Chapter Nine #2
That makes him laugh, and he’s still chuckling as we rise from our seats and make our way out of the plane.
“How are we getting to Blackridge?” he asks as we descend the steps. “Uber?”
“Ha!” I shoulder my flight bag, and we set off toward the gate. “You’ll be lucky to get a driver willing to take you up there. No, my friend, we’ll get one to drop us off at Willowmere Farm. That’s where I keep my Land Rover. I’ll drive us to Blackridge.”
“You’ll drive us? Do I need extra insurance?”
“Only if you expect me to parallel park in a space less than thirty feet long.” I glance at him. “I’m joking. I’m a terrific driver, even though I’m only a woman.”
“It’s not the fact that you’re a woman that bothers me. It’s the fact that you can’t walk into a room without knocking something over.”
I can’t argue with that, and I can’t think of anything clever to say either, so we collect our luggage and head out of the terminal.
We get in a taxi to Willowmere, which is a fifteen-minute drive in the opposite direction from Queenstown, in a sheltered valley near the quaint settlement of Arrowtown.
Despite my anxiety about spending time with Caesar, and my constant worry about Little Raspberry, my heart lifts at the thought of heading to Blackridge.
“You like this part of New Zealand, don’t you,” Caesar says.
I hadn’t realized he was watching me. I look out of the window at the silver rivers and low, undulating hills. “I do, as it happens. I’ve actually been thinking about moving here.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm,” I reply, lost in thought. “It’s so peaceful. It would be a lovely place to bring up a baby.”
“You’d like a family?”
He’s just making conversation; he has no idea of the turmoil I’m currently going through.
It crosses my mind that if I do have this baby, when he finds out, it’s possible he might count backwards and work out that it must have been conceived before Christmas.
But I guess he’d conclude it would be Peter’s.
He wouldn’t know that we hadn’t slept together for over a month before we broke up.
I become aware that I’m still staring at him, and so I say, “Er, yeah, eventually.”
He frowns. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need some painkillers?”
“No, no, I’m good, thank you. The fresh country air will be good for my head.”
“That’s what townies usually say before they smell the cowshit.”
I lift a brow. “I’m not a townie.”
He grins. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m not!”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t. You looked far too comfortable in your ballgown and your suit to convince me you’re a local yokel.”
“Like you’re a country boy,” I scoff. “You’ve already told me you hate camping.”
“I like my creature comforts, true. But I grew up in the country.”
“So did I.”
“I’m not sure our versions of growing up in the country would be the same. I’m guessing your days were taken up with horse riding and playing tennis.”
“Whereas you spent your spare time chewing straws and country dancing.”
We eye each other frostily.
“This isn’t a competition,” I point out. “I don’t quite understand why you think I’m a fake.”
“Experience.”
My face flushes. “I know you think I’m some kind of siren who tried to lure you onto the rocks. But that’s not what happened. Yes, I was economical with the truth at the ball—”
“A nice way to say you lied,” he interrupts. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t know that Tom had approached my father expressing his interest in an acquisition?” I hesitate, and he says, “I knew it,” and snaps his fingers as if I’ve somehow perjured myself.
I’ve met unpleasant people in my time. People who’ve been mean, rude, and spiteful. Sometimes their comments have lingered, but mostly I’m able to brush them off, believing their words reflect their own issues.
But it’s harder with Caesar. He’s a nice guy, and I’ve been intimate with him, and his meanness strikes harder because of it.
“Obviously, you can think what you want,” I say quietly.
“This was always going to be awkward. I understand that you don’t like me.
And I don’t mind a bit of teasing banter.
But I’d appreciate it if you could keep your accusations and aggressive comments to yourself.
” I blink away the stinging in my eyes and look out of the window.
He’s quiet for about thirty seconds. Then, eventually, he says, “I apologize.” I look back at him. He’s watching me, frown lines between his eyes. “Your grandfather is a very sore subject with me,” he admits. “I first met him across another boardroom table about ten years ago.”
My eyebrows rise. “I didn’t know that.”
