The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ steady, dependable man who says it like it is. I’m a hustler. I always need to be moving, striving, ticking off the next goal.

      I try to visualise introducing Cam to my Sydney girlfriends over brunch, or picture him being content to see his woman once in a blue moon, if the stars align. My washing movements become slow, automatic, as I’m lost to the pictures my imaginings paint, as if they’re tantalising in their reality. I’ve never asked him, but surely Cam wants a wife and a family one day. I’ve long since sworn off such trappings, finding contentment in the one thing I’m good at: my career, making money for my clients and for myself along the way.

      But is that enough any more? Can I go back to my sad, workaholic existence after Cam?

      I slam off the shower spray, my irritation directed at my flights of fancy.

      Of course I can. I’m set in my ways. This is my life, a great life I’ve built—self-sufficient, independent, successful. I’ll move on from my fling with Cam, just as I moved on from my marriage to Mark.

      With my equilibrium restored by my harsh mental pep talk, I dry off and put on the modest green silk dress with buttons down the front that I’ve chosen for the races. I apply light make-up and slip on nude strappy sandals with a low heel.

      When I emerge from the en suite bathroom, Cam is sprawled over the leather sofa near the window. I come to an abrupt halt, my eyes sucking in the sight of him, as if they know time is running out and one day he’ll only be visible in my memory.

      He too is dressed in smart-casual attire for the races—chinos, a shirt and tie, and a blazer. His hair is tamed, slicked back from his handsome face with product, and he’s focused on the screen of his phone, his brows dipped in an act of concentration that should make him look adorable, if he wasn’t too much man for that particular adjective.

      My stomach clenches at the sight of him, sexy, suave and in his prime, the epitome of masculinity. I tug my bottom lip under my teeth and close my eyes for a decadent second, remembering the way he woke me this morning before my alarm. Sleepy, warm and demanding, he’d dragged me close with one strong arm, spooning me from behind. As I nodded and smiled in agreement, his hot mouth had found my nipple and I’d arched against him until he’d seated himself inside me from behind—a perfect position for Cam to toy with my clit until I climaxed and he’d achieved the unforgettable wake-up call he’d wanted.

      For some reason I kept my eyes closed throughout, and we didn’t speak, because it somehow felt different—slow, sensual, reverent—almost as if we were making love.

      I shake the alarming thought from my head and clear my throat to alert Cam to my presence.

      He looks up. A grin stretches over his face, but his eyes are hot, just like every other time he looks at me: full of promise, provocative, and deeply piercing, as if he sees me to my soul.

      I approach, my legs shakier than they should be, given the stern lecture I’d only moments ago administered to myself. Cam stands, the perfect gentleman. I accept his hungry kiss, returning it with my own. It’s as if we’ve been separated for years, not hours, but with his mouth on mine it’s hard to overthink, so I simply surrender to the moment.

      When we part, the exposed, unfocused feeling I’ve experienced for the past few days intensifies, so I reach for his phone to distract myself.

      ‘What has you so absorbed that you didn’t hear me come in?’ I expect to find a list of statistics for today’s thoroughbreds, but instead I see pictures of a shabby-looking cottage, the paint peeling, the steel roof warped and the veranda partially collapsed where the boards have rotted.

      ‘What’s this?’ I flick through the pictures. The views are enviable, but the house is a mess.

      Cam shrugs, his expression wary. ‘A cottage. I bought it a while ago. Before the money. To renovate.’

      It can’t be larger than a hundred square metres. And the ceilings are low. ‘Do you plan to live here? You’ll be constantly bumping your head.’ He’s already told me he owns a Point Piper penthouse with harbour views back in Sydney.

      At my confused expression, he takes the phone from me and scrolls through the pictures, as if showing off a prized possession. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps. It’s in an amazing location. Look at the views.’

      I nod. He’s right—this cottage commands an enviable spot on Sydney’s North Shore.

      ‘My mother grew up close by. After she moved away, we’d go back to her favourite spots for picnics or to the beach. She always admired this cottage, and when the elderly owner passed away I purchased it. For her.’ His face falls and he tucks the phone into his breast pocket. ‘She died before I could make a dent in the work it needs.’

      My heart clenches, the urge to hold him and chase away the defeat in his eyes intense. ‘But you’re going to finish it anyway? Earn yourself a few splinters and build up a sweat?’

      He grins because I understand him. It’s almost a tribute. My chest burns with empathy. I touch his arm, wanting to do more, but too afraid of the feelings I’ve battled all day.

      ‘Yeah, once I’m back in Sydney. Mum was right—it could be perfect.’

      I take his hand and lead us back to the sofa, where I tug him down at my side. ‘How much work have you done?’

      His enthusiasm falters. ‘Not that much. I bought it before the inheritance with my savings. It made Mum’s last weeks happier to think of me one day living in the cottage she admired from afar.’

      My throat aches for his loss, the desire to be there for him building until I confess something I rarely allow myself to think, let alone say aloud. ‘You know, I often wonder what it would be like to live somewhere like that.’

      Surprise flitters across his face. ‘You do…?’ A small, almost delighted smile kicks up his mouth.

      ‘Yeah. How peaceful it would be to wake up to the sound of the sea every morning. To step outside before the sun is fully up and drink coffee on a quaint old veranda like that, taste the salt in the air. Simple. Everything I need. To be…content, I guess.’

      His silence and the frown that steals his smile and draws his thick eyebrows down over his eyes make me feel self-conscious. He stares, as if seeing me for the first time.

      My face grows hot. I’ve revealed something from deep inside, a place I hardly ever delve. I want to stuff the telling words back inside my mouth. Instead I stand, collect my bag and the wide-brimmed hat that matches my outfit, and breathe my emotions back under control. What is he doing to me? Where did that insane and impractical confession come from? I have a perfectly adequate penthouse in Sydney with its own enviable views. Not that I spend much time there.

      I wait for him to join me near the door, my shoulders tense as if I’m anticipating his next words.

      ‘You know, you could live like that, Orla. There’s nothing to stop you.’ His words are predictable, his tone mild, but the subtext is loaded with the unspoken. If I were that content woman, then perhaps there’d be a chance for us, or perhaps that’s just what I want to hear because maybe the appeal of that cottage, that life, is that it would include Cam.

      But I can’t want that, to be his woman. It’s a dead-end fantasy.

      ‘I know.’ My clipped tone closes down СКАЧАТЬ