FOUR
Abbey loops her arm through mine and mutters, ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Something rustles in the scrub to our left. We both freeze as if we’re in Jurassic Park.
Seconds tick by.
A tiny lizard darts out.
Abbey exhales hard, a hand pressed to her chest. I glance at her, and we both burst out laughing.
‘We couldn’t look more out of place if we tried,’ I say.
Abbey smooths down her black sleeveless jumpsuit and offers a smug smile. ‘Please. A girl’s gotta stay sharp in this place.’ She gestures at the bushes. ‘Aren’t there crocodiles out here?’
She has every right to fear crocodiles – the creatures have dominated Australian horror stories since the dawn of time. But we’re far away from any river and I’m certain (I hope?) no crocodile travels so far for food.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, lying through my teeth. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘You don’t know that. What are the odds a croc jumps out and one of us has to be the distraction while the other runs for help?’
‘Crocodiles don’t jump out.’
We walk in silence for a beat.
‘Well?’ she prompts playfully.
‘I’m not playing that game. Besides, we don’t even have drinks yet.’
It’s an old game – started the day Ella cracked open her mum’s liquor cabinet when we were sixteen.
What are the odds? You propose a challenge, count down from three, then say a number out of five.
If you match, the dare goes ahead. It was always a thinly veiled excuse to get drunk and make terrible choices.
Like the time we were eighteen and I had to climb into my neighbour’s wheelie bin.
Or last Christmas when Abbey had to steal the Christmas tree from the local pub.
Abbey’s since adopted it as a full-blown lifestyle – some sort of chaotic optimism manifesto.
We round a bend, and the party comes into view – an open area under a fairy-light-strewn gumtree, full of people who look like they have just dismounted a horse or a ute or something equally rugged.
The volume rises with every step we take, and it becomes immediately clear that we are very overdressed.
Abbey’s jumpsuit is at least backless and bold. I, on the other hand, am wearing a full-length black silk sheath that clings to every inch of me like a second skin.
A few heads turn.
Next to me, Abbey mutters, ‘Great.’
I scan the crowd. No familiar faces.
‘We look like the Men in Black,’ I whisper, tugging at the fabric around my waist.
Abbey scoffs. ‘Please. We’re Romy and Michele. Only sadder. And without millionaire boyfriends or Post-it empires.’
My eyes catch on a cluster of guys by the makeshift bar. Beers in hand, sleeves rolled up, sun-kissed forearms on full display. They’re mid-conversation, all rugged charm and dusty good looks, an R. M. Williams ad come to life.
I nudge Abbey. ‘What are the odds you walk over and say hi?’
Her eyes flash. ‘Out of five.’
We count down in unison. ‘Three, two, one—’
‘Four.’
‘Four.’ My smile spreads.
‘Joke’s on you,’ she says, already eyeing the group. ‘I was going to get us drinks anyway.’ She winks. ‘Consider it recon.’
I watch her stroll off, her hips swaying, and nearly snort when three heads pivot towards her like periscopes the moment she leans across the bar and accepts a glass of champagne from the bartender. It’s inspiring.
‘Jamie!’
I turn to see Ella sitting on a wooden bench and radiating goddess beauty in a linen wrap dress that hugs her body like a lover. Her hair is smooth and bouncy despite the humidity. For the love of God, someone put this woman in a shampoo commercial.
I settle into the space she offers beside her on the bench, my dress clinging to my thighs.
‘Where’s Abbey?’ Ella asks, scanning the crowd with a worried expression.
‘She’s on a mission,’ I say and point to where Abbey has already become the gravitational centre of a circle of tall, tanned men. Ella follows my gaze and lets out a low whistle.
‘Wow. That didn’t take long.’
Abbey is a chaos magnet. If that chaos comes in the shape of several handsome men in denim and polished boots, who am I to judge?
‘Typical Abbey,’ Ella says playfully.
I grunt in agreement, taking in the scene: the low buzz of chatter, the smell of lemon myrtle, the barbecue and the buzz of young love.
‘So?’ Ella prompts, waving at the vast golden bushland stretching out around us. ‘What do you think?’
I shrug. ‘Silk was a bad choice.’
Ella laughs, bright and effortless. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t think I want to.’
She leans in conspiratorially. ‘Oh, don’t be so closed off. You might change your mind when they propose with rings like this.’
She lifts her hand and I gasp. ‘Ella. That’s—’
‘Huge? Yep.’ She turns her hand, admiring the antique diamond ring. ‘I told you the camera didn’t do it justice.’
I raise a brow. ‘That’s what he said.’
Ella cackles and grabs my arm. ‘Come on. It’s time you met Darcy.’
