“Oh, so I just watch everyone open a present?” she asks with a raised brow and a teasing frown.
They’re already arguing playfully like an old married couple. I sneak a look at Isabella. She has a faint smile on her face while she watches her friend and her ex.
“Not quite.”
Keats gets up and comes back with a stack of gifts in his arms.
“Are these everyone’s?” he asks the rest of us.
I spot my crudely wrapped parcel for Byron. The backpack is uneven and lumpy. Maybe I should’ve bought a gift box for it. That’s what Sofie would’ve done.
“You wanna play Santa, Mom?” Keats asks.
“You can do it, pet.” She leans back in her seat while she holds hands with her boyfriend.
Keats grabs the gift closest to him. Judging by the crisp folds, it must be Isabella’s present for someone.
“Mr Barker from Santa Isabella.” Keats hands the present to the older man. “To Keats from Santa Mom.” He gives his mother a kiss on the cheek and sets the gift bag aside. “To Byron from Santa…”
“That’s me. Sorry, I didn’t know we actually write who the gift is from,” I explain.
“No worries,” Byron says, catching his present in one hand. “Thanks, Jess.”
“Okay, Heather from Santa Pete. Blake from Santa Byron. Isabella from Santa Blake. Jess from Santa Keats, and that leaves one present…Sofie from Santa Keats.”
“Aw.” Sofie claps her long fingered hands and beams. “When do we open them?”
“Now.”
Everyone tears into their gifts. I inspect mine—it looks like Keats got it wrapped at the shops, unless he has another hidden talent he learnt in his two-parent household.
“There was a forty-dollar cap,” Keats explains to Sofie as she peels the sticky tape holding the opening of the tiny gift bag in place.
“Meu Deus, são lindos! They’re beautiful, Keats.” Sofie pulls out a pair of silver chandelier earrings with green Murano glass.
“Mia makes them. You know, one of the other bridesmaids?” Keats explains to her.
Sofie smiles, taking her earrings off and replacing them with her HTC present.
I return my attention to my package. It doesn’t look like jewellery. When I glance up, I realise all eyes are on me. Everyone else has opened their presents already.
Keats’ gift for me is soft. Socks? Lingerie? I rip the paper off, and out slinks a shiny garment all the way to the floor—bike shorts? I pick it up, wondering what the hell Keats was thinking. It’s a black, long sleeve, Billabong rash shirt—like what surfers wear—with a collar designed to go at least halfway up the wearer’s neck.
“For swimming,” Keats says with a cheeky grin. “Maybe you can hop in the pool with us next time.”
Bastard. He knows I do not swim in public.
I dread the thought of seeing what size he got me, but a quick look at the swimming top tells me Keats has sized me up pretty accurately.
Great. The gorgeous Sofie gets jewellery, I get swimwear to help me stay all covered up.
Way to send home the message: we’re just friends.
Why do I keep needing these little reminders?
Chapter 26
Early-November
I am in the middle of mindlessly chewing an apple when my door buzzer goes off. I don’t want to get up. My feet are sore from wearing the heels that went with my Melbourne Cup outfit—a floral dress matched with a giant pink flower at a jaunty angle on my head. Except for the shoes, I feel too pretty and too tired to get changed. Besides, I paid a lot for this outfit and I am determined to get the most use out of it.
The buzzer rings again. But I ignore it, wanting to catch up on wedding gown orders and inquiries on the Miz Peggy website. Wedding services customers, I’m learning, are humming with stress and kind of high maintenance.
Talk about the dark underbelly of wedding preparation—the inevitable drama that comes with all that emotion flying around. Of course, not all weddings have the best man trying to steal the bride, but my Miz Peggy website has been flooded with women asking for advice on how to lose weight for the Big Day, or at least recommendations for the best control underwear.
Seriously? A website dedicated to the curvy and obese, and they ask me to give them advice on weight loss? Honestly, I’m starting to regret adding the wedding services feature to my website. At least my original customers weren’t emotional messes suffering from hunger-induced hysteria about one day in their lives. But it’s too late now. The bridal party wear and services are total cash cows, and with a direct link to the pre-existing lingerie section of the website, I have brides loading up on honeymoon wear and funding my first home loan deposit.
The buzzer goes again till I finally set down my tablet computer and amble over to the door.
“Hey, you’re home,” Keats voice says through the intercom. “Can I come up?”
“I’m kinda busy.” I seem to swing from wanting to spend every possible time left with him to needing to wean myself from my addiction to his presence. Today, I’m determined not to need him, especially since he’s just spent the day with Sofie at his work’s Melbourne Cup celebration at the races.
“You sure you don’t want to go for a drive? It’s good to get some night time practice.”
I press my fist to my mouth while I think. My pride says, “Hell, no.” My heart is busy happy dancing and reminding me what Jillie told me just this morning, “Who knows why he wants you around. The important thing is he wants you around.”
“You’re gonna let me drive?” I ask. “I thought I’ve used up my ten driving lessons already?”
“This one’s on the house, darlin’.”
I slip on my pink heels which are still sitting where I left them next to the front door. I turn off my tablet, and grab my handbag and house keys.
Keats is waiting in the passenger seat of his car when I reach him. He grins at me through the
