Chapter Eight #2
“Not quite sure if that’s a compliment.” He follows the directions of the ferry assistant, parks the Porsche behind the row of cars, and turns off the engine. “Come on. Let’s get a coffee or something.”
We get out of the car and he locks it. We climb the steps to the deck, and as we walk past the seating that’s gradually filling up to the cabin, he holds out his hand.
I stop walking. He stops, too.
I look at his hand. He flicks his fingers up, Matrix style.
My heart races. He wants me to hold it.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
He just gives me a look that says, Contract. I mutter under my breath and slide my hand into his. He closes his fingers around mine, then starts walking again, pulling me with him.
I follow him, my face growing warm. We’re just friends.
When we were young, we touched a lot, the way kids do: wrestling, pushing one another, and yeah, even holding hands sometimes.
But we haven’t been kids for a long time.
And I don’t have any close male friends now, so I’m not used to the kind of relationship I see on TikTok, where a guy and girl declare they’re best friends.
The feel of Kingi’s warm skin, his fingers closed around mine, brings goosebumps out all over me.
It’s just platonic, it’s just platonic… I repeat the words in my head frantically as we cross to the bar.
Luckily he releases me as we approach it. “What are you in the mood for?” he asks. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
“I’m guessing you won’t be drinking as you’re driving?”
“No.”
“I’m happy with coffee.”
“Don’t worry about me.” He smiles.
“No, coffee’s fine,” I say hastily. I don’t want to drink alcohol if he’s not. I’ll end up saying something stupid that he’ll still be reminding me about in thirty years’ time.
So he orders two coffees, and we take them over to a table by the window.
“Anyway, hopefully your dad won’t worry so much now.” He sips his coffee. “It might help his recovery. It’s amazing how much of an effect stress has on healing.”
“Oh, definitely.” I give him a mischievous look. “He did wonder why you haven’t asked his permission to marry me.”
“Uh… Because it’s not 1842?”
“Even so…”
“You’re not a prize heifer. Or a paddock. You’re not property. I don’t need permission to take what’s mine.”
My eyebrows slowly rise.
He lifts an eyebrow. “What?”
“What’s yours?”
His lips curve up. “I mean if we were really engaged.”
“If we were really engaged, you’d think of me as yours?”
“Yeah.”
“And yet you just said I’m not property. You can’t see the irony in that?”
He tips his head to the side. “If we were engaged, and you were marrying me, you would be mine, one hundred percent. I assume you would realize that.”
His eyes hold a delicious possessiveness that totally takes me aback. “That’s very caveman of you,” I say sassily, to cover how flustered I am.
“Damn straight.”
“And if another man showed interest in me while we were engaged? If he approached me, chatted me up?”
He leans back, one arm along the back of the chair, and gives me a direct look. “I’d rip his arms off.” My jaw drops. “What?”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m totally serious. My ring on your finger also means a big no-entry sign above your head.” His eyebrows waggle at the double entendre behind that.
“No wonder you’re not married,” I tell him sarcastically.
Deep down, though, my heart is hammering.
I’ve never seen this side of him—possessive, intense, and passionate.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to be truly engaged to this man.
To be his, as he says, to belong to him, one hundred percent.
I blink. I can’t. I have no idea what it would feel like. I think my head would explode.
“Oh,” he says, his face lighting up, “that reminds me. I have something for you.” He glances around to make sure nobody is looking, then extracts something from his trouser pocket.
It’s a small velvet box.
“It was my kuia’s,” he says. It’s Māori for grandmother. “My mum gave it to me when she died. She said to keep it for when I met Mrs. Right.”
I frown. “Again, you don’t see the irony in that?”
He looks puzzled. “Sorry, I thought you’d prefer this rather than have me spend another hundred thousand on a meaningless rock, but I’ll happily buy you one of your own.”
“Jesus, Kingi, no, no, no. This is fine. I just meant… never mind.” Heart still racing, I watch him crack open the box.
My lips part, but no words come out as he takes the ring from the box and holds it out to me. It’s probably white-gold, and the band wraps around a large central diamond in a koru shape similar to the one he wears around his neck. A smaller polished greenstone sits on either side of the diamond.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, automatically holding out my hand and splaying my fingers as he moves the ring toward it.
He slides it onto the fourth finger, saying, “My kuia was small, like you, so I’m hoping your hands are a similar size to hers.” He pushes it halfway down, then leaves me to wiggle it over the second knuckle.
“It’s a snug fit,” I murmur.
“At least it won’t fall off.” He smiles.
I study the ring, trying to get a grip on my emotions. It’s not real. He’s not proposing. We’re not really getting married. So why do I feel almost tearful?
“Are you sure about this?” I turn the ring this way and that, watching the diamond catch the light. “It feels a bit… disrespectful.”
He looks baffled. “Why?”
“Because it was your grandmother’s. And she would have wanted it, I’m sure, to be used in love.”
“I do love you,” he says. “As a friend.” He’s totally sincere. “She liked you,” he continues. “You remember meeting her, right?”
I nod. “We were climbing the jacaranda tree in the garden. She was sitting on the deck with your parents. I fell and banged my knee, and you took me over to the house and told them I’d hurt myself.
