Authors: Anya Forest
“Blake,” Christie spoke quickly and then subsided, hearing her own voice as if from a distance. He looked at her, his gaze intent. She spoke again, her voice surer. “It looked like there was a spare bunk in that first room,” she said, striving for a neutral tone.
“Was there?” he said, his voice low.
She couldn’t look at him. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“Which bunk was that?” he asked.
She could feel his eyes on her, realised with a shock he was deliberately leaving it up to her, wanting her to let him know what bunk he should take. An image of his devastating kiss, his embrace, flashed into her mind. “Any one,” Christie managed to say, wondering how Blake could be so considerate and yet so forceful. She watched him open the door, shrug off his pack and put it down next to an empty bunk, drawn to his gaze as he looked at her.
“I thought we’d agreed you’d try and relax,” he said, a teasing smile on his face.
“Only for dinner,” Christie retorted, her eyes narrowing. “And you said you’d keep the conversation on safe subjects.”
Blake grinned at her. “I’m trying my best.”
“To do what?” Christie said bluntly.
Deftly he finished removing the bolt from the rifle, looking at her, suddenly serious. “What do you want me to say, Christie?” She blushed, caught off guard again. Blake moved closer to her, his gaze rueful. “Time to get the conversation back on to those safe subjects.” He continued speaking, concisely explaining what was needed to keep both the bolt and ammunition separate from the rifle and so render the rifle unusable.
He continued talking, asking about her tramp, what she had seen on the beach, casually leaning against the frame of the bunks, seemingly unconcerned about her stilted replies.
Why am I like this?
Christie thought furiously.
Can’t I even hold a conversation now?
Her mind flashed back to Auckland, to the socialising she had enjoyed, the seminars she had presented so well.
Now I’m standing here like a shy schoolgirl
, she thought wryly.
“Does my hunting bother you?” Blake asked abruptly.
Christie looked at him, surprised. “No,” she replied. “It looks like you need to be quiet for a lot of the time. Maybe I should take it up myself.”
He tilted his head, watching her, registering her defiant tone. “So did your mother read you Bambi as a child?” he asked flippantly, trying to get her to admit what was bothering her.
“Yes,” Christie said, her eyes suddenly clearing. “But Red Riding Hood’s still my favourite,” she added unexpectedly, making him choke back sudden laughter as he smiled at her. Quickly Blake made a joke in reply, referring to the wolf, testing the waters, wanting to see her reaction. Christie froze, ignoring his joke, his clear attempt to flirt back in response to her comment. She took a deep breath, thinking back to his deliberate tact about sharing a room, the concern he could not quite camouflage when Amanda called her. Deep down, Christie realised she was being unfair even as she registered Blake’s nearness in the small room.
“Maybe I should try to relax
before
dinner,” Christie said quietly, trying to frame what she wanted to say.
“I think so,” Blake said calmly, as he rummaged through his pack, removing food and a small cooker.
“Are you cooking dinner now?” she asked.
He nodded, straightening up. Christie moved over to her pack, intending to get out her own dinner. She looked around, her face questioning as Blake said her name quietly. “I’ve got enough food for both of us; my friends always fly in with enough food for an army.” Christie was about to refuse but caught herself as she remembered her earlier thoughts. Out here, Paul and Amanda seemed a distant dream; she had been enthralled by the day, the scenery, the bay itself.
I can at least relax for one evening
, she thought, smiling to herself as she realised her thoughts unconsciously echoed Blake’s words.
“That would be great,” she said.
“Watch it,” he replied, instantly teasing her, trying again to move past the reserve she had put up. “Too much of that and I might get the wrong idea.”
“I’d soon put you right, don’t worry,” Christie shot back.
I know you would
, he thought silently.
Thirty minutes later, Blake placed a plate of sausages, instant pasta and buttered bread in front of Christie. “Fine dining,” Blake said, deadpan. Christie looked up quickly as Blake named one of Auckland’s best restaurants. One that she had frequently been to with Paul.
She hid the questioning look on her face, smiled up at Blake, continuing the joke, gesturing to her bottled water, asking Blake to send the wine waiter. Christie blushed as Blake put a miniature bottle of wine in front of her, looked up at him, realising he had clearly packed the wine knowing she would be here. His eyes were intent on hers.
“Do hunters drink wine?” she said lightly, her heart pounding.
“It’s for you,” Blake said bluntly. “And it’s still sealed, so no worries there.”
Suddenly unable to speak, Christie reached for the miniature bottle and the small plastic cup Blake had also placed on the table. She noticed Blake had opened a bottle of beer, had already started his meal. Christie ate silently, embarrassed at Blake’s joking reference to her caution at the pub, at the way he had insisted on cooking the meal tonight, accepting no help from her, leaving her with nothing to do but simply stand and watch. She had barely registered the other tourists in the hut, focused completely on talking to Blake, deliberately shutting Paul from her mind. Blake had continued the conversation, asking her about her plans for the next day, continuing to discuss a wide range of subjects.
Except himself,
Christie thought now. “So if you’re just visiting Tony, are you working on the island?” she asked casually.
Blake shook his head, suddenly watchful. “I work just out of Arrowtown,” he replied.
Quickly, she tried to recall what little she knew about that area of the South Island. “So do you work in a vineyard? Or an orchard?” she asked, genuinely interested, suddenly remembering that area was also known for adventure tourism.
Blake smiled slightly. “A vineyard,” he replied, before Christie could ask about tourism.
“You help with the harvest,” she guessed, aware of Blake’s love of the outdoors.
