STAYING in my room was good in theory.
In practise, the idea lasted half a day before encountering a huge, always-hungry problem—Jasmine and her perpetual need to coax me into things she so desires.
She is hungry.
We get food.
She wants to swim.
Here I am, tiptoeing down the stairs, but I have no idea why because Jasmine’s feet hit each step like lead hooves.
I cringe, saying, ‘So, you’re sure it’s okay we hang out by the pool?’
She jumps the final two steps and peers up at me as I hover awkwardly in the middle of the staircase. ‘You’re his guest. It’d be weird if you just stayed holed up in your room all day and night.’
But I’m not on holiday here.
When I don’t respond, she says, ‘What exactly happened that has you all nervous now?’
The image of his torso, slick with sweat and carved with muscles, comes tumbling to mind. Front and centre, actually. It’s been there all night, this morning, in the shower. Too often. That, and his words, ‘If you were my property, I’d bend you over my knee,’ seem far too eager to monopolise my brain space.
She lifts a brow at me, and I relent. My knees wobble slightly as I follow her out to the poolside.
Outside, we slump down on the pool loungers. The thick breeze tousles the blonde strands around my shoulders while the sun strokes my flesh, a light mist of perspiration forming a film over my skin. The pool’s surface is like a rippling metallic silver sheet beneath the rays.
Three-Months-Ago Fawn would not believe Present-Fawn if she was to describe this sight. I try not to allow my mind the luxury of finding too much comfort in my current lifestyle. Although, it is hard not to enjoy it.
And Jasmine is relentless.
The white bikini I have on is the only one I own, but it’s pretty, with a square-shaped neckline, thin straps, and a tube style coverage across my chest. The bottoms sit high on both cheeks and hips, the design making the sight of the taut skin at my lower stomach barely distinguishable, offering a little too much of my arse to the breeze and world, but I’ve never been a prude, and I like my body.
Benji liked this bikini.
‘Don’t forget this.’ Henchman Jeeves appears, passing Jasmine a white paper sheet, before walking up the stone-step waterfall and sitting on the horrible wrought-iron chair. He’s overlooking the garden, as well as me. My own personal watchdog. A guest, my arse.
I nod to the sheet Jasmine is staring at. ‘What’s that?’
She passes it to me. ‘A menu. Pick what you like. You need to eat. Yesterday you skipped two meals.’
Clay Butcher’s words find their way into my mind again. ‘She doesn’t eat. Hardly sleeps.’
It’s not something I ever noticed, but three meals a day wasn’t on my radar. As for the perpetual insomnia, that’s a new ailment.
Sitting up, I cross my legs on the pool lounger, staring at the menu. I worry my lower lip while Jasmine waits impatiently, longingly. It makes me want to recoil, feeling like an imposture. I scan the menu even with discomfort twisting up inside me. I never wanted this kind of treatment, and I don’t trust free shows of generosity, but I also cringe at being seen as ungrateful. Basically, I have no stance to take that will ebb this feeling. So, I touch my stomach, imagining the kid growing inside me, reminding myself this is about him.
It isn’t about you, Fawn.
I can deal with that.
Jasmine scoots in closer to me. ‘Come on, they make pretty great food here. I mean, not like missile stars, but pretty close if you ask me, and I’ve eaten at a lot of fine restaurants.’
Henchman Jeeves makes himself known by shuffling the chair on the stone veranda above us. ‘Michelin Stars.’
‘What?’ she calls up.
‘I’m not being picky.’ I hand her the sheet. She wants it, can’t stop looking at it, as though her longing gaze has telekinetic powers. ‘I’d foam at the mouth over two-minute noodles.’
Henchman Jeeves laughs. ‘Please don’t foam at the mouth; it involves a lot of paperwork.’
When Jasmine lets a quick chuckle break free, taking the menu and studying the options, I relax.
‘I don’t know what two-minute noodles are,’ she says. ‘But I doubt they are on the menu.’
‘I lived off two-minute noodles for three months,’ I admit.
‘Well, Mr Butcher said you’re to have three meals a day here,’ Henchman Jeeves states. ‘And I don’t think he would approve of two-minute noodles.’
Here. How long will I be here? I look back at Jasmine, catching a little roll of her eyes in response to Henchman Jeeves’s comment.
‘Well, you pick for me then,’ I say to her, watching her face light up like New Year’s Eve fireworks over the bridge at Storm River.
‘Okay! Well, you should alternate between honey oats and an omelette for breakfast, but it looks like he won’t let you have bacon—’
‘It’s processed,’ Henchman Jeeves calls down.
I gaze up at him, lifting my hand to umbrella my eyes, the sun overhead creating a glowing hue around us. ‘Do you like that I have a mandated feeding schedule?’
‘Oi, you up there, you’re missing your calling as a house-wife.’ She tries to dodge a tablecloth that comes hurtling at her, but it hits her shoulder. She brushes it to the side.
I smile, liking their playfulness. We are an odd threesome. We’d make a good joke. A teen mum, a thirty-year-old butler on steroids, and a peppy maid walk into a bar—
‘As I was saying,’ she continues. ‘Right, lunch. Alternate between sandwiches. They are all good. Dinner, I’d go with…’ She clicks her tongue in contemplation, flipping the page over to view the other side, before realising it’s blank and flipping it back again, the skin on her nose slowly bunching up on the bridge. ‘Eww. He is making you have fish. Salmon or Cod.’
