was confident. And, all right, I was also stroppy and sarcastic. At least one of those things generally took care of any man’s white-knight impulses, and then, of course, there was that fifth-date awkwardness when the evening didn’t end the way he’d expected despite all his patience thus far, and so forth. When he put his hand in a too-intimate place, and I froze and couldn’t un-freeze.
And, yes, I’d tried going ahead anyway, frozen or not. It had worked about as well as you’d imagine. Nobody was ever going to be scrawling, “For a good time, call Daisy,” on any toilet walls. Not that I’d want them to, but it would be nice if somebody had ever thought it.
We were past the new development now, and the road was quieter, the houses a mixture of old farmhouses and newly built homes set well off the road, probably positioned for a sea view. He passed a few of those, and then the road ran inland, and he was slowing at a house that sat not far back. A shabby, non-sea-view house with various pieces of equipment parked on the grass in front, and nothing to recommend it but an excellent view of the road.
Oh. It also had a panelbeaters’ sign. He was a panelbeater. That was why he had tools and an old truck and was so competent. He repaired auto bodies.
On the other hand, the house had windows. And, apparently, a sleepout in the back. A bathroom, he’d said, and kitchen facilities.
Yes, there was another, smaller building in back. I could see, because he was turning. A shed, I’d have called that, set on a concrete pad.
I was mad to consider this. I wouldn’t have considered it, except for Fruitful’s ankle and my car. But there was Fruitful’s ankle and my car. Also, the sea was my weakness. The sound of it, and the smell of it, and the feel of it. I could bring out my surfboard and bike, maybe. Living in a shed might not be the best, but I could ride to the sea, or run there. Out here, I could breathe.
I would be grateful. I was grateful. I would remember that I wasn’t materialistic, and never mind how much I’d liked that flash bath of his. Which didn’t make any sense compared with this house, but maybe …
I blanked on what “maybe” was, then realized. He’d used all his money on the Wanaka house. Maybe he’d thought his business would take off, and then it hadn’t. Maybe he’d got a loan that was too hard to pay back. Overextended, they called that. He wouldn’t want to sell the house, though, as much as it would bring, because of his mum. He liked that his mum lived there, loved giving her someplace so beautiful, I could tell.
Which was fine. I could think that and still remember that I didn’t want a man with dusty work boots and faded work jeans, too many muscles, and too much testosterone, other than in my fantasies. Men like that scared me, which was obviously why I was being so bitchy. I could also remind myself right now that I would start saving up again for my own place as soon as I absorbed the expense of the new car and getting the girls through these next five years and so forth, because my student loans were finally paid off. It might take me ten years more to have that key in my hand, the one that was all mine, but when I did, my house was going to have an ensuite bath and space for a garden. It wouldn’t have a sea view or eight showerheads, because reality, but it would have that ensuite.
If I wanted it, I’d earn it, and be glad for the opportunity. Meanwhile, I’d borrow Gray’s other car, because, yes, there was a car back here, too, by the shed, an elderly white sedan with a bit of rust showing. I’d get Fruitful seen to and everything bought, and then I’d say, “Thank you very much,” and forget the muscles and the work boots and the competence, and we’d …
He wasn’t stopping. I said, “Isn’t that it?”
“Isn’t what it?” He was still driving down the track, which curved to the left of an extensive stand of pines.
“Where’s your house?”
The track curved to the right and came around the trees, and he said, “Here.”
It wasn’t Elizabeth Bennet’s first view of Mr. Darcy’s beautiful house at Pemberley. It just