SEVEN
The music starts at the outdoor reception down the road afterwards, and everything becomes magical. Perhaps it’s the fairy lights in the trees overhead, or the lanterns gleaming like low-hanging stars, or the combination of rosé and humidity.
Ella looks happier than I’ve ever seen her – completely locked in on Darcy, the two of them spinning across the lawn and forgetting anyone else is here.
The crowd claps, someone whoops. Champagne flutes clink around us, laughter spills from the sidelines, and the whole thing is disgustingly beautiful.
‘Here’s to legally binding romance,’ I murmur, tapping my glass against Abbey’s.
‘And surprise pregnancies,’ she adds and grins, mouth full of some obscenely fancy cracker. ‘So, apparently we’re going on a helicopter to some watering hole tomorrow.’
I blink. ‘Apparently?’
Abbey grabs two more crackers from a passing waiter. ‘One of the groomsmen told me. Dax? Dex? Derek? Honestly, he could’ve said his name was Dingo and I’d still call dibs.’
I sip my rosé and follow her gaze. The guy is the same one who came looking for Luke this morning – tall, curly haired and one hundred per cent beef fed. ‘Well. That’s illegal levels of attractive.’
‘Right?’ Abbey rubs her hands together as if she were a villain.
‘He’s all yours,’ I say, tipping my glass in solidarity.
‘I’ll be over here, flirting with the catering table.
’ Which is, frankly, excellent. The meat is …
meaty. I’m choosing not to think about how recently it might have had a name, but either way it’s delicious.
I load my plate with salad to convince myself I’m making healthy choices, but it’s too late.
The wine has claimed me and I’m two more mouthfuls away from a cheddar-induced coma.
By the time the bonfire kicks in, the party has hit that floaty stage.
Clusters of couches contain people who are shaking with the sort of laughter that only happens when you’re full of carbs and nostalgia.
Guests wander off into shadowy corners for intimate conversations or wedding-adjacent make-outs.
I find myself stuck in a conversation about cattle with a woman named – I think – Lauren.
I nod along, pretending to understand what ‘low-stress stock-handling’ means while drafting an exit strategy.
Abbey catches my eye from across the lawn, mid-giggle with her victim, Dax/Dex/Derek.
She lifts her glass; I raise mine back and smile.
It’s at that exact moment I realise I need to pee. I look around, then frown and lean towards Lauren. ‘Sorry – do you know where the nearest bathroom is?’
She brightens. ‘Oh, yep! It’s back down the road at the house, maybe a five-minute walk?’
Five. Minutes.
My jaw goes slack and Lauren grimaces in sympathy. ‘I know, not ideal. Unless you’re game for the bush?’
Absolutely not.
The stars overhead are offensively bright, and, away from the glow of the reception, the rest of the farm is blanketed in the kind of darkness where every snap of a twig is straight out of a horror film soundtrack.
I paste on a smile. ‘I might just … walk.’
She nods knowingly, as if she’s already clocked that I flinch at loud birds and that my caramel highlights were never meant to survive this place.
So, I set off, bladder screaming, heart mildly panicked. The music fades behind me, replaced by cicadas and a breeze that smells of grass and gum leaves. And honestly? I’m kind of proud. I’m five rosés deep, halfway to the toilet and not entirely convinced I won’t get eaten by a wombat.
Shit.
I clamp my thighs together, but it’s already too late. I’m not going to make it.
I glance around. No people. No buildings. Only stars and the occasional weird bush noise that might be a frog or karma. I am alone, abandoned by plumbing and by God.
Well. This is how I go.
I whisper a prayer to the moon or whoever’s on shift tonight and step into the bushes.
I’ve got no clue what kind of tree I’ve chosen.
Possibly sacred. Possibly poisonous. Whatever.
I hoist my dress, yank down my Spanx – which are not designed for speed – and let sweet, glorious relief wash over me.
If Abbey could see me now, she’d take a picture and use it for my next birthday slideshow. I’d deserve it.
The relief is short-lived.
Voices. Footsteps.
I fumble with the Spanx and pee on my own hand – let’s not dwell on it – haul my dress back down, retrieve my half-empty glass of rosé, then stumble out of the bushes, aiming for a casual ‘I’ve just been out for an evening stroll’ vibe – but slam into someone solid and male.
Of course, it’s Luke.
Because the universe doesn’t just hate me – it wants to watch.
He looks down at me, then back to the bushes where I’d emerged from. His mouth twitches as if he’s trying hard not to smile and failing gloriously at it.
‘Where did you come from?’ he asks, voice low, teasing and far too attractive for someone I just peed near. Behind him, three friends eye me with mild interest, as if I’m an animal in a wildlife documentary and they’re waiting to see what noise I make.
