Chapter Two #2
After dressing in my clean clothes, I turn the dirty ones inside out and put them in my bag, then go out. “That’s better,” I say, going into the living room. “Thank you so much.”
He’s standing by the window, checking his phone, and he looks up, then does a comedic double-take as he sees me. His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” he says.
“What?” Self-consciously, I look down at myself.
I’m wearing a short plain green tunic dress, kind of like a long T-shirt, and my legs and feet are bare.
Of course I’m not wearing makeup, and my hair is loose.
Ohhh… I must look very different from the models he’s had walk out of that bathroom, in designer outfits, having spent hours on their hair and makeup.
I wait for him to tease me about looking like a gardener’s daughter. Instead, he says, “Your hair’s very long.”
I pick up one of the strands that falls to my chest and twirl it in a finger.
When I was young, I used to wear it in a pixie cut, mainly because I hated the color.
The truth is that I haven’t been able to afford to go to the hairdresser for ages.
But I don’t tell him that. “Right back atcha,” I say, smirking at his shoulder-length locks. “I bet your dad just loves that look.”
He grins again. When we were kids, his father repeatedly nagged him to get a haircut, but Kingi always preferred to wear it long.
“I’d better have a shower,” he says. “Can you get the door when room service arrives?”
“Sure.”
He nods and heads off to the bedroom.
I wander around the living room, trying not to think about him in the bathroom, stripping off and letting the hot water wash over that expanse of brown skin.
The plants here are well cared for, beautiful and luscious—a Ficus lyrata or Fiddle Leaf Fig with its large glossy leaves; a tall Strelitzia reginae or Bird of Paradise, its dramatic leaves topped with gorgeous blue and orange flowers; a Senecio rowleyanus or String of Pearls with its quirky, cascading green beads; and a Philodendron Brasil trailing heart-shaped leaves from a high shelf.
The room would of course have been designed and decorated by a team, not by Kingi himself, but it still features items that suggest he had a hand in the decor.
One of his sister’s stained-glass artworks hangs in the window, casting jeweled light onto the kauri-wood floorboards.
And on the left-hand wall, there’s a large photograph which Kingi would definitely have had a hand in choosing, of Aoraki Mount Cook, beautifully colored, to show the green and brown plains below it, the blue and purple of the mountain itself, and a pink and orange sunset in the background.
It’s the highest mountain in New Zealand, and he climbed it a couple of years ago, after extensive training.
I saw the achievement pop up on his Instagram page, and I commented how proud I was of him.
He replied with Thanks, Chess! It’s probably the most words we’ve exchanged over the past few years.
A knock on the door makes me jump. I run across to open it and smile at the guy in the white shirt and black trousers who’s holding a tray.
Surprise flickers in his eyes as he sees me, but he hides it quickly. “Morning, Ma’am,” he says, “would you like me to put this on the table for you?”
“Oh, please.” I step back to let him in. He walks past me, over to the small, circular dining table, and places the tray there, then says, “Have a great day.”
We don’t tend to tip in New Zealand, but for a moment I wonder whether the staff is used to foreign guests slipping them a note at times like this. I don’t have any cash on me. However, he doesn’t wait and heads for the door, goes out and closes it behind him.
I go over to the table, choose one of the coffees, and sip it. Mmm, piping hot latte. The tray also bears a plate with two large chocolate muffins. When I pick one up, I discover it’s warm and it smells wonderful… ohhh, lovely.
“Oh good,” Kingi says, coming out of the bedroom. “They’ve arrived.” He’s wearing jeans and a navy polo shirt. His long hair and beard are damp. He looks gorgeous.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the tray, “let’s sit outside.”
He walks across to the sliding doors, opens them, and places the tray on the round table on the small private balcony.
I join him, taking a seat next to him so we’re both looking out at the view of the gardens.
They’re quiet at the moment, although to one side near the bridge over the stream I can just see a group of guests taking part in a Tai Chi class, moving slowly through the careful poses.
We break apart the muffins, releasing a small cloud of steam, and take a bite. “I’m ravenous,” I say, sighing as I chew the moist chocolate cake. “Oh, that’s so good.”
He chuckles. “They make the best muffins here. And have you tried their apple pie?” He rolls his eyes appreciatively.
“No,” I admit, “I’ve never eaten here.”
“Oh, you should. Antoine is a Michelin chef. He’s amazing.”
I smile politely. I’ve seen the prices of Midnight’s degustation menu, and a four-course meal would easily cost me a day’s wages. A wine pairing would cost me two days’ work. So yeah, not going to be eating here anytime soon.
He has a swig of coffee. “I’m sorry about your dad. That’s tough. So you’re filling in for him at work?”
“Yeah. Trying to keep up with his schedule and not let things slip.”
“That’s tough on you. How many staff does he have now?”
“There are eight of us. But he’d been building up his client list over the summer, and now we’re suffering a bit trying to make sure we don’t fall behind.
