Chapter 3 #2
‘H and T.’ He runs his fingers over the intricate engravings. ‘I also have his stamp.’
‘What kind of stamp?’
‘My grandfather had many books.’ Thorsen’s expression softens. A half-smile. ‘He lent them to friends, but wanted them back.’
I’m not aware that my eyes are so obviously on his mouth until I feel his gaze. Swallowing hard, I look away. ‘It’s the small finger of your right hand, isn’t it? How did you do it?’
‘Abseiling.’ A shrug. ‘I should have taped it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
He thinks about that. ‘It wasn’t necessary.’
‘Were you worried people would have noticed you’d been hurt? Did you not want to draw attention to that?’
‘Perhaps.’ A slight lift of his brow. ‘And you?’
‘What?’
‘You were crying. Why?’
Unaccountably, my eyes sting again. ‘Did you have an MRI?’
‘An X-ray.’
‘If it was picked up on X-ray, it’s likely to be more serious than a hairline fracture.’
‘I hurt my hand a year ago. Same finger.’
‘Were you abseiling then?’
A slight hesitation. ‘No.’
‘I can tape the finger to your ring finger.’
There is no ring. Not surprising, given Natasha’s proprietorial hand at the small of his back. Unless he’s unfaithful, in which case—
‘You treat birds with breaks?’
‘With a leg, splinting or a pin can be effective, so long as the bird can be contained. Wings are more difficult.’
‘A bird can survive a broken wing?’
‘Unlikely if a bone comes through the skin, but if the break is clean and can be wired or pinned, and the bird can be immobilised, it can survive.’
I hesitate before taking his hand. Because I don’t like him much? Possibly. Because I find him attractive anyway? More likely. But …
He’s hurt.
I feel his eyes on the top of my head as I place his hand, palm up, on the table and touch his finger with two of mine.
‘With a bird, breaks between the bend in the wing and the tip of the wing often heal best. If the break is clean, we keep the wing strapped to the body. That can be hard on a bird, particularly one brought in from the wild.’
‘It would be frightened.’
‘Why is your English so good?’
‘My parents.’ A shrug. ‘Television, school, university.’
‘Do you speak other languages?’
‘My family lived in Norway, Germany and France when I was a child.’
‘Are you fluent in those languages too?’
‘Norwegian and French. German less so.’
‘I’ve never left Australia. I only speak English. What did the doctor say after the X-ray?’
‘Rest.’
‘Strapping your finger could be the wrong thing to do if you’ve damaged ligaments.’
He opens his hand, winces. ‘I haven’t.’
‘I should check anyway.’
I take his hand and turn it to expose his wrist before laying the back of his hand in the palm of mine.
His skin is cool. My nails are clean, but many different lengths.
I focus on that as I bend over his hand and consider the scrapes on his palm.
I circle his injured finger in three of mine, squeeze and release.
‘Does this hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
I look up at him, to see if he’s telling the truth, then away, back at our hands. When I squeeze harder, he flinches.
I rest a fingertip on the spot, stroke gently. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ His voice is gruff.
I take his ring finger and gently pull it to the side before bringing it back again. ‘Does this hurt?’
‘No.’
I lay his hand on the table again, press his fingers together, keep my eyes on his face. His lashes are long and dark. The grey flecks in his chestnut eyes are distinctive.
‘If it were a larger finger, you could have a tiny pin or screw.’ My voice is too high. ‘You’ll only need tape for this one.’
‘I asked why you were crying.’
‘Are my eyes red?’
‘Bl?. Blue.’ He’s deadly serious.
‘Martin didn’t notice.’
‘He didn’t look.’
I open the first aid box. The roll of tape is close to the top, but I take my time and forage. ‘Maybe not.’
He considers his words. ‘You’re difficult to read.’
I secure a band of tape around his fingers at the base and cut the end, then take another length and line it up with the first knuckle of his little finger.
I wish he wouldn’t watch. I wish his questions didn’t fluster me, that his brown eyes weren’t so curious, his scent wasn’t fresh and his skin wasn’t cool and—
‘What upset you?’
I stretch the tape and wrap it around his fingers. Check it’s not too tight. ‘I had a bad day at work.’
‘Your position at the zoo will end sooner than you thought.’
My hands still. ‘Who have you been talking to?’
Thorsen’s eyes are fixed on my face. ‘A colleague.’
His hand is in mine. His finger is painful. Doesn’t he worry I could press harder? That I could yank or—
‘Flick?’
I open my fingers, smooth a crease in the tape. ‘I didn’t hurt you intentionally.’
Frowning, he withdraws his hand. ‘I didn’t believe that you did.’
I cut another piece of tape, reach for his hand again. ‘I’m not done yet.’
His hand slips easily back into mine. I don’t like him, but I couldn’t hurt him.
And he knows enough of me to understand that.
My hands are less steady than before as I wrap a second layer of tape around his fingers.
He knows I was upset. He knows I lack permanent employment.
Why isn’t he pressuring me to take the role I rejected?
Should I have rejected it? My job ending early.
My mother’s spending. School fees. Could I face my fears and reconsider?
‘When you came to the pool, you said I could call if I wanted more information about Morrison Island.’
He presses against a join in the tape, our fingertips touch and I freeze. He’s good at hiding his expression, but I feel the tension in his hand. He looks away, somewhere over my shoulder, before focussing on my face again.
‘You said you didn’t want the position.’
Don’t think about hurdles. Failing. Falling. ‘I might be interested after all.’
‘Why change your mind?’ Why does he sound unhappy about that?
‘I wouldn’t be working for you, would I?’
‘The UN funds the position. I lead the team and coordinate the project. There would be interaction.’
‘You told me Professor Johnson wanted me.’
His eyes narrow. ‘I want to know why you’re interested. What has changed?’
‘I’ll be unemployed in a month. I have financial commitments. The position would be good for my career, which was something you pointed out.’
‘You dismissed it.’ The way his fringe falls on his forehead makes him look younger. He looks down at our hands.
‘I’ve had time to think.’
His thumb slips to the bruise on my wrist. Deliberate or not?
I have no way of telling, but my skin warms and my heart rate ramps up.
He didn’t want me to look at his hand. Part of the reason I agreed to do it was to spite him.
Aren’t I supposed to be in control? Isn’t that why I encouraged him to come in here and—
‘Martin is concerned about you.’
I yank my arm free. ‘Why?’
Thorsen considers the two neat stripes that cross his fingers. ‘Has he rescued you before?’
I jump off the stool, shove supplies back in the bag. ‘Piss off.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘What? Make assumptions?’ I fasten the kit, fold down the handle. ‘You’ve been doing that since we met. Since before we met. Maybe I’m difficult to read because you’ve been wrong about me. The last thing I need is to be rescued.’
When he doesn’t respond, I turn my back and stand on my toes to store the medical box. I slam the cupboard door and face him again.
‘Flick. I don’t—’
‘It’s Felicity.’
A stiff nod.
‘I’ll be working at the zoo on Wednesday. We can meet in my morning break.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Where?’
‘Ten o’clock at the café near the lion enclosure.’