Brodie contemplated smoothing things over, but his own phone vibrated against the table. Home.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Brodie.’ The voice of his youngest sister, Ellen, came through the line. Her voice was pinched—a sure-fire sign that she was about a hair’s breadth away from flipping out about something.
‘What’s up, Ellie-pie?’
‘It’s Lydia, she’s had a down day. She won’t eat her dinner. Mum’s at work, but she said I had to make sure Lydia eats.’
The words ran into one another, and the wobble in her voice twisted like a knife in his stomach.
‘Where are the twins?’
Sniffle. ‘Jenny’s at a party and Adriana hasn’t come home from uni.’
‘Put Lydia on the phone. I’ll get her to eat.’
Within moments he’d convinced his sister to have at least a salad, even if she didn’t want a full meal. It was hard for all of them to look after Lydia on her down days. There were times when she point-blank refused food and water for hours on end… sometimes days. He remembered a particularly bad patch when she’d ended up so dehydrated he’d had to rush her to the emergency ward. All she’d wanted was her dad—but of course they hadn’t been able to get hold of him. Typical.
Perhaps he should sail home early. It was hard for him to be away. Normally he spent more time in the office running his business than on a boat. This was the longest he’d been away for some time. His stomach curled.
He hung up the phone, receiving a text almost immediately from Ellen with THANK YOU! xx in big capital letters. He loved his sisters more than anything, and right now he felt as if he was being a terrible big brother by taking time off for himself.
‘Family emergency sorted,’ he said, forcing a jovial tone as he returned to the table.
Chantal sipped her champagne, watching him quietly. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Fine.’
He looked out to the picture-perfect view of the beach slowly being drowned in darkness. Vulnerability wasn’t something he did well—he didn’t want her to see that he was anything but his usual cool, calm self. ‘Just sex’ didn’t involve feelings or spilling your guts about family stuff… no more than he had already, anyway. In his defence, that had been to comfort her—not because he’d needed to get it off his chest.
‘I should probably head off,’ Chantal said, downing the rest of her drink and reaching out to give Kate a friendly hug. ‘Thanks for the company.’
‘Are you still dancing at the bar?’ Scott asked, looking from her to Brodie and back again.
‘Yep—I still need to make a living, don’t I?’ She seemed more comfortable about it than she had previously, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Her contract would run out eventually, and Brodie would make sure she didn’t sign on for more work there.
‘Don’t let the creeps get you down,’ Kate said.
‘Creeps?’ Brodie asked, his protective sensors going off.
‘It’s nothing.’ Chantal shot Kate a look. ‘You’ve seen the place. The clientele isn’t exactly the picture of genteel politeness.’
‘I’ll meet you out the front when you finish,’ Brodie said.
Chantal shook her head, shooting him a warning look as if to remind him of their argument last night. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll meet you out the front.’
THOUGH SUMMER HAD drawn to a close a few weeks back, the air still hung heavy with humidity. Brodie stood by the railing outside the bar, waiting for Chantal to appear. He’d spent a good five minutes deciding whether or not to go in, but the temptation of hauling her off the stage had been too much to bear, and he didn’t want to show her he was having doubts about his feelings towards the temporary nature of their arrangement.
Instead he waited outside, fending off requests for cigarettes, wishing that somehow Chantal had wriggled her way out of the contract. He wasted the time away by texting Ellen, hoping that she didn’t hold his absence against him.
‘I’m with someone.’
Chantal’s voice caught him by surprise. He whipped around and saw her backing away from a big guy whose tank top said ‘Team Bogan’. The guy looked at Brodie, sizing him up.
‘See.’ Chantal gestured to Brodie. ‘This is my boyfriend—Axl.’
Brodie raised a brow. Axl… really? The guy lumbered away, distracted by a group of girls who didn’t appear to have boyfriends waiting for them. Chantal used the opportunity to jog over to him, and sling her arm around his waist.
‘Axl was the best you could do?’ He shook his head. ‘Never picked you for a Guns N’ Roses fan.’
‘Sorry.’ She laughed, holding on to him as they made their way out of the bar’s parking lot. ‘The band was playing one of their songs as I was walking out. Mum used to listen to them all the time when I was young.’
‘Better than the music I listened to growing up. Mum was a huge country fan—I hated it.’
Stars winked at them from the inky sky. Away from the hustle and bustle of Sydney the darkness wasn’t diluted by the glow from skyscrapers and headlights. It reminded him of home—of the outdoorsy beauty of Queensland he’d grown to love after returning home from Weeping Reef.
‘Have you talked to the guy who runs the bar about skipping out early?’
Chantal shook her head. ‘No, and I haven’t heard back about my audition yet, so I’m not giving up a paying job if there isn’t something else to go to.’
‘I’ll lend you some money.’
‘Over my dead body.’ She tucked close against him as they walked, melting into him though her tone still revealed a touch of hesitation. ‘It’s kind of you to offer but I don’t take loans—especially when I’m unsure how long it will take me to pay it back.’
‘I know you’re good for it.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll finish out this contract, see where I am, and figure out my next move.’
‘Why are you so against asking for help?’ he asked drily.
‘I don’t need charity.’
They walked through the yacht club and down to where his boat was docked. On board, they sat on the cosy leather-lined seat that curved around the deck. Chantal found a spot next to him, sitting with her head and shoulders resting against his chest. He draped his arm over her and skimmed his fingers along her stomach. It was frighteningly intimate and comfortable. Familiar.
‘Haven’t you heard the saying Many hands make light work?’
‘Some of those hands get burned,’ she said. ‘I prefer doing things on my own. That’s how it was growing up and I like my independence. Nothing wrong with that.’
‘There’s a difference between being independent and being stubborn to the point of self-detriment.’
‘Asking for help hasn’t ever got me anywhere to date. I trust the wrong people.’
‘Do you think it’s wrong to trust me?’
‘I