Page 60 of Third Time’s a Charm

Oblivious, David bumbles on. “I’ve been trying to convince her to move down here to the Barossa ever since. I’ll succeed one day.”

Unlikely, dickhead, I think while trying to maintain a mask of indifference.

“Well, I won’t be letting you poach her any time soon,” I warn. Or ever. Which I can’t say out loud since it’s not appropriate for the kind of relationship we claim to have right now. Although I do take solace in the idea it won’t be too long before he experiences disappointment.

“I think I’ll have the lamb,” Louise says, interrupting our pissing match. In truth, I guess, it’s my pissing match, since David seems somewhat clueless.

“Good choice. I think I’ll join you,” I add with way more enthusiasm than a backstrap of lamb with a pomegranate balsamic reduction, pureed parsnips and broccolini might deserve.

It’s not until hours later, when David is long gone, that Louise brings it up.

She’s draped across the bed. Hair tumbled, lips swollen, cheeks pink. Looking exactly like what she is. The very essence of well-fucked, sensuous beauty.

“I might be way off the mark here, but did I sense a little territorial dispute at dinner?”

“I just thought it was inappropriate for him to be”—I search for the right word—“wooing you … at a business dinner.”

Louise laughs. “Wooing? What am I, a Regency debutante?”

She’s right. I sound ridiculous, but I can’t help it.

“You wouldn’t seriously consider moving down here to be with David the Douche, would you?” There’s a grumpiness in my tone I know I have no right to feel.

Louise laughs again, quite rightly.

“So, I did pick up on something. At one point I thought you were going to pee on my leg to mark your territory.” Her words hit too close to the thoughts I’d had at dinner.

“That’s disgusting. But I’m not above coming on your leg for the same reason. I could do it now, if you like.”

Louise shrieks as I roll on top of her, pressing what’s becoming an ever-present erection to her hip, and make good on my threat.

Since we’re staying two nights in the Barossa to give us time to visit the large number of wineries in the region, David the Douche attempts to get Louise out—alone, mind you—for dinner the following night.

Fortunately, we’re eating with the winemaker of a rival winery. Who is happily married and about twenty years too old for Louise. As a result, dinner is much more enjoyable, and I’m yet again impressed by Louise’s knowledge of the business and the way she’s built close and trusting relationships with the wineries.

“Did you make time to take Jasper to the Herbig Family Tree?” Russell asks as we’re finishing coffee after another incredible meal.

Louise laughs. “No, I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps we’ll call in on our way to Mildura.”

“What is it with you people and trees?” I ask. First there was the mallee stump in Bullibingal, and now a tree in the Barossa.

Louise and Russell exchange a conspiratorial look.

“Oh, you can’t say you’ve been to the Barossa until you’ve seen the Herbig Tree.”

“Why? What is it?”

“A whole family lived there,” Louise says. “During the 1850s.”

“In a treehouse?” It must be a very big tree.

“No. In the actual tree,” Russell answers. His wife, Sally, swats his arm.

“Don’t tease the man.”

“Now I have to see it,” I tell Louise.

The following morning, on our way out of the Barossa, Louise grants my wish. Well, the wish about the tree anyway. Other wishes were granted last night. And I’m sure more will be granted tonight.