16
Emily was tipsy by the time they got to the pub.
A blissful buzz from the tasting at the winery and that kiss, which was enough in itself to make anyone feel giddy.
The drive back from the vineyard was mostly a blur of golden light and Leo’s hand on the gear stick.
His hair catching the sun through the window.
He drove her old ute like it was precious.
Emily wanted him with a desperation that scared her.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked, glancing over with that look that turned her insides molten.
She nodded too fast, said something inane about being good, great, fine. She was electric with desire, trying not to stare at his hands, his mouth, the way his thumb tapped against the wheel in that three-beat rhythm.
The Royal stood on the corner like it had grown there, weatherboard and corrugated iron, the kind of country pub that had survived a hundred years of locals, bushfires and droughts.
Inside, dinner service was already underway, the clatter of cutlery, the hiss of steaks hitting hotplates, that particular hum of a Monday night in a small town.
‘Thirsty?’ Emily said, way too bright, nodding at the chalkboard menu.
That smile of his, pulling more on the left side. God, that dimple.
‘I am content with water. I want to make sure we get home safely,’ he said.
Home. The word hit her wrong. Made her think of her stupid loft bed, climbing up there alone after he drove away in that black car.
‘Or we could stay here!’ she blurted out with all the impulse control of a twenty-one-year-old.
The regret was immediate and spectacular. She flailed through something about separate rooms, the chances of hitting a kangaroo at dusk, the damage that would do to the ute and the kangaroo. Each word made it worse.
He just leaned against the bar, watching her unravel. ‘Was this your plan from the beginning? To ply me with wine and then suggest accommodation?’
She could feel her face burning.
Jason saved her, appearing like he’d been summoned by the gods of social disasters. ‘Emily! Nice to see you back in town.’
The publican had known her since she was four years old, had let her wash dishes and work the espresso machine when she was fourteen. He had heard everything. Of course he had.
When he asked whether they wanted single rooms or a double, she thought she might actually spontaneously combust right there in the front bar.
Leo shook Jason’s hand, introduced himself, easy and sure while Emily stood there like a broken traffic light stuck on red.
‘I’ll put you two in the apartment,’ Jason said with a wink that made her want to crawl under the floorboards. ‘Bit more space.’
They found a corner table and Emily immediately ordered a bottle of the local shiraz, needing something to do with her hands. Leo watched her pour, that half-smile playing at his lips.
‘Nervous?’ he asked, his fingers drumming that three-beat rhythm on the scarred wood.
‘Why would I be nervous?’ She took a too-large sip, felt the warmth spread through her chest. ‘Just because I accidentally propositioned you in front of half the town?’
He laughed, low and warm. ‘Accidentally?’
Their knees bumped under the table. They both stayed exactly where they were. The pressure of his leg against hers sent sparks up her spine. The wine was already adding to the buzz from the vineyard, making everything feel softer at the edges, more possible.
Emily leaned forward. ‘So what’s it like? The touring life? Different girl in every city?’
His eyes darkened slightly. ‘It is not like that.’
‘No?’ She leaned forward, teasing. ‘Mysterious European musician doesn’t have groupies throwing themselves at him?’
‘I keep to myself when travelling,’ he said, then watched as she reached for the bottle again. ‘You are a bad influence,’ he murmured as she topped up his glass.
‘You are staying, remember? I’m just stimulating the local economy.’
The way he looked at her then, something dark and promising in his eyes, made her take another sip just to have something to do with her mouth that wasn’t kissing him.
The parmas were perfect. They ate in silence at first. Leo kept glancing at her as she refilled their glasses.
‘We are going through this pretty quickly,’ he said lightly, though his eyes were serious.
She just grinned and topped him up anyway.
The bartender appeared with a fresh bottle before they even asked. ‘Another?’
Leo gave a small nod. ‘Why not?’
An older gentleman in a Lions Club vest wandered past, holding a roll of blue tickets.
‘Meat raffle! Two bucks a ticket! Help out the Lions Club!’
‘Two, please,’ Emily said.
The man scribbled their names onto a stub and handed it over with a wink. ‘Good luck to ya.’
Leo smiled, tapping the ticket lightly against his glass. ‘Is this a Monday-night tradition?’
Emily shrugged. ‘Used to be. Mum and I would come down sometimes. Cheap parmas, meat raffle. She’d have a couple of wines, I’d demolish a mountain of chips and fall asleep in the car on the four-minute drive home.’
