21. 21 #2
I only ask because he was the one who gave me their address.
Back when I first got Sprinkles and needed to track Zoe down.
He’d been reluctant but eventually handed it over.
Should’ve seen the look he gave me. “This is borderline stalker-ish, you know?” Coming from a cop, that was rich.
I told him not to judge me. Like he hasn’t done worse trying to impress Amelia back when they were just “friends”.
I’d bet good money he’s pulled something just as bad.
Bradley’s brow furrows. “De Luca? You mean Parkinson?”
I look over at him. “Uh… no. Her licence said De Luca.”
That name’s been lodged in my head since the first day she walked into the shop—all attitude and fire, tearing strips off me before I could even offer her a seat. Zoe De Luca. Don’t ask me why it stuck. It just did.
“Her parents’ surname is Parkinson,” Bradley says.
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure, bud.”
My heart starts to thud loudly in my chest. So, if her family name is Parkinson… then where the fuck did De Luca come from?
Is she married?
The thought settles low in my stomach, heavy and unwelcome. Is that why she keeps me at arm’s length? Why she shuts down every time I get close?
Because she’s not actually… available?
Is that why she flinched? Why she pulled back like my touch burned? Because someone else already made her feel unsafe?
And if she is married, then why the hell is she here? Alone. No ring. No mention of a husband. Why come back to Wattle Creek at all?
She’s impossible to read. Nothing gets past her unless she slips, and even then, it’s gone before you can hold onto it. But that panic attack? That was real. That was raw. You can’t fake that kind of spiral. And now this? This only leaves me with more questions than answers.
Xavier says something beside me. I catch part of it—something about Callie’s mud-caked jeans—but it’s background noise.
Bradley tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on under my skin. “You good?”
I nod, though the truth is, I don’t have a clue what the hell I’m doing. Don’t know how I ended up here, standing in the middle of a farmyard, slowly catching feelings for a woman I barely know. A woman who might be older. Might be married. Might be hiding more than I’m ready to take on.
I stay put for a while, letting the crackling fire fill the silence in my head.
People laugh. Somewhere, a speaker’s pumping out a new Morgan Wallen track.
Eventually, I start moving, weaving through the crowd, nodding at a few familiar faces, catching stray fragments of conversation I don’t bother to hold onto.
Grace and Dominic Mitchell are propped near the old water tank, wine glasses in hand.
They wave me over, ask how the shop’s been going.
“Busy as always,” I tell them, giving a polite grin before moving on.
Joe’s perched on a long seat, one that was built from an old railway sleeper, with Mum beside him . I snag a beer from the Esky on my way over, drop onto an empty crate next to them, and pop the cap off against the wood.
“Evenin’, son.” Joe’s gravelly voice cuts through the crackle of the fire.
“Hey, Joe.” I nod toward him, lifting my bottle.
Mum leans forward, her eyes narrowing the way they always do when she’s trying to read me. “You look tired, love. Been pushing too hard again?”
I shake my head, taking a long pull of beer.
“Just a long day, that’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.
” Joe peers over at me, the brim of his worn trucker cap casting a shadow over his eyes, holding back the long strands of greying hair that curl just past his collar.
“Finish up alright at the shop? How’d ya go with the Rav? ”
I stretch my legs out in front of me. “Stubborn bloody thing. Fuel pump needed replacing, not the starter. Took us a bit to figure that out. Jono wanted to just ‘give it a whack’ and call it a day.”
Joe chuckles. “Ah, that sounds like Jono. And Harrison?”
“Grumpy as hell, as usual. But Imogen came past with lunch, so he softened up quick.”
“Did she cook again?”
“She did. She’s actually getting better at it, too.”
Mum tips her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “Her baking’s lovely. Those muffins she brought the other week? Gone in ten minutes.”
Joe nods enthusiastically at that.
My eyes flick back to the fire. To her. Still curled in that chair, still distant. I don’t mean to keep looking. But my eyes have a mind of their own, drawn back to her like a habit I haven’t broken yet.
Joe follows my gaze, then nudges his chin forward. “That the woman who came by a few months back?”
I glance at Mum, but she’s already turned away, engrossed in a lively conversation with Dominic and Grace. “Uh… yeah.”
“Huh.” He lifts his mug. “So she did stick around.”
“I guess so.” My hand tightens slightly around the neck of my bottle. “For who knows how much longer.” I tip the rest of the beer back, draining it. It’s too cold, but it gives my hands something to do.
