Chapter 11 #3
“Then,” she said, going for the cheerful approach, “it seems I need to return the favor, at least as much as I can. How about if you and your whanau come to ours for a meal next weekend? I promise it won’t be beans, greens, and grains.
” Wait. He probably ate Wagyu steaks. Lamb cutlets.
King salmon with crayfish. Would he even touch, say, chicken thighs?
Beef mince? He certainly wouldn’t eat sausages.
Just as she was panicking, he said, “You do realize I’ll be playing on Saturday night. Qualifying round against the Brumbies, it’s going to be. Which will be in Canberra. Where I’ll be flying on Wednesday.”
“Oh.” She was turning red, she knew. “Of course you will be. Sorry.”
“We’ll be back on Sunday morning, though,” he said, “if you’d like to invite us for a barbecue.”
Fish, she thought. Fish can seem more flash than it really is. “Yes,” she said. “That would be fine.”
“Of course,” he said, “I’m a bit choosy about my meats. You should probably let me bring that. And cook it, naturally.”
“How would that be me returning the favor?” she managed to say. This was exactly what she’d feared. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me, if that’s what that is. I have a fine life. I have a wonderful life. And I wouldn’t have invited you if I couldn’t afford to feed you.”
He didn’t argue, as she’d feared. He looked at her instead. Searchingly. Which was actually worse than arguing. “Fine,” he said at last. “Tell me what you’re making, once you’ve decided, and I’ll bring the wine. Two bottles should probably do us.”
“Oh.” She felt relieved, and also stupid. “But … driving.”
“Skylar.” It was the first time he’d said her name. Wasn’t it? She nearly jumped. “I don’t drink more than a glass during the season.”
“On the other hand,” she somehow decided to say, going for “cheeky,” or at least “not pathetic,” “if you lose on Saturday, your season will be over, right?”
He grinned. “Right. Keeping me humble, eh. What happened to ‘heroic’? Nah. I’ll be training with the All Blacks soon enough. Assuming I’m selected, of course.”
“Of course,” she agreed drily. “As if you wouldn’t be selected. Even I know you’ll be selected.”
“And,” he went on, ignoring that, “if we do lose and I decide to throw away every rational principle and drown my sorrows, I probably won’t do it in front of you. Or my kids.”
Right. His kids. Which was the point.
Wait. The grandparents were the point.
“Oh,” she realized. “Maybe we should invite your brothers as well? If it’s a …
a whanau thing? If Granddad and Maureen are really getting as serious as it looks.
” Since the lovebirds were dawdling behind the others, holding hands and laughing into each other’s eyes in a frankly nauseating manner, that seemed like a fair bet.
“I know it’s early days, and if it were you or me—dating somebody, I mean—nobody would take it seriously after, what, three or four months?
But it’s different when you’re old, apparently, or so Granddad says. Less time to waste, he says.”
“You wouldn’t be serious after three or four months?” There was that intensity again. Would he stop that? “Not how I’m imagining you.”
“Well,” she said, “you know, if I were— If it were me, I—” She stopped. “I’m not the person to ask, and it’s not about me anyway. I mean, of course it isn’t.”
“Huh,” he said, and that was all.
She was passing a mental hand over her brow when she realized that all this defensiveness was stupid.
She wasn’t allowed to have a relationship with him.
Not that she would anyway—not that he would anyway—but still, even the appearance of it …
She might not actually be struck off, but how humiliating would an investigation be?
A disciplinary tribunal? Everything in her shriveled at the thought, and her empty wallet may have emitted a faint squeal of protest, too.
She’d certainly be a prize breadwinner if she lost her career.
Which wasn’t happening. The prohibition didn’t include friendship, did it? Or acquaintanceship? Surely not. Especially not one breakfast and one dinner, required because somehow, Granddad had decided this one particular woman, out of all the women in the world, was the one for him.
“Reckon we’ll leave my brothers out of it this time,” Zane said, and she had to work to remember what they’d been talking about. “Time enough for that, and for my sister, too. And you probably don’t want the boys in your house anyway.”
“Why?” she asked, rallying hard. “What would they do? Play rugby indoors? Finlay already does that. Scull beers? Wrestle in the lounge? Use improper language around the kids? Never tell me your Nan couldn’t hold them in check.”
“Require three more chairs?” Zane suggested. “I’ll leave it at that for now.”
“Oh.” Wait. How was she going to seat ten people—in winter? It wasn’t even just the chairs. It was the table. And the space. And the …
Stop it, she tried to tell herself. No hyperventilating.
“We could do it at mine, of course,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.
“Which would defeat the purpose,” she managed to say. Folding chairs. Somebody would have them. And … and planks set on sawhorses, maybe. If she had planks. Or sawhorses.
She’d make it work. Her pride demanded it by now. And it wasn’t as if she had to impress him. It wasn’t a date! It was family, and that was all.
More or less.