14
Emily woke that Monday morning, early enough that the Moonee Ponds streets were still quiet. Her loft bed caught the morning sun streaming through cheap curtains, and she lay there, sheets tangled around her, still smelling of stadium beer and sunscreen.
She should’ve kissed him again. Should’ve stayed in that moment at the MCG, surrounded by forty thousand cheering fans. Instead? She’d bolted. Mumbled something incoherent about taxis, waved like she was directing traffic, and thrown herself into the first cab she could flag down.
The kiss kept looping in her head. The crowd surge that pressed them together. His hands steadying her. The way he’d kissed her back without hesitation, like he’d been waiting forever for that moment.
But lying there that morning, all Emily felt was panic mixed with desire. Did he wait after she fled? Did he stand there watching her taxi disappear into the Melbourne night, or did he just return to wherever mysterious musicians went after stealing your ability to think straight?
Suddenly it wasn’t early anymore. Emily launched herself out of bed, nearly face-planting when her foot caught in yesterday’s jeans. Three minutes under hot water, just enough to let her pretend she had her shit together.
She pulled on a black tee, fresh jeans, an oversized Country Road jumper that had seen better decades, and Timberlands because prioritising ankle support felt like a smart decision after Saturday’s roll and Sunday night’s dramatic bolt.
She caught her reflection, dry shampoo doing its best with yesterday’s hair pulled into a ponytail, tinted lip balm the only makeup she had time for. Good enough.
The knock came just as she was grabbing her keys from the kitchen bench. Emily yanked the door open before her brain could catch up with her body.
She froze.
Leo stood on her doorstep like something her sleep-deprived brain had conjured.
Dark jeans, those white sneakers again, that had no business being that clean, that same careful smile that had undone her from the start.
But there was something different now, a quiet confidence, like he’d made a decision and was comfortable with it.
Her pulse skipped. Relief flooded through her. He’d come back. Then embarrassment about her dramatic exit. Then something deeper, more dangerous. The kind of feeling that made her understand why she’d run in the first place.
Behind him, that black BMW idled at the kerb.
The car that had been shadowing their movements all weekend.
She’d assumed it belonged to Eurofest, that it would be halfway to the Gold Coast by now with the rest of the festival crew.
But here it was, still at his disposal. Whatever arrangement he had clearly came with perks that extended beyond the festival dates.
‘Good morning, Emily.’ His voice carried warmth and just a hint of amusement, like he knew exactly what was running through her head.
‘Hey.’ Her voice came out rougher than intended. ‘You’re… here.’
‘Was there somewhere else I should be?’ He tilted his head, studying her with those dark eyes that saw too much. ‘We did say eight.’
Right. The hometown tour she’d promised in the golden aftermath of that kiss. Before she’d panicked and fled like Cinderella.
Emily huffed something between a laugh and panic. ‘Look at you. Punctual and smug. Again,’ she said, grabbing her keys from the hook. The familiar weight of them grounded her. This was happening. He was here. They were doing this.
When he nodded towards the car, Emily shook her head immediately. ‘No way. We’re not rolling into my hometown like some kind of diplomatic visit.’
His eyebrow went up. ‘You have an alternative?’
‘My chariot awaits.’ She gestured down the street. ‘Way less conspicuous.’
He didn’t argue, just smiled like he was enjoying himself and followed her down the footpath. The morning sun caught his profile, and Emily let herself look properly for the first time. He seemed…lighter somehow.
Her beloved disaster came into view around the corner. The ’89 Hilux in all her sun-faded, structurally questionable glory. Leo stopped, taking the vehicle in with the kind of appreciation usually reserved for classic sports cars.
‘Workhorse of Australia,’ Emily said, slapping the bonnet with pride. ‘Toyota Hilux. Practically indestructible. Also doubles as a personality test.’
He walked around her slowly, running his hand along the dulled paint. ‘And what does it say about you?’
‘That I have excellent taste in vintage agricultural equipment.’
He grinned, and something in Emily’s chest loosened. This was still them. Whatever had changed with that kiss, they still had this.
‘May I?’ He gestured to the driver’s side.
The request caught her off guard. Nobody drove her ute. It was hers, a piece of her history, her independence. But looking at him standing there, patient and genuinely interested, she gave way and tossed him the keys. ‘Drive her like you love her.’
The engine turned over on the third try, and Leo’s face lit up at the sound.
