Page 99 of Rafferty's Rules
‘And if you do,’ I’d said leaning into his space, menace more than implied. ‘Then you and I are both fucked.’ I was certain he knew what I meant when I leaned forward and grated out, ‘And Byron, too.’
Chapter 30
ALYSSA
They don’t call the Hunter Valleywine countryfor nothing. Vineyard after vineyard, cellar door after cellar door, winery after winery. Delicious glass after delicious glass. This place is a gourmet paradise! But if I lived here full time, I think I might become a drunk rather than a connoisseur. I guess I just don’t have the palate. Maybe I’m more of a gourmand than a gourmet?
Over the next few days, Rafferty makes good on his promise and we doallthe touristy things. I might not have been interested—like theheck nokind of not interested—when he suggested a balloon ride over the valley at sunrise.Too high. To scary. No thanks!I also didn’t have the right kind of footwear for a hike along some of the heavenly bush and rainforest trails, but that’s not to say this hasn’t been a great few days. I’ve eaten delicious cheese in dairies, drank cold and bitter beers from micro-breweries, and eaten more decadent breakfasts than a girl’s waistline should seriously contemplate.
Then, yesterday we’d borrowed Byron’s truck and headed to Yengo National Park and drove the loop trail along the mountain range. Of course, Rafferty didn’t explain what the loop trail was until we were already driving up the, what appeared to be, a perilous trail. So he had fun, while I spent most of the drive with my fingers and toes crossed, silently praying to Jesus that we didn’t tumble off the sheer cliff edge. We’d stopped at the lookout and taken pictures of the mountain range, even posing together for a few, arms around the other, wide smiles painted across our faces, my phone in Rafferty’s hand. When we’d looked at images together, I’d remarked how we looked like lovers on vacation, and how there wasn’t even anyone around to watch. I guess that was as subtle a hint as I dare.
Subtle like a sledgehammer, gammie might’ve said.
But Rafferty had just smiled and shrugged before turning back to the view, murmuring something about us beinggood mates. My foolish little heart wasn’t prepared for the response. I have only days left in this wonderful country, days to hang out with my gorgeousfriend. I guess I just need to reconcile myself with the facts: this is nothing more than a fake relationship with sex to him, no matter how real my feelings seem to be.
But I can’t tell him how I feel. It wouldn’t be fair because he brought me here for a reason. A reason that’s yet to become apparent, sure. But I want to be there for him whatever it is. And not just because of these feelings I have, but because he’s been there for me. Lord knows what would’ve happened my first night in Sydney had he not rescued me from that place. And then after, he made sure I was safe, that I had a place to stay. And most men would’ve had me naked and under them quicker than a girl can saySydney Harbour Bridge. But not Rafferty. Despite the fact that he found me sexy, that he wanted me, I had to chase him—persuade him. Maybe even a little aggressively. I can’t tell him I have feelings for him. Not when I promised this would just be a little fun.
Telling him would be awkward.
And it wouldn’t be fair.
Unless he shows the slightest sign he’s interested beyond mateship—beyond being friends.
And having sex.
Feelings aside, I have other issues because my suitcase still hasn’t turned up. Officially, it has been “misdirected”. Unofficially, it seems to have gone on to travel widely by itself. Truthfully, I’m not convinced I’ll ever see it again.
I’m told I should keep my receipts for the necessities I’ve had to purchase in the meantime, not that I’ve bought anything since my excursion into the mall in Sydney. I just keep washing my limited wardrobe and re-wearing them. I only hope the darn thing turns up tomorrow or else I’ll be wearing the little sundress I’m currently (over) wearing to Byron and Amber’s wedding. Maybe they can explain my state of underdress by telling people I’m a country cousin?
At least everyone in the big house understands. Well, as much as we’ve allowed them to.
‘There you go, darl. Washed and dried and ready to use.’ Sally pats the top of my small pile of laundry that’s sitting neatly folded on the countertop. I hadn’t even made it as far as the laundry room myself.
‘Sally, please. I can do my own laundry.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she answers evenly, grabbing a cup from a cabinet. ‘Coffee?’ I shake my head. Though the aroma in the kitchen is heavenly, I’m already feeling pretty antsy today. I’d better not add caffeine to the equation. ‘But I only shoved the wet things in the dryer. Then folded them up.’
‘Give it up, Mum. Lissa knows that’s not true.’ Seated at the island, Roman seems to be in the process of devouring half a loaf of toast with peanut butter. A late breakfast, or maybe a man-sized brunch snack? ‘You iron pleats in everything. It’s your signature move.’
‘I don’t mind ironing,’ she says, placing my meagre laundry pile into my hands. The garments are soft and smell of laundry detergent and care. ‘It’s my thinking time.’
‘My thinking time is spent on the dunny,’ Roman says.
I begin to laugh as Sally playfully smacks him across the head.
‘That doesn’t make you unique, son. What is it with men and their obsession with hiding away in the toilet?’
As she looks to me, I shake my head, my shoulders rising along with a giggle. ‘One of the mysteries of our age?’ I suggest.
‘It’s where all great thinking is done,’ he protests. ‘I bet most of the worlds technological advances have come from time spent on the throne. That is,’ he amends, ‘the kinds of advances that can be attributed to actual men. You know, notwomen.’
‘Good save,’ she murmurs, stealing a slice of his toast. ‘Glad to see you realise a woman’s place isn’t barefoot in the kitchen, unless that’s where she feels she belongs.’ Something tells me Sally wouldn’t be kept anywhere against her will. She’s tenacious, like a terrier. And twice as loyal, I suspect.
And... I hate lying to her. To them all.
‘Nana?’ Edie’s voice precedes her appearance in the kitchen. Her blonde hair is in braids and she has a smudge of something that looks like chocolate on her cheek. ‘Where’s Amber gone?’
‘She’s gone with your dad to pick her parents up from the airport.’ Roman hunches over his toast, hiding a burgeoning grin. Right before he shoves another wedge in his mouth he mouths the wordsthe swingersto me.
