The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh

It’s all I can do to encourage a few mouthfuls of the delicious room-service menu into her before turning on the shower and tucking her into bed.

      At first I thought her drive, work ethic, and independence made us incompatible, but it’s true what they say—opposites do attract and we slot together well.

      But could we take this chemistry, this astounding connection, and translate it into something real once the travelling and the hedonism stop? On my turf, my real turf, would her enthusiasm dwindle? Would she decide that we just don’t have enough in common after all?

      As to her feelings…

      I swallow bile—I have no clue. I’m only just waking up to my own…

      I grip the steering wheel, hoping to dislodge the lump in my throat threatening to cut off my oxygen. Time is running out. The real test will come back in Sydney, on home ground. I already have plans to throw myself into finishing the cottage renovations, but I still have no definitive solution for my financial woes. Do I return to work at my old construction firm and ignore the money in my account? Will they even have me back? When I said I needed some unpaid leave to get my head around things, they didn’t put up much of a fight. I knew the company was struggling; as with most Sydney-based construction companies, the building slump had taken its toll. But could I simply slot back into my old life as if none of this—the money, meeting Orla—had happened?

      More importantly, could a woman like Orla—so driven, so intent on making her business the best—be happy to come back down to earth with me? Live that simple life in a cottage by the sea?

      I try to picture her there, both in its current state of disrepair and once finished. I’m so used to seeing her in glamorous, decadent surroundings that the image doesn’t quite gel.

      There’s a tap at the window. I look up to find her beautiful, lit-up face smiling down at me and I’m struck with the force of a baseball bat to the skull that I want that reality. Me, Orla, simple moments in a cottage by the sea.

      Fuck, I’m falling for her. Actually falling.

      I clamber from the car, my heart pounding.

      I scoop one arm around her waist and pull her in for a kiss. Our first of the day and all the sweeter because I’ve had to wait and because each kiss we share is better and better.

      ‘Hi,’ I say after she releases me.

      She laughs. ‘Hi, yourself. So where are we going? I’m excited.’

      My chest grows tight with nervous energy, the box in my pocket burning a hole through the denim of my jeans. I wanted to wait, to give her the gift at a suitably romantic moment, but I can’t help myself. In view of my lightning-bolt revelation, I’m impatient to start.

      ‘I have something for you first—a gift.’ I tug at the box, which is snagged on my pocket.

      ‘Cam. No more gifts.’ She covers my hand, the hand struggling to release the box. ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can give you a list right now of a hundred sound investments to absorb your disposable income.’

      ‘Investing is the last thing I want to do.’ She’s only trying to help, I see that, but perhaps because I’ve already had similar thoughts myself, my stance on the money I neither wanted nor asked for softening, I dig in my heels.

      ‘Enjoying myself at my old man’s expense is one thing, but touching that money in any meaningful way feels too close to forgiveness, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.’

      ‘I understand what you mean about forgiveness. I’ve struggled with that myself. But I’m not talking about making money,’ she says, and my ribs pinch because she sees me, understands my struggles and, as much as I don’t want to hear it, she’s right. I need to find a way to come to terms with my new life. To build a new future for myself, because even if I want to return to the old life, it can never be the same.

      ‘There are lots of ways to invest thoughtfully and with a social conscience. You’re already doing it in a small way. But I can help you get around the restrictions in the will, too. Why don’t you let me put together some proposals?’

      I want to say so much in that second that I can’t speak at all. Would she want to help if she didn’t care about me? About us? And I’ll take any future contact with her I can get, even if I have to sit through a million financial proposals.

      ‘I do have something I’d like your advice on.’ Since thinking about my old construction company, an idea has taken shape. She may not know anything about the building industry, but I’m certain she can advise me, let me know if my plan is feasible. But I don’t want to have this conversation now.

      ‘But right now I want to give you my gift.’ I kiss away her pout and tug the box free. ‘This gift is different.’ I hold her stare so she understands my meaning. I know technically all my money is my money, but some of it I earned. ‘I bought it with my own money. My savings before the inheritance.’ Part of my cottage renovation fund, but she doesn’t need to know that.

      Her eyes widen. ‘Oh, well…thank you.’ She presses a kiss to my mouth, and I know she gets me. She understands the distinction and what it means to me.

      I hold the box up at eye level, flat on my palm.

      I know she wants to berate me for my extravagance, but she takes the box without further comment. Inside is an intricate pair of traditional Singapore gold earrings, their beauty and delicacy reminding me of her.

      ‘I notice you always wear these,’ I touch one diamond stud, ‘and I thought you might like a change, so…’

      Why am I so tongue-tied? It’s a gift. I’ve given her hundreds of gifts over the past few weeks. Perhaps it’s because I want to say more, to tell her that I want to see her beyond the six weeks we agreed, but I clamp my jaw shut, because I’m not sure she’s ready to hear that yet.

      ‘They’re beautiful, Cam, exactly what I would choose myself.’ Her mouth is back on mine, and her arms scoop around my neck so I hear when she snaps the box closed.

      I guess she’s not going to wear them tonight. I swallow down my disappointment. It’s no big deal. ‘Let’s go. It’s not far, so I thought we could walk.’

      She tucks the earrings inside her bag and loops her arm through mine. It’s a short walk to the premier grandstand, which has the best views of the street circuit’s more challenging turns and spectacular views of Marina Bay, the focus of the post-race fireworks.

      I take Orla’s hand. ‘Do you like Grand Prix?’

      ‘Yes. It’s so exciting. Is that where we’re going?’ She smiles her dazzling smile, and I nod, no longer interested in the motor racing. I want to take her back to the hotel and strip her naked, save for the earrings I bought. I want to drag a confession from her of how she truly feels about me. If she wants to see me once we’re back in Sydney.

      ‘Not long until we’re home. It’s going to be a struggle after all this adventure,’ I hedge, testing the water.

      ‘Yes. I’m sort of dreading it, to be honest. I’ll have to see my father and he’s going to be pissed about Jensen’s.’

      I squeeze her hand in solidarity. ‘Tell him to stick it. You did nothing wrong apart from being the best.’

      She nods, but her eyes appear far away. ‘You know, he bought me these earrings for my twenty-fifth birthday.’ She touches one of the diamond studs she always wears. ‘At first I was incredibly touched. We weren’t that close while I was growing up—I always felt second best because I didn’t have a Y chromosome. But after he’d given me a second to open his gift and thank him, he chose that moment to tell me I wouldn’t be the next CEO, but Liam would.’

      I stare, because I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how to feel. ‘I’m sorry he treated you that way.’ What does it mean that she wears them every day without fail? I try to recall if I’ve ever seen her