‘She called me tinny,’ Emily added, laughing a little. ‘Means lucky. We used to win the meat tray more times than we had any right to. She’d say I could fall in shit and come up smelling like roses.’
His smile went soft. He lifted his glass slightly, their raffle tickets tucked under his thumb.
‘Here’s to getting lucky on a Monday.’
She snorted, and then promptly choked, wine spurting out her nose in the most unglamorous way possible.
Leo half-rose, startled.
Waving a hand, coughing, she laughed so hard her ribs hurt.
When she finally caught her breath, she wheezed, ‘In Australia, getting lucky doesn’t mean winning the meat raffle.’
Leo blinked, then caught up fast. His mouth twitched. ‘Oh. It means…?’
‘It means getting laid,’ she said, cheeks flaming.
For one terrible, wonderful second, he just stared at her. A long, loaded pause that made her whole body spark.
Then he laughed, warm and easy, breaking the tension before it snapped. ‘All right,’ he said, clinking his glass against hers. ‘To getting tinny, then.’
Emily grinned helplessly, pulse racing.
The soft scrape of a guitar being tuned drifted from near the stage. She glanced over to see James Carter settling onto a stool, same battered acoustic he’d probably had since year eleven.
Mid-song, his eyes found hers across the pub.
‘Welcome home to Emily, and she’s brought a boy from the big city!’
Every head turned. Emily gave a pathetic little wave, sliding lower in her seat while Leo just smiled, completely unbothered by the attention.
James finished the song, let the last chord hum into silence, and propped his guitar against the mic stand.
‘Back in a moment, folks,’ he announced, then stepped down from the low stage, making his way towards their table.
‘What brings you back to town, Em?’ he asked.
Leo reached out his hand before she could answer. ‘Leo,’ he said simply.
‘Good to meet you,’ James said, shaking it firmly. ‘Great accent. I’ve travelled a bit. France, Italy, up towards the Baltics. Where are you from?’
Leo smiled lazily, unfazed. ‘Somewhere near there.’
James laughed, then asked, ‘Where did you two meet?’
‘Leo’s touring with Eurofest,’ Emily responded.
James glanced back at the guitar still propped on stage, then at Leo. ‘Do you play?’
Leo nodded.
James grinned, turning back towards the pub at large.
‘You all remember Emily. Pete and Leanne’s girl. She’s brought us a European rockstar tonight. What do we reckon, should we invite him up for a song?’
A few tables near the front, already deep into their third schooners, banged their glasses in encouragement.
Leo lifted his glass lazily in a silent toast, his expression unreadable.
Then he just gave a little shrug and went up, slinging that battered guitar over his shoulder like he was born with it.
And then he looked up. Right at her.
It was barely a glance. But it hit her like a wrecking ball.
Without a word to the room, he started to play.
The first few notes rippled out, intricate, delicate, a pattern that shimmered through the pub like a heartbeat. Not showy. Not loud. Just…
Beautiful.
Conversations trailed off. Glasses stilled mid-air. Heads turned.
Even James leaned back against the bar, smiling like he knew exactly what he’d unleashed.
Emily couldn’t move.
Leo played like he was building something from the air itself, pulling threads of sound into a web only he could see. His fingers moved across the strings with the same careful precision she noticed when he steadied her at the festival, each note deliberate and sure.
Then he sang.
French, she thought. Or Italian. Emily was too mesmerised to know the language. His voice wrapped around her, hot and low, and when he hit the chorus, something about skin and losing fear and one more night, she forgot how to breathe.
He played that whole song looking right at her. Like the packed pub didn’t exist. Like it was just them in her sharehouse kitchen again, or on that hilltop, or anywhere else they’d carved out of the world for themselves.
The applause afterwards felt distant, underwater. Leo handed the guitar back to James, knocked back the congratulatory shot, brought Emily one too. The tequila burned, sharp and welcome.
‘Dance with me,’ he said.
She took his hand.
His palm against her hip, fingers splayed possessively.
Her body flush against his. The slow build of movement that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the tension coiling between them.
Emily could feel every hard line of him, smell his cologne mixed with dust and wine.
Her body responded to his with embarrassing enthusiasm, and she tried not to make it obvious when he bent his head to her ear.
His breath against her neck made her shiver.
She trembled so hard she nearly lost her footing.
His hand tightened on her hip, his thumb brushing the strip of skin where her shirt had ridden up. That single point of contact sent lightning through her.
‘If you don’t kiss me soon, I’m going to die,’ she managed to say.