Authors: Anya Forest
“All sorted,” he said impassively. Christie did not move; he looked down at her, wondering why she still waited.
“Blake, you’ve already paid for petrol, for lunch, you—”
“It’s fine, Christie,” he said shortly, interrupting her, wanting to get on the road, uncomfortably reminded of her assumptions about him, about his work. Assumptions he had done nothing to correct.
And what if I did tell her, what then?
He turned the problem over in his mind. Dispassionately, he wondered what her reaction would be. He had thought she would realise after lunch at the winery; he had seen his father’s discreet glances towards him as Christie continued to be blithely unaware of the true situation.
Blake thought back to the conversations about the winery, her reluctance when he tried to show her around the winery, contrasted with all of her questions and comments that displayed her intelligence, her perception about business, even in an industry she knew nothing about.
Christie noticed that Blake was preoccupied as she climbed into the car that was already parked on the hotel forecourt. He slammed the boot, coming around to the driver’s side. “I’m giving a mate a lift back to Clyde,” he said unexpectedly as he started the car. “Scott. You’ve met him, I went hunting with him on Stewart Island.” Blake looked briefly at Christie, his face impassive.
Christie’s mind swerved back to Mason Bay, to the cheeky, friendly hunter who had been quick to introduce himself, joked with her about the size of her sleeping bag that Blake had slept in. Again, her mind veered to the evening with Blake, the conversation, sleeping in his arms only a few days before the fact of her pregnancy rose up like a wraith to overshadow any hope of—
Like I need to be thinking of that now,
she thought painfully as she made a conscious effort to clamp down on her thoughts.
“And his sister, Mel,” Blake was saying. “He came up for an interview on a farm, and she seems to have tagged along to Dunedin for the shopping. There’s been some change of plan, I just got a text last night.” Blake shrugged, smiling wryly. “No doubt we’ll hear all the details from Mel. Anyway, I offered to drive them back. So we’ll pick them up now, they’re staying about ten minutes down the road.”
Irrationally, after dreading the trip, Christie now felt disappointed, realising she could hardly discuss anything significant in front of two of Blake’s friends. “Where is Clyde?” She heard herself ask the banal question in a futile attempt to banish the memory of the previous night, the realisation she was in love with Blake, the dream that had simply been a sleepy reality.
Blake looked at her. “After Alexandra,” he said. “On the way I thought we’d see Naseby and St Bathans, follow part of the Rail Trail,” he added, wanting to show Christie some of the picturesque Central Otago scenes and towns. Christie looked at him blankly, not recalling any of these names from the trip over.
“You were asleep,” he said dryly.
“I’m starting to think it’s the story of my life,” Christie said before she could stop herself. Blake grinned at her, a brief flash of humour before a guarded look returned to his eyes. “I thought last night about what you said,” Christie said, determined to at least try to resolve things between them. If she was going to be living in the district for a year she would likely see Blake from time to time, even while out in a group; she did not want to leave things the way they were. She told herself it was better to be businesslike, matter of fact, relentlessly shutting down the small voice inside her wanting to talk normally, flirt even.
“Only what I said?” Christie looked at Blake quickly, noticing his emphasis on the last word. The flash in his eyes was gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it; she looked away, out the window, before turning back to look out the windscreen.
“Yes,” Christie said, her voice definite. Blake was silent, watching the road. “You said I don’t trust you,” she said, trying to disguise the sudden tremor in her voice. He said nothing, only glanced at her. “At the pub, when I first arrived on the island, I—”
“I did get a hell of a shock,” he said, surprising her. “But you’re from Auckland; you’d need to be more cautious up there, wouldn’t you?” Casually, he named a couple of
Auckland’s most well-known nightclubs. Christie looked at him, surprised at his words, his knowledge of Auckland.
“Sounds like you’re a regular,” she said lightly.
Blake shrugged. “Were you?” Now he was watching her intently, glancing back at the road.
