Chapter Three
Hallie
We walk out of the museum, into the bright January sunlight. The warm breeze whips my hair around my cheeks as we walk along the Commonwealth Walkway, the choppy waters of the harbor on our left.
Fraser’s quiet, and so I don’t say anything for a while. We walk in companionable silence, not touching, although close enough that occasionally his arm brushes against mine.
Although we’ve mixed a lot socially, we haven’t spent much time alone, just the two of us. I know he’s a Capricorn, and that he fits the profile of being determined, ambitious, and hardworking, as well as loyal, honest, and responsible. Whatever else I know about him I’ve mainly gleaned from Elora and Joel as they’ve talked about their childhood together. He took his responsibilities as the eldest sibling seriously, and could sometimes be over-zealous about it, which they still mock him for. I’ve watched him with Elora, though, who was assaulted when she was eighteen, and I love the way he’s so protective and caring of her.
On the surface, he seems strait-laced and reserved. Joel once teased him about being on the spectrum, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true. But Elora has told me stories about how she walked into the living room and found him making out with his first girlfriend, and he was in a slight panic because he’d undone her bra and got the hook caught on his sweater; how he’d gotten drunk on his eighteenth birthday, fallen into a rose bush, and emerged covered in scratches all over his face; and about the time he’d taken off his glasses in a nightclub to impress a girl and then asked out her friend by mistake because they were both blonde.
I also know he’s a scratch golfer, a superb fast bowler in cricket, and that he won trophies at school for the fifteen hundred meters. He graduated top of his cohort at Otago University, and he’s close to getting his doctorate. Dr. Bell, I’ll be able to call him. I like that.
So it seems as if I know lots about him… but right now, I can’t think what to talk to him about. I don’t know his musical or movie tastes, where he’s traveled, or his political or religious views. I’ve not seen him date anyone, and I don’t know how he feels about kids, family, or his plans for the future. And I’m his employee, so I’m not sure it’s right to ask.
“Are we going to Redwoods?” I ask, naming a café that most of us frequent close by.
“Nah,” he says. “Silver Gulls is nicer.”
My eyebrows rise. It is nicer—and much more expensive. “Um… I’m not really dressed for that,” I say.
“It’s my treat,” he replies, telling me in a nice way that he’s realized I’m nervous about the cost. “And anyway, you look gorgeous.”
My heart skips a beat. Gorgeous?
Abruptly, he stops walking. I take a couple more steps, realize he’s stopped, and turn to look at him.
“I d-didn’t mean to imp-p-ply…” His voice trails off, and he closes his eyes.
His hair is a little longer on top and contains a few curls that the breeze tugs at playfully. He’s clean shaven; I’ve never seen him with a beard. His dark-rimmed, rectangular glasses suit him and add to his professorial image, although I like it when he takes them off and I can see his bright-blue eyes properly.
I’ve never heard him stutter before. So why has he started now? Is it something to do with me? Surely not.
He opens his eyes and surveys me.
“You want to sit down?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “No. Come on.” He continues walking, and I run to catch up.
I can smell his cologne, and I realize it must be on my top, from where he held me in the conservation room. Surreptitiously, I pull the front up and sniff it. That moment was a highlight of my day that I’ll replay in my head over and over again—the feel of his arms around me, the way he rubbed my back, and how he rested his lips on the top of my head, almost as if he kissed my hair.
But it also makes me think about the letter, and that sours my mood. I tear my thoughts away from it. I’m not going to think about it now.
Fraser turns to cross the road, and I follow him across Jervois Quay toward Silver Gulls. It is just a café, but it’s a really nice one, busy on a Sunday morning, with Wellingtonians out for summer breakfast.
A couple vacates a table near the window as we enter, and so the waiter takes us straight over to it. We wait for him to clear the plates and cups and wipe the surface down, and then we sit opposite each other, glad of the blinds that cut out some of the sun’s glare.
“We were lucky to get a table,” I comment to Fraser as the waiter brings us both a menu.
“Popular place.” Fraser scans the menu, not making eye contact with me.
I lower my gaze to the printed sheet and study the options.
In the end, Fraser opts for an Eggs Benedict, and I choose the fruit-and-nut porridge with cream.
“Not great for the waistline,” I joke after we’ve given our coffee orders and the waiter has retreated.
Fraser frowns. “You’re not worried about your weight, surely?”
I look down at my generous curves. “Every woman is worried about her weight.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be.”
“Because I’m gorgeous?” I’m teasing.
But he says, “Yeah. And your ex is an idiot for not appreciating you.” He’s referring to the fact that I told him at the dinner party that Ian had criticized me for putting on weight.
My jaw drops. He really thinks I’m gorgeous? No, he’s just being kind. I fiddle with my cutlery. “Well, I think so.”
“You’re well rid of him,” he states. “Every woman deserves to be with someone who worships the ground she walks on.”
His words fill me with a deep longing. “I never had that feeling from Ian, not even in the beginning,” I admit, a little puzzled. “I appreciate that you’re trying to make me feel better, but I’m sure you’re just saying what you think I’d like to hear. I’ve never witnessed a relationship like that, and I’m not sure they actually exist.”