“What?” I ask Joe when I notice him staring.
“In all my twelve years of knowing you, boy,” he says slowly, “not once have I seen you shy away from chatting up a woman.”
I scoff. “Who the fuck said I’m shy?”
“You’ve been starin’ at her for five minutes straight.”
“Maybe I’m just thinking.”
He arches a brow, unimpressed. “Thinkin’ about whether or not to grow a pair, maybe.”
I snort, rubbing the heel of my hand against the back of my neck. “It’s not that simple.”
Joe hums low in his throat, setting his mug down on his knee. “Nothing ever is, son. But when you find a woman that’s got your head this twisted, it usually means one of two things. She’s either the wrong one, or the right one at the wrong time.”
That hits harder than I expected.
I don’t reply right away. It’s funny. Joe’s not usually a man of many words.
He never forces advice down your throat, never gives more than what’s needed.
But every once in a while, he drops something that sticks.
And tonight, it lodges somewhere deep. I smile to myself, just a flicker, before I can stop it.
Joe notices it immediately. “Did I say something funny?”
“Nah,” I mutter, shaking my head, still half-smiling. “Just didn’t expect you to be such a goddamn philosopher, is all.”
A grin tugs at his weathered face. “Don’t spread it around. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
I huff out a breath, then glance sideways at him. “The other day… Harrison called you Dad.”
Joe shifts slightly in his chair. “You caught that, huh? We had a conversation not long ago,” he continues, voice quieter now.
“Part of what Dr. Lowes told him… was about accepting the things in his life that he can control. Y’know, stuff that brings him joy.
Said he should start seeing it for what it is instead of running from it.
One of those things was me. Apparently.”
Joe’s expression is unreadable as he continues. “He’s always been stubborn,” he murmurs, “but that kid’s got a good heart. Always has.”
A faint glint in his eye catches the light from the fire, and I lean back slightly. “Oh, don’t go cryin’ on me now, old man.”
Mum’s voice pipes up from beside him. “Who’s crying?”
“No one, I’m not cryin’,” Joe says with a chuckle, though there’s a wobble there he can’t hide. “Just… proud.”
My chest tightens unexpectedly at that. He’s done more for us than I could ever repay.
Picked up the pieces when our sperm donor of a father blew through our lives like a fucking cyclone and left nothing but broken shit in his wake.
Joe never had to step in. Never owed us a damn thing.
But he did anyway. Every time. Never asked for anything in return.
Just… showed up. Every single time. And he kept showing up.
“I do see you both as my sons,” he says softly. “You know that, right? You may not be my blood, but you’re here.” He touches his chest, over his heart. “So when Harrison decided to start calling me Dad, well… bloody fuckin’ oath.”
Mum slips her hand into his then, and I watch the movement. The ease of it. Then it hits me. He’s been there for her, too. Solid as bedrock. No man’s ever been that good to her. Not once.
Until him.
I grin. “So does that mean I should start calling you Dad, or Daddy, now too?”
“Oh, piss off, you little shit.” He laughs, shaking his head with a snort, and when our laughter dies down, the quiet that follows isn’t awkward. “You can call me anything you want to, Michael.”
That sticks in my throat. Around us, the fire crackles, and the noise of everyone else drifts on, unaware of this small moment unfolding just off to the side. Joe leans back in his seat.
“You’ll figure it out. You always do. You’ve got your head screwed on right. Just… don’t take too long. Good things have a way of walkin’ away when you wait too long to claim ‘em.”
Across the fire, Zoe’s still in that same chair. Same posture. Same guarded expression that gives me nothing. I haven’t exactly moved either, but something in me already feels different.
I lean over and clap him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Joe. I want you to know that you’ve always been a father to me. Always will be.”
His nod is slow. “I… appreciate that, son.”
I take Joe’s words with me as I stand. Behind me, I catch Mum’s voice. “He’s right, you know.”
“About what?” Joe asks.
“About being a father to them. You’re the best thing that ever happened to us.” I don’t turn around, but the weight of it follows me, pressing heavy in my chest in the best kind of way.
I head for the food table. It’s already been raided, but there’s still enough to stack a plate high—sausages, charred corn, a heap of Imogen’s pasta salad, Isla’s roast potatoes, and even a scoop of slaw I don’t like. It’s more than I need.
But it’s not just for me.
Back by the fire, I watch the girls before I reach them. Olivia is chatting Zoe’s ear off, and Amelia nods along. When I step up, both of them turn toward me with matching grins.