“Yes,” she replied, thinking of Paul’s constant need for socialising, the amount of money he—they—had spent on endless nights out, visiting new clubs, trying new restaurants. Christie realised in her months on the island she had not missed clubbing at all, actually preferred the casual, friendly atmosphere of the pub.
“With the father of the year?” Christie looked away as Blake spoke, briefly wondering how to respond, turned back to face him.
“Yes,” she said, her face set. “With my fiancé. And my best friend. Who are now together. And engaged.” He was shocked by her words, by her matter-of-fact explanation, suddenly realising why his angry reference to calling Lisa yesterday provoked such a reaction, a reaction he had not intended.
“Well you’re better off out of that then,” Blake said with typical masculine understatement. Despite herself, Christie smiled at Blake’s blunt assessment. Another thought struck Blake; he swore softly, realising he needed to talk to her, now, before they arrived at the motel, tell her what he should have made clear yesterday when she was asking about his meetings.
Again, he asked himself why he had invited her out the night before.
It would have been a lot easier to explain yesterday,
he thought to himself. He realised Christie was talking, asking him about his friends. He answered her briefly, still preoccupied.
“Christie,” he began, wondering how to tell her. She looked at him, her face questioning. “My work,” he began, as her face cleared.
“I forgot to ask,” Christie said politely. “How did the meeting last night go?”
“How could you forget? Were you distracted?” he replied, unable to resist teasing her, watching her blush as she met his gaze, her blue eyes uncertain. Too late, Blake realised they were nearly at the motel. He swung the car into the kerb, thinking they could talk for a moment before driving into the motel forecourt, realising with a sinking feeling Scott and Mel were already waiting on the footpath outside the motel.
Blake drove up to them, jumped out to put their luggage in the boot. Mel climbed into the back seat, introducing herself to Christie, her genuine friendliness obvious immediately. Christie shifted in her seat, turning to face Mel, smiling at Scott as he climbed in to sit behind her. “Good to see you again, Christie,” he said, grinning at her.
Christie tried to ignore her own tiredness as Mel asked friendly questions, seemingly oblivious to the early hour. Christie responded in kind, her eyes eventually growing heavier, uncomfortably aware a slight feeling of nausea had returned, which faded again even as she became aware of it. “I’m sorry,” she apologised sleepily, reaching for the travelling rug, drifting off as she heard Blake’s voice telling her to put the seat back, Scott’s voice joining his, telling her he would have plenty of room.
She woke a couple of hours later, realised the seat was partly reclined, smiled inwardly as she heard Mel still talking. Christie straightened her seat, sitting quietly for a few minutes, still waking up. “The Sleeping Beauty awakes,” Blake said lightly, getting a laugh from Mel. He looked at Christie, his gaze intent, his dark eyes burning, reminding her of the night before.
“This isn’t a fairy tale,” Christie said quietly, irritably, thinking of his previous references to Little Red Riding Hood, knowing he was teasing her again. Mel kept talking, completely oblivious to the undercurrents between Blake and Christie, asking Christie when the baby was due. Christie answered politely, noticing Blake’s hands tense on the steering wheel, his carefully impassive face as he watched the road, his profile giving nothing away.
“That’s a shame, Blake, don’t you have that big marketing trip coming up, to California?” Mel continued innocently. “You’re trying to break into the American market, aren’t you? Will that mean you’ll miss the baby’s birth?” Stunned, Christie shrank back in her chair, summoning all of her abilities to keep her face neutral although she paled in shock, stared speechlessly at Blake, embarrassed by Mel’s natural assumption, but also wondering about the trip.
Blake glanced at Christie quickly, immediately noticing how upset she was. “The dates for the trip aren’t definite yet,” Blake said eventually, not correcting Mel’s assumption, realising Christie would be instantly aware an international marketing trip would not be made by a vineyard worker.
“Well I guess you can arrange the dates around the baby anyway,” Mel continued.