She gave me a hug and said I was an Urukehu.
” It’s a term for a fair-skinned and fair- or red-haired Māori person.
“She said they’re descendants of Patupaiarehe.
” They’re supernatural beings with red or fair hair, a fairy-like people associated with mist and twilight.
He smiles again. “That sounds like her.”
“I just… I feel like an imposter.”
He shrugs. “Don’t think of it as an engagement ring, then. Think of it as a friendship ring.” There’s warmth in his eyes. I think he really means it.
“I can do that.” I like that idea. We are friends, even though we’re not as close as we once were. We’ve drifted apart over the years, and it might be nice to rekindle our friendship.
“Good.” He leans back again, satisfied. “I can relax now that’s done.”
“Relax? What do you mean?”
“I thought you might refuse it.”
I look at the beautiful ring. “Why would I possibly refuse it?”
“I dunno. Some girls would insist on being bought a brand-new one.”
“You don’t have a very good view of women, do you?”
“Just going by experience.”
“What kind of girls have you been mixing with?” I think about Sabrina, and go, “Ohhh…”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think you see where I’m coming from now.”
“You don’t think Sabrina would have worn your grandmother’s ring?”
He snorts. “God, no, she would have wanted five carats minimum. Size is everything for women like that.”
“No wonder she had her eye on you then.”
His eyebrows rise. “Have you been watching me in the locker room?”
“I meant your height! Oh my God…”
He grins. “You’re blushing.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“It’s really not.”
I daren’t think about Kingi Davis getting undressed in the locker room or I’ll really be in trouble.
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask Sabrina Pearce to marry you just to get the job,” I say tartly to distract him from my hot face. “Surely she would have been a much more believable fiancée, and she’d have killed to play the role.”
“I don’t even want to think about being engaged to Sabrina Pearce,” he says with obvious dislike. “Just the thought brings me out in hives.”
“Fake engaged.”
“Even fake engaged. Still hives.” He gives a theatrical shiver.
“You’d get sex on demand,” I tease. “I thought that would have appealed to you.”
“That might be one rare occasion when I’d turn it down.”
It’s my turn to look amused. “Was she really that bad?”
“You have no idea.”
I grin. “You’re not going to elaborate?”
He tries not to laugh. “It seems ungentlemanly.”
I’m intrigued now, though. “Was she a pillow princess?”
“I don’t necessarily mind that.”
“Oh?”
“I’m happy to pleasure a woman without receiving in return.” His eyes meet mine, hot, amused.
Oh my. That backfired on me big time. I clear my throat. “So… what? Didn’t she talk dirty?”
His eyes flare—oh, he likes that thought. “She didn’t say anything much at all.”
“But she must have enjoyed it?”
“She was a starfish,” he confesses. “Even when I gave her some of my best moves.”
“You have moves?”
“One or two. Clearly I need to up my game, though. I think she even fell asleep at one point.”
I giggle, and he grins. Then he smiles. “Thank you for doing this for me.”
“Thank you for the money.”
“You know I’d have given that to you anyway.”
“I know.”
He tips his head, studying me, although I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Have you told Mark yet?” he asks.
I nod. “I called him from Mum and Dad’s while they were listening.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. Nina cried. Mum cried. I cried. It was a very emotional few hours.” It occurs to me then that Mark didn’t say thank you. But I suppose he was overwhelmed.
Kingi’s brow flickers with a frown. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s a good thing. You’ve helped a lot of people. All the debt will be paid off. We’ll be able to mend the lawnmower, get straight at the firm, maybe even buy some new equipment.”
His expression softens. “You’re not going to spend any of the money on yourself?”
“I don’t need anything.”
“You had twenty-seven dollars and forty-three cents in your account,” he reminds me.
“How did you remember that?”
“Luck.”
Of course, he’s a finance wizard. I forgot he has a head for figures. “Well, you mentioned expenses for clothing, remember? They do some great dresses for forty-nine ninety-nine in the Warehouse, and I’ll save the rest.”
“For fuck’s sake. Look, I’ll be taking you to a charity ball soon. I want you to treat yourself to a really nice ballgown. Spend at least a thousand.”
“It had better be made of solid gold if it’s going to cost that sort of money,” I joke.
“I’ll give you the name of some superior stores in town,” he says, “and I expect you to show up there and buy something suitable.”
My smile fades. “You’re serious about the ball?”
“Look at my face.”
Oh shit. I hadn’t considered that I might have to accompany him to something as high profile as that. And all joking aside, I can’t turn up in a dress from the Warehouse.
“You’re determined to make me reenact Pretty Woman, aren’t you?” I complain.
He looks puzzled. “Most women would be thrilled to be given money for clothing, and to go to an upmarket event like that.”
“I’m not most women.”
“Clearly not,” he says softly. His gaze slides to the windows. “We’re close to the city. Come on. Let’s head back to the car.”
As we stand, he holds out his right hand, and I slide my left into it. He lifts it and looks at the ring, presses his lips to it, then smiles.
Oh yes. I’m definitely in trouble.