‘I—’ I start, then change tack. ‘I was looking for the bathroom.’ One of the friends snorts into his beer.
Luke doesn’t laugh, but the glint in his eye makes it worse. ‘You’re a bit off course, sweetheart.’
I glare at him. ‘Thank you. I hadn’t noticed, what with the wilderness and all.’
Luke turns to his friends. ‘You guys go ahead.’
They glance between us, knowing they’re leaving right before something juicy happens, then disappear down the road, heading back to the reception.
‘You coming, or what?’
I look over at Luke, who’s clearly waiting for me to follow him in the other direction. I cross my arms. ‘It’s 2025. I don’t need a chaperone.’
That look. That look in his eyes – amused, smug, curious – is infuriating. He knows. He knows I peed in the bush. He’s waiting for me to admit it; what he doesn’t know is that I am petty and stubborn and still need to wash my hands.
Jamie, two. Luke, one.
‘I know.’ His grin is lethal. It should be studied in labs. ‘But I can’t have you getting lost out here. You might disappear into the bush or start talking to trees.’
I take a step back. ‘How convenient. You get to play hero, and I get to star in a true crime podcast. Handsome Man Questioned in the Disappearance of Jamie Hayes.’
He arches a brow. ‘You think I’m handsome?’
Yes. ‘No.’
He laughs. Actually laughs. The sound makes my body vibrate and I’m not mad about it.
‘Are we walking or not?’
I toss back the last of my rosé like it’s a battle cry. ‘Lead the way,’
I say and follow him into the dark, a woman with no shame and suspiciously damp hands.
We reach the cabins, I quickly let myself in to ‘pee’. Satisfied my hands are clean, I walk back out to where Luke is leaning over the verandah railing, staring up at the stars. The moonlight skims his jaw, casting shadows I have the sudden, idiotic urge to trace with my fingers.
He doesn’t look over, but I know he hears me.
‘The stars here are better than anything we get in Sydney,’ I say as I come to stand beside him, our arms grazing, and tilt my head back. Out here, without high-rises or traffic lights or soul-crushing burnout, the sky shimmers.
‘Have you ever seen the Emu?’
I frown. ‘As in … the bird?’
He smirks without turning. ‘The constellation. You don’t look for the stars. You look for the dark space between them.’
I glance sideways. He’s pointing up at a gap in the sky, and for a minute I see nothing.
And then – there it is.
The shape emerges from the negative space: long body, slender neck, round head.
‘Oh. It’s … huge.’
‘Takes up half the sky,’ he says.
We stand there quietly, shoulder to shoulder, watching the cosmos.
It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t feel awkward, a silence that maybe neither of us is in a hurry to break.
‘I used to think the stars were souls,’ Luke says eventually. ‘And the older you were when you died, the brighter you shined – every year added another spark.’
I glance at him. His voice is soft, far away.
‘That one there …’ He nods at a particularly bright star near the horizon. ‘I reckon that’s my mum.’
Silence.
‘She must’ve lived a full life,’ I say softly.
Luke gives a slow nod, chewing on the weight of that. ‘She did.
Breast cancer got her last year. Now it’s just me and Dad on the farm.’
The ache in his voice is subtle but sharp. I don’t know what to say to that. I never know what to do when people hand me things that feel too heavy to hold.
‘Where’s your farm?’ I ask instead.
‘Two hundred and thirteen k’s that way,’ he says, gesturing into the darkness.
‘Ahh. So that’s how you knew where the nearest latte was.’
Luke releases a low laugh, the kind that curls at the edges. ‘I might have mapped it one day.’ There’s a pause, and then he looks over at me. ‘What about you? Parents back in Sydney?’
The air tightens. The conversation has veered left, towards territory I don’t go.
Not here. Not with him. I have rules – a whole damn system, actually, refined over years of romantic trial, error and tactical ghosting.
Nothing personal, no sleepovers, no breakfast, no second hook-ups, and strictly – strictly – no feelings.
That’s where people get hurt. And I don’t do hurt. I do exit strategies.
I shrug and do what I always do – lie through my teeth.
‘Yeah, they’re alive and well. Celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary next week.
’ Then, because I’m physically allergic to sincerity, I steer the conversation away from anything personal and add, ‘Also, I once believed if you swallowed gum, your stomach would glue itself shut and you’d die slowly and dramatically. ’
Luke stares at me. Then he tips his head back and lets out a huge laugh, as though it’s been sitting there all night, waiting for permission.
‘We’ve all got our childhood trauma, I guess,’ he says, grinning.
