leaves, the brilliant reds and pinks of their frilly blooms.
He said, “Hang on,” set down his bags, pulled a red-checked tablecloth out of one of them, and flapped it open with a flourish. I laughed, and he said, “Yeh, go on and laugh. I had to look three places to find it,” which made me laugh some more. After which he said, “You can sit down now, if you’ve finished mocking my efforts.”
I didn’t. I set down my bags of food, stepped into him, put my arms around his neck, and said, “I love your efforts.”
“Yeh?” he said. “I thought—flowers. Good food. Wine. But nothing to make you nervous.”
“I love it,” I told him again, then stepped a little closer, pulled his head down to mine, and kissed him. I smelled his scent, felt the warmth and the solidity of him, and let myself enjoy all of it. I let myself press up close, let his hands settle over my lower back and pull me in, let myself run my hands over the back of his strong neck.
“You got a haircut,” I said.
“Yeh,” he said, and kissed me again. “I did. I did it for you.”
We sat on his red-checked tablecloth and spread red-checked napkins in our laps—they still had the price tags on, which just melted my heart—and he opened a tall, thin bottle of wine frosted with condensation and pulled out two glasses.
“Dry River Martinborough Pinot Gris,” he told me, tipping the golden liquid into the glass I held. “Goes with everything we’re having, or so the fella said.”
“Mm,” I said, sticking my nose into the glass, then taking a sip. Deep and luscious, full and spicy. Ripe pear, I’d call that. Apricot, too, maybe, and ginger. Delicious.
So was our dinner. He’d got three things, because, as he told me, “I wasn’t sure what you’d like best.” I took off my sandals and sat cross-legged, looking out over flowers and hills and city and sky, and shared everything with him. Rich pork belly on sticky rice, with bok choy and apple dressing. Brown trout fried to golden perfection and laid over mustard mashed potatoes. Crispy polenta with mushroom ragout, asparagus, and a sesame/soy dressing. The very best Kiwi cuisine, hearty in flavor, fresh from the paddock and the sea and the garden, and with influences from everywhere.
I said, in the midst of this hedonistic excess, “I’m eating so much better since the girls came. Going to get fat, probably. I need to get my surfboard and wettie out and shiver off some kilojoules, or you won’t love me anymore.”
“I was thinking that myself,” he said, and when I stared at him, outraged, he laughed and said, “For myself, I mean. Oriana’s too good, and so are you. Maybe I won’t tell you what we have for pudding.”
I’d had more than two glasses of that Pinot Gris by then. I wasn’t sure, because I’d stopped counting. That was probably why I set my wine glass down, swiveled around, lay back, and put my head on his thigh. “No,” I said. “Tell me. I want to be decadent.”
His hand was on my hair, smoothing it back, and then it was on the side of my face. “We’ll let you be decadent,” he said. “Rhubarb crème brulee and lemon curd cheesecake.”
I sighed. “Maybe a bite of each. If I don’t have to sit up to get them.”
“I think I can arrange that,” he said, and then he fed them to me. One luscious bite at a time.
We drank a little more wine, then, and watched the light turn gold over the city, then begin to fade, and Gray said, “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be shut in all night. They lock the gates, eh.”
“Not so bad,” I said.
“Bit cold, maybe,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “We have our tablecloth.”
He laughed and nudged my head with his thigh. “Come on, lazy. Up you get. Places to go. Things to do.”
I groaned, but pushed up to sitting, scrambled to my hands and knees, and started to gather up plates and silverware. Gray put his hand on my lower back, and I stilled. He said, “Sorry. You’re too pretty, that’s all.”
I sat up on my knees, shoved my hair back, and said, “I am?”
“Yeh,” he said. “You are. And I’m dying to touch you.”
“Then,” I said, unable to believe the words that came out of my mouth, “let’s go someplace where we can do it.”