the way they pronounced ‘Michelle’ around here. ‘Well, Mi...chelle, nice to meet you.’
She took his hand and looked up at him. ‘You too, Brin the Irish man.’ The way she said his name made his chest heat and his skin fizz.
‘Will you be okay getting home or can I help you...?’
Her face brightened. ‘I’m not going home.’
‘No? A real runaway, then.’
‘I’m staying there.’ She pointed towards his hotel. ‘My friend treated me to a night of luxury. I don’t get the chance to come to the city very often.’
Was it a coincidence that they were staying at the same hotel? He wasn’t sure he believed in coincidences, or fate. Was she staying there alone? Was she single? ‘Because of your family?’
That seemed a good way of finding out the answers to his questions.
She whirled round, eyes suddenly guarded. ‘What?’
Oh, he’d touched a nerve there. He backtracked a little, not wanting to upset her more. Up to now, and discounting the bruised gut, this had been a fine encounter and he was having fun. ‘You don’t visit the city often...because you have a brood of kids and a husband you adore, somewhere rural?’
To be fair, she looked far too young to have a brood. Maybe one or two.
A family? As if he knew what that was. If he’d touched anyone’s nerve, it was his own.
‘Somewhere rural? Kind of.’ She nodded. ‘No kids. No husband. No...’ She suddenly looked bone-tired and very, very sad. She pressed her lips together and stared back out to sea. He wondered why she was so sad and if there was anything he could do to help her.
Then he wondered why he was even thinking that. He’d just met her. She was a stranger—a beautiful stranger. And he was leaving in the morning. So, he had nothing to lose, right?
‘Hey. Sorry if I said something wrong.’ He reached out and touched her shoulder. Was that too much? Could he touch her? Was that okay? Probably not; he took his hand away.
She looked at him, eyes swimming with unshed tears, and his heart kind of folded in on itself. She looked lost as she said, ‘No. No, nothing at all. I’m just...ah...you know. Probably drank too much wine. I shouldn’t. It makes me depressed.’
‘I get that. Best not to have too much. That’s why I was running away too. People kept buying me farewell drinks, and it’s rude not to take them, but then I get drunk and I think about things I shouldn’t...’ Images of what he’d left back in Ireland swam in his head. He forced them away.
‘Two runaways.’ She touched his arm and brought him back to the present, which was a hell of a lot prettier than his past. So now he’d touched her, and she’d touched him, and he felt a whole lot better about everything. Her eyes were still misted but there was something else there—a glimmer of mischief—and he liked that. A lot.
She smiled. ‘We could probably get into a whole lot of trouble.’
‘If we’re lucky,’ he quipped.
Her eyes widened in response. ‘I don’t believe in luck. But I do believe in getting into the right kind of trouble.’
Oh, God.
She was seriously something. In another life he might have made a move on her. But he was getting on that plane tomorrow and she looked like the kind of woman who’d want more. Who deserved more. More than he could give for sure.
But, just in case, so as to not misread her context, he asked, ‘What kind of trouble, exactly?’
She leaned closer. ‘I’m not sure yet. But I guess if we’re both here in the city for one night and we literally bump into each other and we’re both on the run...’ She smiled, slow and tantalising. ‘There must be a reason. Something’s brought us together. I mean, I never come to town, and this is your last night here. So why did we meet tonight? Why you? Why me? Why here? Why now?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ He shrugged. ‘Coincidence? Fate?’
‘Fate?’ She giggled. ‘You believe in all that?’
‘That a higher force has brought us to this spot, this moment?’ Nah, he didn’t believe that. And yet, she did have a point.
She shrugged and giggled. ‘It would be a shame not to honour the Fates if they do exist, though. Or we might incur their wrath.’
He chuckled. As come-on lines went, this was right up there. ‘Yeah, best not annoy the Fates. What do you think they have in mind for us, Mi...chelle?’
‘I don’t know.’ She drummed her fingers against her bottom lip. ‘I’m just trying to decide...’
‘Anything I can do to help crystallise your ideas, let me know.’
She edged closer, close enough for him to see the smattering of freckles over her nose, the layer of mascara on long, thick eyelashes and the quick dart of her tongue across her lips before she said, ‘Talk with me, Brin.’
Talk? That was out of left field.
‘Sure. About what?’
‘I don’t care. I just like listening to your accent. It takes me away from...’ She shivered, clearing her throat, as if trying to clear her head too. ‘It’s lyrical and soft and so different to what I’m used to. I like the way you sound.’
Oh, hell.
His body prickled as his libido sprang fully into life. ‘To be honest, I like the way you... everything.’
He had to admit feeling intrigued as to what exactly the sound of his voice was taking her away from.
‘That makes two of us.’ She put her hand on his chest and stepped closer. ‘So, tell me something—anything. Just keep talking...and we’ll see where we end up.’
Copyright © 2023 by Louisa George