He looks at me for a long second, and I swear the air between us crackles. There’s a glimmer in his eyes I don’t recognise. Or maybe I do, and I’m choosing not to name it.
‘Who are you?’ he asks quietly.
I open my mouth to say something – anything – when someone shouts from down the road, ‘Oi! You two coming or what?’
I flinch as if caught doing something off script. Right. No time for stars or … whatever the hell that was. I grab my empty glass and step back into the scene.
Luke hangs his head as I spot Ella and Darcy disappearing around the side of the cabins, a trail of champagne-fuelled humans drifting after them like tipsy breadcrumbs. Abbey is hand in hand with the curly-haired groomsman – Dex? Dax? Derek? – and they disappear in the same direction.
‘Where’s everyone going?’
Luke doesn’t answer. Just offers his hand.
Against my better judgement – blame it on the alcohol or the stupid way he smiles – I slide my hand into his. His palm is rough and warm; his fingers close around mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if we do this all the time.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says with a crooked smile. ‘I don’t bite.’
Lord, help me.
I let out a totally casual, definitely not deranged little chuckle and follow him, because I have no willpower and also I might be concussed by sexual tension.
He leads us towards the sound of splashing and loud laughter. Somewhere a speaker is pulsing out music, and as we round the bend, I see a massive pool lit by string lights and coloured lanterns, glittering as if someone has poured the stars straight into the water.
People are already in the pool, clothes and all, champagne glasses raised aloft – tiny trophies of poor decision-making.
And at the centre of it all: Ella and Darcy, soaked to the bone, kissing like they invented it.
A camera flash goes off as they spin in the water.
The speaker starts blasting ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’, and suddenly it’s not a wedding anymore – it’s a movie.
Abbey cannonballs into the pool, screaming with joy, while Dex/ Dax/Derek – who is either drunk, in love, or drunk in love – cheers her on from the water.
‘Get in!’ she shouts at me.
I hesitate. My boobs are taped within an inch of their lives, there’s a high probability my dress will be completely sheer when wet, and my Spanx were not designed for underwater combat.
‘You trust me?’ Luke says, already pulling me towards the edge.
‘Um. No?’
Too late. His hands are on my waist and the world tilts. We plunge in.
I come up sputtering, half laughing, half drowning. My dress is a wet mess, plastered to my skin. I’m mid-adjustment when Luke reappears, making it clear that dignity is officially out of reach.
His white shirt is transparent, his hair dripping, and his grin somehow brighter than the pool lights.
‘See?’ he says. ‘Not so bad.’
‘You’re insane,’ I reply, splashing him with zero remorse.
Luke shakes his head, clearly amused. ‘You worry too much.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Go terrorise some other poor soul.’
He moves closer, brushing wet hair off my face with maddening gentleness. ‘You’re exhausting, you know that?’
Danger. Emotional danger.
Before I can process how close we are, Abbey swims over and flops an arm around my neck.
‘There you are!’ she slurs. ‘Get on Luke’s shoulders. You and me. Pool noodle duel. Let’s go.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Do it!’
I shoot her a glare and she grins. She scrambles over to the curly- haired groomsman and climbs onto his shoulders like a drunk acrobat with vengeance in her heart, brandishing her pool noodle as if she’s going to war.
And then Luke is in front of me again, holding out his hand, brows raised, as if he doesn’t know why he’s doing it either – but he is.
I stare at him for half a second too long. And then I’m on his shoulders.
His hands wrap firmly around my thighs and – okay, wow – they’re very warm and very there. I’m trying to ignore the fact that his head is between my thighs when Abbey smacks me in the head with a foam noodle.
‘Ow!’
‘Focus, Hayes!’ She cackles.
Luke laughs beneath me. ‘You better grab your weapon before she finishes you off.’
He passes me a pool noodle and then it’s on.
Foam flies. Water splashes. Noodles are discarded. We devolve into full-on aquatic wrestling – me and Abbey, Luke and the other groomsman, soaked and shouting.
Somehow, we win. I always win.
The crowd cheers. Abbey flips me the finger.
Luke sinks beneath me without a word, and I lean back underwater to untangle my legs.
When I break the surface again, Abbey and her groomsman are climbing out of the pool – giggling, dripping.
Then Luke’s in front of me again, eyes locked on mine. He reaches for me, cups my jaw in his hand like he’s done it before. Like he’s allowed.
And then – he kisses me.
No warning. No teasing. Just warm lips, wet hands and a slow- burning kind of madness that makes my brain stutter.
Somewhere, someone cheers.
Somewhere else, ‘Never Tear Us Apart’ by INXS hits the chorus.
And me? I smile against his mouth.
Because just like that, he’s mine.