Technically, I have met him – several times. Through a screen. While trying to pretend the wi-fi wasn’t lagging and my camera hadn’t frozen on my double chin. But sure, let’s pretend this is our grand introduction.
I twist out of Ella’s grasp. ‘I’m gonna grab a drink first. I’ll come find you.’
She nods and is immediately swallowed by a pack of glowing, linen-clad mothers gushing over her. Godspeed, my little butterfly.
I turn to the bar – and slam into something solid. My body ricochets back and my heel catches on nothing, sending me crashing to the ground in agonising slow motion.
Death by humiliation. Cue the blackout screen.
My hands hit the dirt in time to save my face, though my confidence is in tatters. I’m one breath away from being the main character in a Hallmark movie, minus the festive soundtrack and snow. Just a scorched lawn and my inner monologue screaming, NO NO NO.
Before I can assess the damage (emotional, physical, spiritual), strong hands wrap around my waist and haul me up like I weigh nothing more than an overwatered succulent.
‘You good?’ a low, gravelly voice asks in my ear, the words slow and smug and wildly inappropriate.
I glance up and meet blue eyes. Unfairly blue.
The kind of blue you’d assign a fictional boyfriend in a morally questionable fantasy novel.
The kind of blue girls on TikTok go crazy for.
Trust fund, six five, et cetera. Except, judging by his callused hands and off- duty farmer aesthetic, this one’s probably allergic to suits and thinks crypto is a disease.
The kind of man who thinks drinking oat milk is a character flaw.
His unfairly blue eyes crinkle in amusement.
‘I’m fine,’ I lie, brushing dust from my dress and what remains of my dignity. ‘Thanks for the save.’
He shrugs. ‘Didn’t want you scaring the livestock.’
‘Okay. So, chivalry’s dead and buried then?’
‘Just resting.’
‘What’s your name, cowboy?’
He blinks, as if that’s the most exhausting sentence he’s heard all week. ‘Not interested.’
‘In what, conversation or human interaction?’
‘In you,’ he says simply, reaching for a beer from the outdoor bar like we’re not still mid-scene.
I stare at him. ‘Okay. Little blunt for someone who probably thinks eye contact is foreplay.’
He cracks the beer open with a signet ring on his hand. ‘Don’t take it personally. City girls aren’t my type.’
My jaw ticks. ‘You don’t even know me.’
He gives me a once-over – not rushed, just thorough enough to feel insulting. ‘I know enough.’ He takes a slow sip, eyes glinting as if he’s enjoying himself. Which makes one of us.
‘Right. And what exactly do you know?’
‘You showed up in heels to a working farm. You probably drink champagne like it’s a personality trait. And you practically threw yourself at my feet. Bit full-on, don’t you think?’
‘I tripped,’ I correct.
‘On me. Physics is a bitch.’
‘You’re out here in jeans and an Akubra, but I’m the cliché?’
He tilts his head, maddeningly calm. ‘Difference is, mine’s practical. Yours is curated. You scream high heels, high maintenance, gone by Monday.’
I grab a glass of champagne from the bar behind me. ‘Better than screaming “emotionally constipated farmhand who hasn’t touched a woman since his restraining order”.’
His mouth twitches. A real smile, maybe. Dangerous territory.
‘You done?’ he asks.
‘Not even close.’
He leans in a fraction, all heat and arrogance and eucalyptus- scented aftershave. ‘You’re not used to people saying no to you, are you?’
‘No,’ I say sweetly. ‘Mostly because they don’t. And when they do, they don’t smell of diesel fuel and generational trauma.’
He actually laughs – low and sharp. ‘You think this is flirting?’
‘I thought this’ – I gesture between us – ‘was me being polite. But sure, let’s call it a cultural misunderstanding.’
He tips his beer in a lazy mock toast. ‘To clear boundaries.’
I clink my glass against his. ‘To good instincts. Mine clearly need work.’
We drink. We stare. The silence burns like the grass beneath us.
I should walk away. I should go find Ella and tell her this wedding guest is hostile and possibly cursed.
Instead, I say, ‘So … what is your type?’
He grins. ‘Not you.’
It’s the meanest, hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
‘Jamie?’ Abbey’s voice slices through the stand-off like a champagne cork to the temple. She’s behind me, glass in hand, smirk firmly in place.
Blue Eyes steps back, amusement still tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘You must be B2.’
Abbey raises an eyebrow. ‘B2?’
‘B1 and B2?’ He gestures between us. ‘Bananas in Pyjamas?’
She frowns. ‘Is that a euphemism?’
I nearly snort champagne through my nose.