Blake inclined his head, saying nothing. Christie smiled, assuming she had guessed correctly, realising the opening he had given her by bringing out the wine. “So is this the vineyard you work in?” she asked, gesturing to the wine. Blake looked at her, hesitating slightly before shaking his head. Christie listened as he spoke about the vineyard near Arrowtown, fascinated by his stories, asking more questions. A thought struck her. “That’s the wine you got me at the pub,” she said, embarrassed as she remembered her comment about the wine not being one she would choose.
Blake nodded. “Why wouldn’t you have chosen it yourself?” he asked calmly, obviously remembering her comment. Christie apologised, realising again how rude she had been. Blake shrugged. “Tell me why.”
Christie took a deep breath. “The label,” she said quietly, blushing as Blake laughed.
“But you said you enjoyed the wine, Christie, that’s the important thing, not the label.”
Defensive, uncomfortably wondering if he was provoking her, Christie explained.
“The label is so similar to two other brands,” she said, naming them. “And it doesn’t mention where the wine is made, which is the main point of difference, when you look at where the other two are made. Especially for the pinot noir. I had heard of that winery, but didn’t realise it was in Central Otago.” She continued talking about the design of the label, her love of design and technical knowledge coming through.
Smiling, quietly shocked as Christie mirrored his own views about the label, expanded in detail on points he had only thought about generally, Blake spoke without thinking. “They’re talking about rebranding, you should put a design forward.”
Christie shook her head definitely. “I don’t have my laptop here, or the software I’d need. Redesigning labels for a winery like that, the owners should really go to a firm with all the resources to follow through.”
Blake eventually changed the subject, talking again about Mason Bay, the kiwis that could be seen after dark. Christie fell silent, suddenly conscious of the evening that had flown by in Blake’s company, unable to take her gaze away from his face, his dark eyes, noticing the way his face lit up when he smiled at her. Her heart contracted with longing; Paul was gone from her mind, his betrayal remote, unimportant.
Christie smiled at Blake as he placed two slices of fruit cake on the table, offered to make coffee. “Maybe later,” she said quietly, growing more and more aware of the passage of time, the implications of the approaching darkness. She choked back laughter as Blake teased her outrageously about having coffee later, his double meaning clear.
“Just coffee,” she replied, doubts instantly assailing her, crushing her dangerous thoughts of a moment ago. Christie saw Blake’s eyes flicker briefly before he smoothly resumed discussing plans to watch the kiwis. Racked with desire and doubt in equal measure, Christie stood up abruptly, excusing herself, tensing slightly as she realised she and Blake were sharing a room.
“I’ll knock, don’t worry,” Blake said, further unnerving her as she realised he had effortlessly understood her thoughts.
Christie looked up at him, her expression slightly defiant. “I’m just going to get a jacket and torch,” she said, striving for a casual tone, almost bolting from the main room of the hut.
Taken aback by how easy it was to be in Blake’s company, Christie snatched up her jacket and torch, sat down on the bunk, torn between staying in the hut and going out.
I want to see the kiwis,
she thought,
but…
Her thoughts circled endlessly as she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. Christie looked up quickly as she heard a sharp knock on the door followed almost immediately by Blake. Her heart pounding unreasonably, Christie stood up, suddenly self—conscious. She realised Blake was holding his own jacket and torch, was watching her. “Where’s the best place?” she asked, conscious only of his eyes on hers.
“To see kiwis?” Blake asked, teasing her. Embarrassed, Christie left the room, unable to reply as Blake’s incessant teasing only emphasised her own thoughts.
Blake followed her out, all signs of joking gone. “So the truce is over, is it?” he said roughly.
“Like the safe subjects?” Christie replied quickly, unwilling to let him see how much she enjoyed his quick wit, how attracted she was to him. Silently, she acknowledged that Blake’s teasing words were often direct, in fact verged on bluntness, but she nevertheless found herself unable to take real offence.
“Still deciding what you want, are you?” Blake asked, his voice deceptively light. Christie glared at him in response, infuriated by the way he seemed to turn everything back on her.
“I want to see the kiwis,” Christie said, trying to remain calm, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Are they close to the hut? What’s involved?” She kept her gaze fixed on the jacket she was holding, trying to regain control.
Blake was silent; eventually she looked back up at him. “They might be,” he said, quietly annoyed at her rejection, her refusal to flirt with him. “But I thought we could walk through to the beach.” Christie hesitated, unable to resist the idea of going to see Mason Bay again. With Blake. Inwardly cursing her own indecisiveness, Christie tried to think of a way to retrieve the situation.
“Up to you,” Blake said eventually, as Christie remained silent.
“Is there more chance of seeing a kiwi on the beach?” Christie asked.
Blake shrugged. “Probably. But you might want to stay around the hut.” Christie’s heart sank, recognising his impersonal tone, a stark contrast from his earlier joking and teasing.
She took a deep breath, trying to think back to a time before Paul, to bring out her usual confidence. “I think I’d like to look around the beach,” Christie said, checking her torch, not looking at Blake. “Are you heading over that way soon?” She glanced up at him, breathless at the look he was giving her, a look that was hidden so quickly she convinced herself she was imagining it.
— # —
Christie stood quietly in the dunes around Mason Bay, letting her eyes adjust to the night, intensely conscious of Blake standing close by, watching the tussock. She had turned her torch off earlier at Blake’s whispered suggestion, then heard the tussock rustling, the harsh calling, unlike anything she had heard before. Involuntarily, she glanced quickly up at Blake, her face alight with amazement, before looking back at the tussock as a kiwi burst out of the undergrowth, walking right past Christie, heading away up the dune. Christie tensed as she felt Blake’s hand on her arm. “What—”