He leans back in his chair, turning a packet of sugar in his fingers, and doesn’t say anything.
The waiter arrives with our coffee, and I busy myself with adding sweetener to my latte and stirring it. I don’t know how Fraser drinks long blacks without milk or sugar.
“How many boyfriends did you have before Ian?” he asks.
My eyebrows rise. “That’s not very polite.”
He frowns. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I thought maybe limited experience might account for your poor view of men.”
I sip my coffee, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and sigh. Oh, what’s the point in being coy? “Ian was my first,” I admit. “We met when I was eighteen. And we’ve dated ever since. Nearly ten years.” I wince at the thought.
“Hmm,” Fraser says.
I straighten my cutlery. “I have something else to admit.”
“Oh?”
“We actually broke up a month ago.”
“But… I thought that was why you were upset on Friday night?”
I rest my chin on my hand, feeling the usual wave of frustration and despair I get whenever I think about Ian. “I thought it was temporary, that we were on a break while we cooled off. It wasn’t the first time it’s happened, you see. We’ve broken up twice before, for a few weeks each time. I texted him and tried to talk about what went wrong, but he wouldn’t talk to me, so on Friday I went to his mate’s house where he was staying to try to talk to him face to face. He told me then that the break was permanent, and made it very clear why. He didn’t like that I’d put on weight. He was frustrated with me working late some nights. And he said…” I told Fraser this on Friday evening, but even so, I feel embarrassed as I say it again, “I was bad in bed.” I suppose it’s a stupid thing to admit to a man, but it’s not like there’s any hope I’ll ever end up in the sack with Fraser. “I’m sure he’s right,” I add. “I don’t have much to compare to.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but our breakfast arrives, and so he closes his mouth again and takes his glasses off as he waits for the waiter to put our plates before us. The porridge is steaming hot and filled with chopped fruit and nuts, and accompanied by a tiny jug of cream and a small bowl of brown sugar. I busy myself with adding a spoonful of the sugar and pouring the cream over the porridge, then stirring it in. Only when I’m done do I realize Fraser hasn’t moved, and I lift my gaze to see him still staring at me, and his eyes are blazing.
“Tell me where he’s staying,” he says. “I’ll go around there and sort him out right now.”
My eyebrows lift. I can’t imagine that he’s ever been in a fight. He might joke about being Indiana Jones, but he’s the professor version who lectures to students and researches archaeology, not the fighting version with a whip.
Fraser with a whip… OMG. I’m not kinky in the least, but just the thought of him doing unmentionable things in the bedroom to give a woman pleasure brings me out in goosebumps all over.
I shake off the image, concentrating on the fact that he’s just offered to beat up my ex.
“I mean it,” he says.
“Wow.”
He frowns. “Are you mocking me?”
“Not in the least.”
“I used to do boxing training back in the day.”
“Ooh.”
“I’m a Southpaw and my left hook always caught my opponents out.”
Our gazes lock, and for a moment I’m captivated by his blue eyes. His lips slowly curve up. Oh my God, I think he really does find me attractive. That makes me feel as if the sun has come out from behind a cloud.
“I’ve never had a man fight someone to defend my honor,” I tease.
He picks up his knife and fork. “You only have to say the word.” He cuts into one of the poached eggs and begins to eat.
I have a spoonful of porridge, feeling flustered. I’m already doubting myself. Maybe he just said it because he considers me a friend—I can imagine Joel saying the same thing. It’s what Fraser does with Elora—he looks after her and protects her.
“Do you think of me like a sister?” I ask, needing to know.
He stops cutting into a piece of bacon and gives me an amused look. “No, Hallie, my affection for you is not of a sibling nature.” It’s such a Fraser thing to say that it makes me giggle, and he laughs. “That’s better.”
I stir my porridge slowly, thinking about how being with him always makes my heart lift. “I know I was upset the other night,” I say, “but it was more over what Ian said than because we’d broken up. I’m not devastated, just a little anxious at the thought of entering the dating game again. I’m sure everyone feels like that after a breakup.”
He nods. “It sucks, for sure. So… are you going to sign up for Tinder?” He gives me a mischievous look.
Horror sweeps over me. “God, no. I can’t think of anything worse. A perpetual succession of blind dates, eesh!” Curious now, I ask, “Do you go on there?’
“No, for the same reason. I believe it’s best to start as friends, anyway. To have things in common. And it’s almost impossible to glean compatibility from a one-line bio.”
I love the way he uses words like ‘glean’.
“I like that you think a couple should have things in common,” I say. “That was one major problem I had with Ian. He found archaeology boring, and I had no interest in his passion for motor racing.”
“I knew he was an idiot,” he says, then smiles again. “I love your giggle.”
Trying not to blush, I have a spoonful of porridge as I pluck up the courage to ask another question. Oh, what the hell. “So… you don’t go on Tinder for… you know… s-e-x?”
He snorts. “Definitely not. Sex with strangers is not my cup of tea.” My giggle earns me another amused smile.
