Finally, I reach for my phone, load his number up and hesitate for only a moment before pressing ‘call’.
It rings and it rings. No answer. My worry grows. I bite on my lip, telling myself not to think about him, telling myself this was meant to be light and fun, just great sex while he’s in Australia and before I get on with the rest of my life—he definitely wasn’t meant to take up so much of my mental space. And yet I can’t stop thinking about him.
So I try to call him again at midnight, and this time he answers. There’s a lot of noise behind the call, like he’s in a bar or something. When he speaks, his voice is slurred.
‘Hey, baby.’
My heart turns over in my chest, but the worry cuts through me. ‘Hey.’
‘Whatcha doing?’
I rub my toe over the grout of the kitchen tiles. ‘Just...about to go to bed.’
‘Sounds good.’
I bite down on my lip, choosing my words carefully. He speaks first.
&n
bsp; ‘Want company?’
Do I? I want to know he’s okay. I want to know what happened earlier today. And yeah, I want to see him. Knowing he’s going back to America makes me want to milk every moment I can with him.
‘Sure.’ I look around the apartment and, for some reason, decide against inviting him over. ‘I’ll come to you. The casino?’
‘I’m in the VIP bar. Ask for me when you arrive.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Four nights left in Sydney
IT’S LOUD. MUSIC IS PLAYING—jazz music, but it’s still noisy—and the bar, despite being a VIP space, is busier than I imagined. I probably pictured Holden on his own, sitting in the middle of a huge space, but no. I recognise the crowd as I enter. Not individuals, but the type. I’ve worked in first class cabins long enough to recognise people who live and breathe money and that’s what I’m surrounded by.
I’m under-dressed. A pair of jeans with holes at the knees and a singlet top underneath a red woollen jacket I bought in Hong Kong a couple of years ago; at least I slipped on a pair of stilettos and a coat of lippie before leaving the house. My eyes scan the crowd and ping to him almost instantly.
My heart thumps.
My breath stops.
Everything around me goes silent and all I do—all I want to do—is stare at him. In the midst of the noise he’s alone, and still. There is palpable happiness in the atmosphere that makes it easy to spot the contrast in his mood. Something shifts in my gut. A pain, and an awareness. He sits at the bar, unbearably handsome, a tumbler of Scotch cradled in his hands, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
I begin to move towards Holden but before I can reach him I pause again, wanting simply to observe him, to see him like this. I don’t know why but I feel like if I look for long enough a piece of the puzzle will fall into place and I’ll understand what’s bothering him.
As I watch, he lifts the Scotch, bringing it to his lips and hovering it there. I swallow in time with him, so I can almost taste the alcohol, then start to move again, weaving through the last few people until I’m beside him.
‘Hey.’ My heart kerthunks against my chest. He shifts, turning on the bar stool so his legs form a frame around me and I can see his face properly. There’s a definite bruise on his cheek. I look at it for a moment, then concentrate on his eyes.
He stares at me for a beat, almost like he’s forgotten who I am, or what I’m doing here. Like he’s surprised to see me. That makes no sense. I lift a hand to his shoulder. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, good-quality cotton. I run my fingers over it a little, feeling his warmth beneath it, feeling him.
‘Hey. You came.’
My smile turns quizzical. ‘Didn’t we agree I would?’
His hand’s on my hip, lifting my shirt a little so his fingertips connect with the bare flesh at my side. ‘Yeah. I just thought—’ He shakes his head. ‘Want a drink?’
Do I? Not really. But there’s something about the idea of sitting in a bar with Holden that persuades me. We’ve only been together in private until now. There’s a novelty to sitting here with him, so I nod. ‘Sure.’ I scan the range of liquor bottles against the bar wall. ‘Just a soda.’
He lifts one brow and I can’t tell if his look is amused, mocking, disapproving, or a combination of all three, but he lifts his hand and a bar guy practically sprints over. ‘Yes, Mr Hart?’