Page 32 of Third Time’s a Charm

Jasper is polite enough not to remark on my lame comment, nor the fact I’m now pressed up against him like he’s the trellis and I’m the vine. Not quite polite enough to completely suppress his snort of amusement, though.

He gently disengages as we climb the three steps to the door. Because of course there are three.

In a very Jasper-esque move, he’s left the porch light on, so no doubt he can see the blush still tingling in my cheeks—and elsewhere—as we get to the door.

There’s a long silence weighted by the night chorus of frogs and owls as we turn to face one another.

Am I swaying towards him? Nope. He’s swaying towards me. Definitely. Except that his hands come up and take my forearms, holding me at a polite distance.

I wish I could think of something to say. Something cool or sophisticated or sassy. But I can’t. Because the words please kiss me are blocking every other word from tripping off my tongue. And there’s no way I should say that. Not if I want to break the habit of a lifetime and make the sensible, mature choice.

“Well, goodnight, Louise.” Polite words. There’s nothing polite about the way he’s looking at me, though. I’m not tipsy enough to imagine that.

He’s said goodnight, yet neither of us moves. In my slightly overwrought brain, we’re communicating.

Kiss me. Properly, this time.

I want to, but I can’t.

I understand. But I don’t like it.

Neither do I.

A silence full of unspoken words drags on until, finally, he turns on his heel and disappears through the front door.

“We’ll hit the road at eight. Sleep well,” he throws over his shoulder from the safe distance of his bedroom door on the other side of the living area.

“Goodnight, Jasper,” I whisper to the already-closed door. “Sweet dreams.”

I know what I’ll be dreaming of. And I know it’s wrong, but I hope he’s dreaming of the same thing.

Chapter Nineteen

Jasper

Ifully expect Louise to be under the weather the morning after the barn dance, but she’s sitting on the steps of the cabin, steaming coffee in hand, bag packed and waiting when I emerge from my bedroom.

“How are you feeling today?” Maybe there’s an edge to my voice, because she laughs.

“Wonderful, thank you. How are you?”

I wasn’t the one who stumbled along the path, clearly the worse for wine when we walked home last night. The one with pink cheeks and glowing eyes. The one who looked at me like I was one of the sweets she’s been hoovering up on the drive.

But it looks like I was the one who didn’t get enough sleep. Not because I had too much wine, although I did drink more than I normally would at what was essentially a work function.

I’m the one who spent the night thinking of all the ways I shouldn’t be imagining Louise Baker, whilst imagining them just the same.

This morning I’m experiencing a strange mix of relief and regret.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about Louise, it’s that she’s honest to a fault.

She tips her head back, eyes closed, turning her face to the sun.

“Alright, I may have been a bit dusty earlier. But I slugged a Berocca as soon as I woke up. Now I’m raring to go.”

Today is one of the longest single-leg driving days of our trip, so I’m glad of the fantastic breakfast the chef serves up to line our stomachs. Especially when we’ve only been on the road for about twenty minutes before Louise breaks out the road trip lollies. Honestly, her suitcase must be full of them.

Louise seems disinclined to mention the incident on the porch last night, so I take her lead. We chat for a while, about the work—if you could call it that—we’ve done over the past couple of days, both avoiding the pigeage. After a while Louise goes quiet. I flick my eyes off the road for a second, and sure enough, she’s sound asleep, head resting against the window.