‘It’s a kids’ show,’ he says, then gives up when she continues looking at him blankly. ‘Never mind.’
‘Why am I not surprised to find you three together?’ Ella appears with Darcy one step behind her.
Abbey lifts her glass. ‘Well, it’s a million degrees and we’re standing next to the only functioning bar. Do the maths.’
Ella ignores her and wraps an arm around Darcy’s waist. ‘This is Abbey and Jamie. My best friends since before bras.’
All curly dark hair, soft green eyes and a smile as wide as the horizon, Darcy steps forward and kisses us both on the cheek. ‘Nice to finally meet you both.’ His eyes settle on me. ‘Glad to see the bruise has cleared up.’
Ella and Abbey lose it. Heat rushes to my face so fast I’m surprised my body doesn’t combust.
‘What bruise?’ Blue Eyes asks.
Ella grins. ‘Things got a little too hot and heavy the other day, didn’t they, Jamie?’
Abbey bends over, wheezing with laughter. My skin burns from embarrassment. I’d sent Ella photo evidence of the Lululemon Incident purely for comedic value, not so she could share it with her future husband. And now? It’s being discussed like a group project.
‘It’s nothing,’ I murmur. ‘Barely even a bruise.’
Abbey wipes her eyes. ‘It was the funniest thing I’ve heard all month.’
I’m racking my brain for a subject change when Ella graciously turns to Abbey. ‘Abs, how was that skincare event last week?’
I mouth thank you to Ella as Abbey lights up and launches into a story involving a reality TV dermatologist, a rogue serum sample and ‘a high-risk exfoliation situation’. Darcy listens with the polite confusion of a man encountering full speed, unfiltered female gossip.
‘There you all are!’ Gloria appears, an opulent hurricane. She winks at the bartender before swapping her empty champagne glass for a full one. Then she corners Ella and Darcy. ‘It’s time for you two to make a toast!’
Gloria gives us the royal shoo – an elegant wave of her free hand, accompanied by an arched brow – so Abbey grabs another glass of champagne, and then hooks her arm through mine as we’re herded into the crowd.
I sip my drink, letting the bubbles coat my lingering embarrassment like emotional armour. Abbey leans in, her voice low and annoyingly delighted. She nods her head at Blue Eyes. ‘You two looked awfully cosy. He’s giving Geralt of Rivia energy.’
I snort and whisper back, ‘Apparently I’m not his type.’
Ella steps forward and lifts her glass, radiant and composed, the human embodiment of golden hour. ‘To love,’ she says. ‘The kind that sets your soul on fire. The kind that makes you feel like the world is holding its breath for you.’
I notice Blue Eyes shift to my right.
‘We’re all here tonight because we’ve either found that kind of love, or we’re still looking. And that’s okay. Just … when you find it, hold on. With both hands. Because love like that? It’s why we’re all here.’
Glasses lift. Soft clinks fill the air.
I sip my drink mechanically, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Beside me, Blue Eyes releases a soft snort – even he can’t believe the cheesy monologue we just listened to.
I glance at him. ‘Something funny?’
He shrugs. ‘Just wondering how long it took her to rehearse that.’
I glare at him. ‘Did someone steal your soul at a farmers’ market, or were you always this emotionally repressed?’
He scoffs and I hate the way my eyes track the length of his jawline. ‘At least I had a soul to lose.’
Before I can ruin his entire life with words, Abbey pulls me away. ‘Come on, B1,’ she says. ‘Let’s show them how it’s done.’
She tugs me towards the dance floor – a glorified term for a flattened patch of grass – and I let her, because Blue Eyes’ smugness is giving me a rash and I didn’t sacrifice a week’s pay on this dress for nothing.
The air is still humid, and the champagne still tastes of money and excellent branding. My heels are sinking into the grass, my hair is stuck to the back of my neck, and my dress is now a second skin. But somehow, I don’t care.
What happened back there with what’s-his-name?
It wasn’t a spark. It was a short circuit.
A heatstroke-induced glitch. A temporary lapse in judgement brought on by sturdy hands and a strong jaw.
It wasn’t a meet-cute. It was a social collision with a man who probably lists ‘owning tools’ under hobbies and thinks a long pause counts as emotional depth.
So I laugh. Because if I don’t, I might even entertain the idea of speaking to him again – and I’m not that drunk.
This weekend is not about arrogant men with mystery stubble. It’s about saying yes to fun and no to anything that reeks of commitment – and maybe getting naked with someone who knows when to shut up and use his tongue.
I’ve got an almost full glass of champagne in my hand, a full face of make-up that’s only mostly melting, and an entire party full of potential mistakes ahead of me.