‘She needs encouragement,’ Emily explained, climbing into the passenger side. ‘Sweet talk helps.’
‘What kind of sweet talk does a car like?’
‘Tell her she’s pretty. Promise you’ll check her oil. The usual.’
He laughed, shifting into first with only minor grinding. The clutch was temperamental, but he found the sweet spot like he’d been driving her for years.
They headed west out of the suburbs, the landscape opening up into that particular Australian emptiness, dry grass and scattered gums, the horizon stretching forever. The smell of eucalypts and dust filled the cab through windows that didn’t quite seal.
‘May I ask how you acquired such a vehicle?’ he asked, one hand easy on the wheel, the other resting on the gear stick.
‘It’s Dad’s old farm ute. He promised me when I was fourteen that if I got my licence first go, I could have her.’
‘And you did?’
‘Course I did. Parallel-parked like my life depended on it. It helps that there wasn’t another car within a one-kilometre radius.’
The comfortable quiet stretched between them, just the engine noise and wind. But Emily soon found herself filling it, words spilling out easier than they should have.
‘When Dad sold the farm, he offered to buy me something newer. Something that didn’t require a prayer and two attempts to start. But I wanted this one.’
She could feel the question he didn’t ask, the careful space he left for her to fill or leave empty.
‘Anyway,’ Emily said, forcing lightness back into her voice, ‘this ute’s seen me through four sharehouses, two failed relationships, and one very ill-advised attempt to transport an inflatable spa. So really, who needs a dad when you’ve got a reliable ute?’
He smiled at that, warm but seeing through her deflection.
‘Left here,’ she said, pointing to a gap in the fence line that city people would miss entirely. ‘Welcome to the grand tour of exciting rural Victoria. First stop, the Legendairy Co.’
Inside, the smell hit like a sense memory: sour milk and sharp vinegar mixed with industrial-strength disinfectant. A handwritten sign announced that boots and hairnets were required on the factory floor.
Emily watched Leo take in the basket of ancient gumboots and sad disposable lab coats, accepting his fate.
‘I swear I didn’t plan this,’ she said, already wrestling into the required gear. ‘I forgot about the glamorous dress code.’
He sighed dramatically, shoving a hairnet over his perfect hair. ‘The things I do for cheese.’
When he turned around in the full get-up—hairnet, oversized boots, and once-white lab coat—Emily couldn’t help the laugh that burst out.
‘You look like you’re about to serve sausage rolls at a school canteen. Very sexy.’
‘Well you look beautiful,’ he said, completely deadpan.
Heat crept up her neck. ‘Liar.’
‘I would never lie about beauty,’ he said, and something about the way he said it made her know it was true.
Behind the counter, Graham looked up from his newspaper and his face split into a grin. ‘Well, I’ll be. Long time no see, Emmy. How’s your mum doing? She still in that house off Anzac Avenue?’
‘She’s good,’ Emily managed. ‘Still there.’
‘How’s your dad? We bought that old tractor off him when he sold up,’ Graham continued, oblivious to her discomfort. ‘Bloody thing’s still going. Needs sweet-talking in winter, but don’t we all.’
Leo stepped closer, close enough that Emily felt his warmth. A silent support that didn’t demand explanation.
‘We’re just here for the tour,’ she said, desperate to move past memory lane. ‘I’m showing Leo around.’
Leo extended his hand across the counter. ‘Leo. Pleasure to meet you.’
Graham’s handshake was firm, assessing. ‘Graham Harvey. Known this one since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.’ He chuckled. ‘Watch yourself on the factory floor, it’s as slippery as a politician’s promise.’
Emily should have listened.
Three confident steps onto the factory floor was all she managed before her boots found the one wet patch and she went down hard, her palms slapping wet concrete.
The shock jolted up her spine, her tailbone thudding against the floor with an impact that would definitely bruise.
Mortification burned hotter than the sting in her palms as she sat on the floor in front of the one person she was trying to impress.
She stared up at the fluorescent lights and wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.
Then Leo was there, hauling her up. His hands under her arms, lifting her like she weighed nothing, and suddenly she was standing again, pressed against his chest for balance.
He muttered something sharp in what sounded like French or whatever that mystery accent was, eyes scanning her for damage. ‘Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?’
‘Perfect. Just testing the structural integrity of the floor.’
Only then, seeing she was actually fine, did the corner of his mouth twitch.