“We were up against one another during an auction for a farm near Lake Taupo. It was the first time my father had sent me to close a deal on my own. Dad and I both thought it was in the bag and would be an easy task. But Tom turned up and chose to teach me a lesson. He ripped me apart, outbid me, and made me look a fool. He didn’t have to do that, and I admit, I still bear a grudge. ”
Well, at least he’s honest. “Do you think he did it because you were an Ashford? Or was it personal?”
“Probably a bit of both.”
“He doesn’t like arrogant young men who think they know better than him,” I say. “He tends to dress my brothers down like that. They deserve it, though.”
He gives a short laugh, then lets out a long sigh. “I probably did as well. But he could have taken me aside and had a quiet word. Instead, he chose to embarrass me in front of people I respected. It was a hard lesson to learn.”
“I don’t think the sun shines out of his ass,” I tell him. “I know what he’s like. But he’s my grandfather, and he’s always been good to me and Brielle.”
The taxi driver signals and slows as he reaches the turnoff to the farm, and I look out of the window again. “We’re here. Willowmere is run by Bill Harrison—he’s Rutherford Group’s Regional Manager for Central Otago. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”
The driver slows the car and pulls up outside the large farmhouse. I push Caesar’s credit card away. “You’re my guest this weekend,” I insist, and tap my card to the reader. He doesn’t argue, although I don’t think it comes naturally for him to let the girl pay.
We thank the driver, get out, and retrieve our cases from the back. As he pulls away, the front door of the farmhouse opens, and Bill Harrison comes out. He’s in his late fifties, about five-ten, lithe, and muscular, with skin the color of polished wood, and graying curly hair.
“Mads!” He opens his arms, and I run up to him and throw my arms around his neck. “It’s been ages,” he says, hugging me.
“I know, I’m so sorry. I meant to come before Christmas, and again in January, but… well, you know.”
“Yeah.” He releases me, looking at the man who’s walking up behind me. “You must be Caesar Ashford,” he says, holding out his hand. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.” Caesar shakes his hand and glances at me.
“Bill knows everything,” I advise. “He’s a close friend of the family.”
“You’ve come to see what they’re doing up on Blackridge,” Bill says. “Well, you’re with the right girl, for sure. Mads knows her science.”
“It sounds fascinating,” Caesar says. Can Bill hear the flat tone of his voice?
Bill’s eyes meet mine for a second—yes, he heard it. He’ll know about the problems that Ashford AgriTech has had, and that the family won’t be happy with the Rutherford Group swooping in like vultures on a carcass.
“I read your paper on variable-rate nitrogen application,” Bill says to Caesar. “Most people talk about reducing runoff. You actually made it work at scale. That’s not easy.”
Caesar shrugs. “It was a group effort.”
But I stare at him in surprise. He wrote a paper? “Ohhh…” I say. “So you’re not just a pretty face.”
Bill chuckles. Caesar just gives me a look that says, pu-leeese.
I grin. “Is the Land Rover ready?”
“Good to go,” Bill says. “I’ve restocked the cupboards at Shepherd’s Cottage, but I’ve put a chilly bin with some fresh stuff on the back seat.” He looks at Caesar. “You want a pair of rubber boots?”
“Ahhh… I guess.”
“What size?”
Caesar tells him, and Bill hands me the keys and goes off to fetch a pair.
“Rain’s coming in,” I say, glancing at the clouds on the horizon.
“Looks a long way off.”
“Weather systems move fast up here. We might just make it before the rain starts, but it’ll be close.”
My heart is racing, my stomach flipping uneasily.
I’m excited to return to Blackridge, as it’s my favorite place in the world, but the thought of having Caesar there, in my haven, unnerves me.
Occasionally Brielle has come with me, and one of my brothers once or twice, but usually I’m alone, and for the first time I feel resentful at the notion of him invading my peaceful space.
The fact that we’ve slept together, and the added anxiety of Little Raspberry and his future, are combining to make this a stressful visit, and I don’t want to bring that kind of energy to Blackridge.
Well, it’s too late to back out. All I can do is stay as calm as possible and keep the conversation away from the night of the ball and what happened between us.
Talk about the elephant in the room… this is the size of a blue whale, and it’s not going away.