‘High in omega threes,’ Henchman Jeeves chimes in again, still the hint of amusement dancing through his words. ‘And I think a feeding schedule is a good thing for you. I read in a magazine the other day that malnourished is not the new sexy.’
I laugh a little at that, slumping back on the pool sunbed, stomach down and arms cushioning my head. Twisting my face to the manicured gardens, I find the two cute gardeners I saw a few days ago trimming roses, both their eyes meeting mine, small smiles playing on their lips. They exchange words, eyeing me intermittently while they slice the ends of the roses off, leaving woody stems. Perfectly good roses, too. I wonder if they will end up in a vase inside, or if they are simply lessening the load, allowing lower branches to fill out. I stare a little too long. When the one with blond hair catches my gaze again, a blush creeps up the nape of my neck, squeezing the column with warmth.
From here, he sort of looks like Benji.
‘That’s Robbie and Lee,’ Jasmine says, causing me to dart my eyes in the opposite direction, her perceptive demeanour a bit unnerving at times.
‘Oh.’ My voice is too high to not be completely obvious. ‘Who the gardeners?’
Smooth.
A clammer of noise comes from above us, the sound of serious voices sailing down the stone steps to where I lay by the poolside. Sitting up immediately, not feeling comfortable half-naked on my stomach in someone else’s house unless that someone else isn’t around, I watch as Clay and a film crew head down the steps. Beside him, a tall, elegant, red-headed woman in a sheer navy suit-dress is deep in discussion with him. She reads from a clipboard in an almost informative way, while he nods as they navigate the garden to the other side of the pool. The camera crew trails them, seamlessly checking their equipment before they all stop and the crew begins to set up.
I peer over at Jasmine, who sits on the other sunbed, just as interested as I am in what is taking place. ‘Are they filming something?’
‘He is probably doing a press release. Maybe something has happened.’ She tugs her phone out from her bag. She swipes her finger along the black display, bringing the screen to life and begins searching the internet. She hums before saying, ‘Yep. There’s a fire. Looks big too. We had one a few years back, and I volunteered to help with the animals. Ya know, koalas and things.’ She suddenly cracks up, bracing her phone tightly as she rolls forward a little with the spasm of her laughter. ‘The headline is calling him ‘The District Daddy.”
Brushing my long straight blonde hair over my shoulder, the ends tickling my lower back, I scoot in beside her. Sharing her lounger, the sides of our bodies press together so I can peer at her phone.
At the sight of Clay on the screen, a little awe spirals within me. He really is a politician… And I’ve never had anyone to admire before. This warmth in my chest definitely feels like admiration. That explains my mild obsession. It’s just admiration. Good. I’m glad that’s sorted out.
She reads from the display, nudging me slightly and talking in a hushed tone. ‘Daddy Butcher has called for all citizens on the north side of Stormy River to evacuate, but the state government won’t sanction such a drastic move, saying it’s too early, and will affect the trade through the Stormy River docks.’ She makes a face, her smile tight with a suppressed giggle. ‘He wants to wrap us in cotton wool. I guess that’s why they are calling him daddy.’
A scorching hot sensation rolls up my spine, causing my gaze to lift, finding Clay staring at me from across the garden.
We lock eyes.
It’s. Just. Admiration.
The redhead is straightening his tie, the glossy curve of her lips moving, but his attention roams the length of me, his piercing blue stare sliding down my body for what feels like an entire heady minute.
I part my lips under his gaze, feeling the heat of sparks within me, the heat building every second his eyes—
Then he snaps his head towards the gardeners as though he sensed them. They both drop their line of sight but not soon enough, having caught him watching me. Their unease is noticeable even from this distance.
Clay Butcher looks on with a subtle smile that is more menacing than nice. Like he’s angry, but what about?
When his gaze finds me again. The blacks of his eyes have widened, the darkness he carries within them like a shadow consuming the piercing blue that makes him so beautiful to look at, unmasking a different kind of raw, virile beauty that is even harder to tear my eyes away from.
I hold my breath, but then his devastating gaze dissolves as he looks at the redhead before him, nodding as though she had his attention the entire time.
I breathe out in a rush.
What was that?
Clearing my throat, the entire column arid and thick, I force a smile even though nerves skip through the gaps between all the butterflies and the kid in my stomach. ‘I don’t think we should be out here while they’re filming, right?’
When I peer across my shoulder at Jasmine again, she is fixed on me, stone-faced with uncertainty. I chew my bottom lip, not grasping what that was or what she saw or thought she saw. Fuck. The entire silent interaction between me and Clay Butcher was probably in my head. The intensity between Clay and the gardeners, too. All my body’s manifestation of some kind of meaningless crush.
No, Fawn.
Not a crush.
Admiration.
It’s just admiration. The first person to impress me has scrambled my brain, jumbling the appropriate response. So, he didn’t look condescending for a moment but instead looked… irritated, possessive, protective, I don’t know!
No big deal.
‘Ah, okay,’ Jasmine mutters, snapping me from my thoughts and standing with the menu in her hand. ‘Let’s get this to the kitchen then. Maggie will want it.’
I head up the steps, flanking Jasmine. Each rise of my thighs, each steady placement of my bare feet, seem intensely exaggerated. He wasn’t looking at me when I left, but, boy, can I feel his eyes on me now.
The thick air circles my scantily dressed physique like the cloak I wish I had on, a veil for the blaze of my vulnerability.
My skin prickles, but I don’t turn around despite the palpable tug on my body to do so.
