“Won’t be long.” I press a kiss to Kennedy’s head, and she offers me a tight smile.
I guess I’ll find out what that’s about soon enough.
The oldies on their feet, Wilder, me, and Jenner all leave at the same time. It’s weird. Someone must be playing Tayla Sparks somewhere because I’m sure I just heard the opening riff of “Cruel Lovers.”
* * *
In twenty minutes tops, and I’m back in the coffee shop, looking like a drowned rat and shivering.
“The weather is wild,” I say, turning to close the door behind me, shaking the cold droplets off. “How did we go from summer sunshine to rain cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey?”
“One of the delights of Mookatill,” Kennedy murmurs by way of reply. It looks like she hasn’t moved, except the lights in the windows aren’t on, leaving just a couple of the old fashion floor lamps and the one over the coffee machine. “You probably don’t realise, but it rains more here than anywhere else in Oregon.” As she says this, she’s not looking at me but rather straightening the elbow-length sleeves of her dress. “You seem to have brought the sunshine with you.”
“I’ve been accused of worse things.” Sliding into the seat opposite, I try a smile but can’t quite get it to sit right. “What’s going on, Kennedy?” My gaze flicks down to her silver laptop on the table between us.
“I wish I had a golf club,” she murmurs obliquely.
“I think it might be a bit wet for golf.” My gaze follows hers to where I’ve parked the Merc at the curb, the rain hammering down on the black hood and bouncing from the pavement. I figured we were going to have a conversation about cars and hiding things, so I’d parked outside of the coffee shop. There didn’t seem much point in getting wetter than I needed to.
“I wasn’t considering taking up the sport. I was thinking more about the satisfaction of taking a club to your car.”
“I don’t think the rental company would be very impressed, but if you think it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go see if I can buy one.” Maybe I can persuade her to take her ire out on a bucket of balls at the golf driving range.
Her head swings my way sharply. “How much does it cost to rent a car like that? Or a car like the one before?”
“The Martin?” I press a finger to her laptop as I admit, “A fair bit.” But it’s cheaper than buying one and less hassle when I have to leave. Not that I will be leaving. I just need to take some time to arrange to buy one. “I like to be comfortable when I travel,” I say by way of defence.
She nods, but I don’t really think she’s listening. She seems to be staring at athe cuff of my jacket. My gaze follows hers and we both watch a rivulet of rain curls around the cuff before hitting the wooden tabletop. I go to slip it off when she stills me with the tiniest of motions.
A ripple of unease is my only reaction as she begins to open her laptop. It whirls to life, and she taps a couple of keys. Then I understand where that earlier riff came from.
“Ah.” And ah, fuck.
“Yeah, ah. My husband in a Tayla Sparks video.”
“And you wanted to re-enact the bit where Tayla bashes the vintage Aston Martin with a golf club.”
“Better than your head,” she replies without any heat at all, her expression almost completely blank. Like she’s trying too hard. “Do you remember when you said you booked the pixie house for three months? You said you were going to be around for more than three months. At the time, I think you meant it as a threat.”
“I meant it as the truth.”
“Except, you’re not going to be here, are you?” She taps the laptop keys again, and the music stops before she begins to turn it to face me. She’s pulled up the online article from Variety, the one that Jacquie was so pleased about. I move my attention back to Kennedy as she adds, “Because you’ll be in Morocco.”
“You can’t believe everything you read.” I press her laptop closed, done with that, and done with this. “Okay, so let’s have this out because we both know it gets much worse than me pulling pouty faces in a music video.”
“Can’t wait,” she mutters, picking invisible lint from her sleeve. When her eyes meet mine again, they glitter. But not with tears.
“I spent the majority of my twenties swanning around, doing sweet fuck all. Modelling, yeah. But it didn’t pay the bills for the way I lived. Want to know why or how?” I don’t wait for her permission, the words tumbling from my mouth. “Because my dad died and left each of his sons a shit tonne of money.” Her expression closes in on itself. Who knew she was that adept at hiding? “It’s family money. Collectively, we own a winery. Land, vineyards, a restaurant and café, holiday cottages, that kind of stuff. It’s not the biggest operation in Australia but left to Byron, it will be at some point. Separate from that, I have a trust fund.” I sit back in my chair, drumming the fingers of my right hand against the tabletop. This shit always makes me feel uncomfortable because I’ve never felt like I deserved it. “The provision was made by my grandparents, and it’s the kind of amount I’d have to try really hard to spend in one lifetime.” Not that I intend to because I want to provide for Wilder.