“Huh?” Shit. I keep forgetting I’m supposed to be in love with his brother. “Well, this little plan of yours to break up the happy couple isn’t really going anywhere, is it? And unlike you, I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket.”
“Yeah. I thought I’d get somewhere while Isabella was here last month but I didn’t get a chance to be alone with her.”
No, you got a chance to be alone with me, instead. All of a sudden, the little butterflies that were fluttering in my stomach just moments before start dying.
“But you know, I’ve got a plan,” Keats says, tone determined. “Something’s come up unexpectedly at work. Someone from the in-house counsel is going on maternity leave in the next few weeks, and no one thinks she’s coming back. I’m going to suggest to Isabella to apply for the job. Ms Wilsborough loves her, so she’d be a shoe-in for the role. And this way, Isabella doesn’t have to wait two years to resettle in Australia for good. She can be here as soon as the end of this month.”
My stomach drops. Isabella can’t come back yet. The last time she was here had really screwed with Keats’ head. “Byron’s not going to stand by and let you steal back his fiancée.”
Keats shrugs his sexy shoulders. “He’s at Gatton, and Isabella will be working in the same building as me. If I can’t convince her to be with me instead of him, I don’t deserve her.”
***
I’m sitting in the dark with a million stars dotting the velvet winter night sky, in a luxury sports car with a gorgeous man I happen to find incredibly sexy in a freaking drive-in. And, nothing is happening. He offered to buy my popcorn if I ate it outside the vehicle—I guess he still remembers my massive fail at eating a taco neatly—so I declined. Besides, I’ve already broken my diet by having a tempting meat pie at Yatala. The comfort food is resting nicely in my finally satisfied stomach.
A soft, damp winter breeze blows in through the car’s windows, playing with a strand of my hair that has escaped my ponytail. From their stands, the ancient speakers work over time to broadcast the sound of the previews to us. Keats doesn’t want the chunky metal things scraping against the paint job of his vehicle or the tinting on his windows.
Meanwhile, the windows of the white Pajero beside us are half-closed and I notice my companion rubbernecking periodically to check what his mother and her date are up to. Heather’s over twenty years older than me and it seems she’s going to see more action than me tonight. What did I expect anyway, right?
“Why don’t you just sit between them?” I tell Keats.
“This is just wrong.” His eyes are still on the half-closed window of the high vehicle next to him. “Dammit, Hay-gen, what have you done to my mother?”
“You’re welcome.”
He looks over his shoulder at me with a frown.
I beam at him, rubbing my arms. Drive-ins in winter are a terrible idea. What were Heather and Pete thinking?
“This isn’t funny, Mr Barker was like an uncle to Byron and me growing up, and now he’s putting the moves on my mom. Do you know how weird that is for me?”
“You’re going to be one of those dads who greets his daughter’s date at the door with a cricket bat, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” He grins at me while the reminders about the snack bar and turning off mobile phones light up his features. He glances out his window again.
I place a comforting hand on his arm. “She’s fine. She’s living her life.”
As if on cue, we hear Heather’s laughter trickle softly towards us.
Keats sighs but sits back against his car seat. He looks at me with a resigned, conflicted expression. “Thanks.”
I nod, pulling my cardigan closer around me and crossing my arms to conserve heat. My work here is done, and I can finally relax. I turn to the screen as the opening sequence to the franchise comes on. The usual generic song plays as buxom, skinny women in stages of undress flash across the giant outdoor screen.
Keats’ car door clicks a second later, and by the time I turn my head, he’s already halfway out of the luxury vehicle. He doesn’t go far though, knocking on his mother’s window.
“Keats. Leave them alone,” I call after him but he just ignores me.
I fumble with my seatbelt lock with cold, numb fingers but before I can open my car door, Keats dives back into the Audi.
“Fuck, it’s cold out there,” he says, throwing something over my lap.
I look down and find a flannel blanket there.
“Sorry, that’s the only spare one the oldies have.”
The blanket is the size of a baby’s cot sheet. With my height, I have to choose between saving my legs or my arms. Not expecting to be out in the elements tonight, I’d worn an above-the-knee dress this afternoon. I wrap the little blanket around my goose bump-covered lower limbs, folding my arms in front of me again for warmth afterwards.
“Here,” Keats says, shifting in his seat. He threads his arm behind my neck and over my shoulders, pulling me close. “Is that better?” he asks as he gently rubs my upper arms to warm me up.
“Slightly,” I grumble, suppressing a satisfied sigh.
I fit snugly against his firm side, my head resting comfortably on his muscled shoulder. I breathe in subtly. His scent is delicious—freshly showered with a hint of manly cologne.
Heather and Pete are geniuses. Drive-ins in winter are a fantastic idea.
Chapter 20
Late-August
Keats—the worst ever plotter of romantic destruction—has done it. I can’t believe he actually went through with his plan and accomplished his goal. But the proof is right in front of me. Through the glass walls of the fancy café across the street, I see him and Isabella chatting across the table from each other. Bastard. He was snuggling up