“I’m sure he’ll sort it out one way or another.” Scott’s deep voice interrupted Mel; Christie silently thanked him as Mel finally subsided. Christie listened, still numb, as Scott asked Blake about the new house he was building, making Christie realise just how little she really knew about Blake; the minimal information he had shared about himself contrasted with the searching questions he asked her, his expectation she should have told him about her pregnancy even though she did not know herself.
She looked at the dashboard, her face set, realising from Scott’s comments and Blake’s replies that the house Blake was having built was only months from completion and on a large lifestyle block. Fury rose up in Christie as she contemplated Blake’s secretiveness, her mind replaying her questions over the past several months and Blake’s bland replies as soon as she asked anything personal, the adroit way he turned the conversation back to her.
Why couldn’t he be honest with me?
Christie asked herself, agonising as she realised how much he had deliberately shut her out. The attraction she had made obvious last night rose up to choke her, the memory of her physical reaction to Blake’s touch mocked her. Part of her wanted to join the conversation, but she realised that would be unwise, would only betray her complete ignorance about Blake’s work and his house, cause further comment from Mel.
Christie elected to stay silent, acknowledging to herself she would not be able to politely answer further well-meaning questions from Mel. She heard Mel suggest they stop for breakfast as they approached a roadside café; sat silently as Blake parked, hearing the tyres crunch over the gravel of the car park.
Christie opened the passenger door after a brief hesitation, misjudging the position of the step in the unfamiliar vehicle, almost staggering as she tried to catch her balance on the gravel. Scott had just closed the rear passenger door, instantly put his arm around her, supporting her, keeping her on her feet. “You ‘right there?” he asked, concerned.
Distantly, Christie heard Blake swear, as he quickly walked around the car to her, took her arm, clearly concerned. Deliberately, she leaned slightly into Scott’s side, still furious with Blake. “I’m fine, Scott,” Christie said, as Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Thanks.”
Mel had walked on ahead, keen to get into the café, had not seen Christie stumble. Scott’s cheeky blue eyes moved from Mel’s retreating back, met Christie’s. He grinned. “I could call Mel back to interview you, really make sure?” Christie found herself smiling back at him as she shook her head, secretly wishing it was Blake who had his arm around her. She straightened up as Scott removed his arm from around her waist as he realised she was all right, had not fallen over. He walked on ahead, clearly assuming Blake would look after Christie, would want to talk to her privately.
Blake stood close to her, his hand still on her arm, making her heart lurch as she acknowledged her reaction to the slightest touch from Blake compared to Scott’s polite assistance. “Christie, are you really all right?” Ignoring his words, ignoring the traitorous hope inside her that he would embrace her, she straightened to her full height, facing him as she shrugged off his arm.
“What is your exact position at the winery?” Christie asked. Blake’s face tensed, his eyes darkening.
“Matters to you, does it?” The words spilled out before he could think; he hated himself even as he deliberately misunderstood Christie’s question, implied through his comment she was only interested in status. “I’m a part owner,” he added quickly, knowing he would only have one chance to explain, trying to ignore the hurt plain on her face.
“A part owner?” Christie repeated, stunned. “So why let me think you were simply working in the vineyard?” Her voice became openly sarcastic. “And helping out with sales.”
Blake exhaled. “Christie, let—”
She shook her head, definite. “I have to tell you every last painful detail about my pregnancy, my finances and you can’t even be straight with me about your work?” Christie glared at him as she spoke. “Little Miss Chatterbox knows more about you than I do.”
“I’m not responsible for your assumptions,” he said, suddenly cold. “Just because I don’t wear a suit like Paul—”
Christie broke in. “I have never told you—”
Blake overrode what she was trying to say. “You went and assumed what I did at the winery. You assumed my parents paid for your lunch.” He saw her blush, embarrassed. “It doesn’t matter about lunch,” he said quickly. “What I mean is, you just assumed—”