“Cup of tea,” I tease.
He tips his head to the side. “You enjoy mocking me, don’t you?”
“No! Not at all! Okay, maybe a little.”
He just smiles and watches me add the rest of the brown sugar and cream. “Sweet tooth,” he murmurs.
“Just a bit. Hence the extra few pounds.” I stir the porridge, then sigh. “I know what you mean about Tinder. It’s not my cup of tea either. But maybe I should step out of my comfort zone a little. Perhaps if I had sex with a dozen strangers, I might improve my technique.” His expression turns startled, and I laugh. “I am joking. Kinda.”
“Hallie, you are not bad in bed,” he says firmly.
“With all due respect, you don’t know that.”
“I most certainly do. With the right partner, you would be dynamite.” He speaks with complete conviction.
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
His gaze lowers to my lips. “You just need t-to…” He stops and tries again. “If you were m-m-…”
Mine?
He lays his cutlery down, puts his elbows on the table, and covers his face with his hands.
I stare at him. “Are you okay?”
He nods without removing his hands.
I don’t know what’s wrong or how to make it better, but the poor guy is obviously struggling with something. “Fraser,” I say gently. “Come on, you can talk to me.”
He drops his head so his hands slide into his hair, then finally sits up and leans back in his chair. Around us, the café is bustling—customers coming and going and paying at the till, waiters bringing food and coffee and clearing plates, people talking and laughing and paying us no attention at all, so it’s as if we’re in the eye of the storm. Everything around me blurs and fades into the background, and all I can see is the heat in Fraser’s eyes.
“When I like a girl,” he says, “and I get flustered, I stutter.”
My lips part, but my voice has vanished.
We sit there like that for a good thirty seconds.
“Um…” I say eventually. My heart is racing, doing its best to play my ribs like a xylophone. “Are you saying… that means… you like… me?” I can’t believe it.
He surveys me, his eyes narrowed a little, almost glowering. “I haven’t stuttered for nearly eighteen m-months. I thought I was cured.”
My head is spinning. “But I’ve been working at the museum for a year, and you’ve never stuttered when you’ve talked to me before.”
“You had a boyfriend. I convinced m-myself I wasn’t interested in you, and put you firmly in the friends b-box. And then you broke up with him, and now I’m thinking k-k-…” He stops and blows out a breath.
“Kinky thoughts?” I suggest.
That makes him laugh. “No,” he scolds. “Well, maybe a little.”
Our eyes meet, and I inhale. I was teasing, but his eyes hold heat I haven’t seen before. Not in any man, not even Ian. Ian never looked at me with desire. He was never tender with me, never affectionate. I assumed romance was something you only found in books and movies.
“Fraser…” I whisper. “I don’t know what to say. I was convinced you didn’t like me in that way.”
He sighs.
I take my courage in both hands. “I like you too. A lot. I always have. But I thought you were way out of my league.”
He frowns, then huffs a sigh and looks away, out of the window. I study his profile, my heart still racing. Is he about to ask me out on a date?
When he looks back at me, though, the frown is still there, along with a touch of regret. “I can’t,” he says simply.
“Can’t what?”
“Ask you out. Date you. You work for me, Hallie.”
Disappointment fills me. Is he really going to let that get in the way? “We don’t have to tell anyone.”
“I can’t,” he says. “I have a clause in my contract that stipulates I won’t get involved with an employee.” He’s not stuttering now he’s being all professional.
I stare at him, shocked. “Really?”
“It’s getting more common now. Companies are cracking down on office romances because it can lead to favoritism, harassment, and jealousy.”
“I’ll make sure I keep out of your way at work, and I won’t let on to anyone, I swear…”
“I can’t, Hallie. It’s happened before.”
“What’s happened before?”
“I got involved with someone at work.”
That shocks me. “At the museum?”
He nods. “Before you started there. We were caught, and I had to have a disciplinary meeting.”
“With Whina?”
“Yes. And she warned me that if it ever happened again, I’d be fired.”
“So you were allowed to keep your job?” When he nods, I continue, “What happened to the woman? Was she fired?”
“No. She agreed to move on.” He doesn’t offer any more details. He speaks calmly, his face showing no emotion.
I feel an uncharacteristic surge of jealousy and resentment. Who was this woman who allowed him to slip through her fingers, while at the same time spoiling him for me?
I can’t believe I’ve found out that he liked me, but that I can’t have him, all in the space of a minute.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, I’m glad you did.” It’s the truth, even though the strength of the regret I feel that we can’t see it through surprises me. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t make it awkward at work.”
“I thought…” He hesitates for a moment. “I thought I should tell you because of our trip to Bethlehem.”
Oh shit, of course, we have to go to the ball together. Now I understand why he revealed his feelings. If he hadn’t, the attraction between us would have continued to simmer, and I would have carried on teasing him. But now I know how he feels about a work relationship I’ll have to dial it down and remain strictly professional. I can’t afford to let it get out of hand and threaten both our jobs. Even if it would have been the best thing that ever happened to me.
Fuck it.