” I break off another piece of muffin. “Four of the guys are working on a big landscaping job on the east side of the island, which only leaves four of us to do all the regular gardening work.” I suddenly remember that Midnight is a client.
“Of course we’ll always make sure we complete all the projects in a timely fashion. ”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, because I was about to complain. You’re such a slacker.”
I poke my tongue out at him. “I just don’t want anyone to think I can’t cope. I’ll get it all done, even if I have to work through the night.”
“That won’t be necessary. The bank terracing can wait if you have other pressing tasks. We won’t just hire another firm if you’re a few weeks late.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“You shouldn’t be working Saturdays,” he scolds. “Everyone needs time off.”
“So what are you doing in the office?”
He blows out a breath. “I was meeting with the board of the Ngā Whetū Rangatahi Foundation.”
“Oh, I read about that. You’re going to be the CEO, aren’t you?
” It’s an impressive role. The Foundation is relatively new, but there’s been a lot of publicity in the press about it.
It looks as if it’s going to make a significant impact on underprivileged Māori youths in the area, giving them access to opportunities they wouldn’t normally have.
With Kingi’s Māori background, his connection to outdoor activities, his youth and success in the business world, and the fact that he’s such a nice guy, he’s a natural choice for the role.
“Maybe,” he says, and he pulls a face.
“Oh? Problems?”
He sighs. “Have you seen the front page of this morning’s Kōrero?”
“No.”
He takes out his phone, brings up the page, and hands me his phone.
Trying to ignore the fact that it’s a huge, brand-new, latest-model iPhone that must have cost him a small fortune, I read the article. Then I look up at him in shock. “Is it true?”
He frowns. “You mean did I jump off the waterfall? Well, yeah. But I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. I wouldn’t do that. Give me some credit.”
I’ve insulted him. “I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t.”
He scratches at a mark on his jeans. “I was showing off. But I wasn’t drunk.”
I look back at the phone. “Oh, was that where you met Sabrina Pearce?” She’s a stunning supermodel, famous throughout the country for having advertised a popular perfume and fashion brand, and she’s also appeared in a couple of New Zealand movies.
I’d seen photos of them together on Insta, but I wasn’t sure if they were still dating.
“Yeah. More’s the pity.”
“Oh dear. Is everything not rosy in the garden of lust?”
“If you’re asking if I broke up with her, the answer is yes.”
“You dated the most famous supermodel in the country, and then you dumped her?” I give him a curious look. “Why?”
He rolls his eyes. “Because she had all the personality of a wet lettuce.”
“But you still took her to bed?”
“Well I’m not stupid.” He purses his lips. “Actually, maybe I am.”
I stifle a giggle. I’m not shocked by his admission. He’s always had trouble keeping it in his pants. He’s a sucker for a pretty face, a big pair of boobs, and a nice ass, and I’m sure it didn’t hurt that every fella in the country would give their right arm for a night in bed with her.
Then something clicks. “Wait, are you saying it was Sabrina who said you were drunk, in retaliation for breaking up with her?”
“I think so, yeah.”
That shocks me. Someone would really do that? I think about what he said, about meeting the board today. “The board called you in about the article?”
He sighs, leans forward with his elbows on his knees, and runs his hands through his hair. “Yeah. They said it reflects badly on the Foundation. Which it would do, of course. I’m such an idiot.”
“Well, you didn’t make her run to the press. She sounds like a nasty piece of work if she lied about you being drunk.”
“I rejected her. I need to grow up a bit. I know that.” He looks at his hands, and suddenly I can see the child in the man.
“Well… yeah, maybe you need to be a bit more careful choosing your bed partners,” I say with a smile.
He gives me a wry look.
“Are they saying they won’t give you the position?”
“No… but they did make it clear that I need to act more responsibly, and to look respectable.” He pulls a face.
That makes me laugh. “Sorry,” I say when he throws me another glare, “but that’s plain funny. You, respectable?” I subside into peals of laughter.
He stretches out his legs and huffs. “Yeah, amuse yourself at my expense.” But his lips curve up as he takes a huge bite out of his muffin. He brushes his beard to remove any crumbs, then flings me a crooked smile.
He’s so incredibly handsome. He’s always had the power to make my heart skip a beat, and it’s clear that nothing has changed.
I’ve been half in love with this guy for about twenty years, but I’ve always known it would never be reciprocated.
How could it, when he’s destined to date women like Sabrina Pearce?
He’ll end up with a stunning beauty, someone who knows which fork to use at the dinner table, who is the patron for a major children’s charity, and who won’t look out of place on his arm at social events.
The biggest social event I’ve been to is a hoedown at a local music festival, and there wasn’t a sign of a high heel or a designer label anywhere.
I’m like Cinderella to his prince, except that there’s no fairy godmother to magic me into a princess, and so there will never be a happy ending for the two of us.
More’s the pity.