Page 38 of The Orchard at Rosevale
Cruz knew he’d been a fool, expecting his dad to treat him with respect, as an equal, after all the years of being seen as nothing more than an heir to the farm. From that night on, his determination to leave took on a harder edge, and he confided in his mother that he’d be gone in another six months. Ferne had helped him and he’d been eternally grateful.
So why the hell had he suggested lighting the fire pit now and inviting El to join him?
After kissing her palm in the car, and their almost-kiss when parked out the front of the pub, he was toying with fire, literally, and had a feeling he’d get burned. No good could come of indulging his attraction to the beautiful marketer. What if they slept together tonight and it interfered with her work promoting the farm?
This could get messy.
The hint of a headache had begun to pulse behind his eyes, but he struck a long match, held it to the kindling, and blew on it gently. It caught quickly, unlike the last time he’d done this, when Mac had laughed at his incompetency and called him a wuss who belonged in the kitchen alongside Ferne. Misogynistic prick.
Cruz didn’t miss him. Considering they only saw each other once a year since Cruz left home ten years ago, they’d been virtual strangers, obliged to fake it in front of Ferne at their Christmas catch-ups.
Cruz begrudged having to head home to the farm annually, but he made the effort for his mother. Ferne would go to a lot of trouble to prepare a traditional feast of roast turkey, veggies and gravy, while Cruz took care of dessert.
The first year after he returned, he stuck to his mum’s favourite, mango pav, but as he worked in various restaurants across Melbourne and gained experience, his Christmas Day offerings became more exotic. Lychee-infused custard tarts, apple crisp Macchiato crumble, orange cheesecake with a cranberry glaze and chocolate champagne cake.
Ferne adored anything he cooked, and it gave him great pleasure to see her taking seconds and sometimes thirds. Mac would merely grunt his appreciation and leave the table as soon as possible, though Cruz caught him raiding the fridge late on Christmas night for another helping of dessert on several occasions.
Cruz never called him out on it. What would be the point, when his mother had to live with him for the remaining three hundred and sixty-four days of the year?
Lost in memories of his dysfunctional family, Cruz didn’t know El had arrived until she laid a hand on his arm.
‘You’re a million miles away,’ she said softly.
‘The fire hypnotised me.’
Despite the scepticism in her eyes, she didn’t push him and he respected her for it.
‘I love sitting around a fire. It’s been too long since I’ve done it.’
‘When was the last time?’ He sat on the bench and patted the seat beside him, wondering if she’d choose to sit so close.
She sat next to him and he exhaled in relief.
‘I already told you my folks moved around a lot, but for a while, when I was about ten, they’d visit a campsite near Mount Hotham in spring. The nights would be freezing, so we’d have a mini bonfire, toast marshmallows, just sit around and chat.’ Her eyes glazed. ‘Those were some of the happiest times we ever had as a family.’
She blinked several times and he gave her time to compose herself.
‘We rarely sat around this fire pit,’ he said. ‘As a teen, I preferred to distract myself with video games and music in my room, and when I started working on the farm after I finished school, I was too tired at the end of a long day to want to sit around pretending to like my dad and making small talk.’
‘Sounds like we’ve both had interesting childhoods.’
‘Yeah, though I make sure mine doesn’t define me. What about you?’
‘Same.’ She flexed her biceps and winked. ‘I’m strong, thanks to them.’
‘Here’s to forgetting the shitty childhoods that made us stronger.’ He raised an imaginary glass, then laughed as he realised he’d forgotten to pour the wine. ‘Fancy a glass of merlot so we can toast for real?’
‘I’d love one.’
He poured the wine and handed her a glass. Their fingertips brushed and the tiny zap of awareness that a simple touch elicited made him acknowledge that he’d been fighting a losing battle against the undeniable attraction between them since they met.
He gulped the wine, the burn down his throat a welcome distraction from her proximity and how badly he wanted to kiss her.
‘I’m surprised you asked me to have a drink with you,’ she said, sipping her wine and staring into the dancing flames.
‘Why?’
‘Because I expected you to retreat to your man cave.’
