‘A girl called Meghan Mackay. Do you know her?’
I shake my head. ‘The name’s not familiar. But I’m sure I’ll meet her soon enough.’
He falls silent again, and my fingertips slip beneath the rips in my jeans that feel too tight in this sweltering heat. Beside me, Zac’s tanned hand rests on his bare thigh as he uses his other to turn the wheel. Questions pile up in my head about his new life up here, but none make it to my lips. Seeing him so tense and distant with me at close range hurts more than I thought it would. Where is the guy who’d toss pillows at me during sleepovers because he wouldn’t want me to go to sleep, then drag his blow-up mattress beside mine so he could talk my ear off until we eventually passed out?
Zac, it’sme.Why are you acting like I’m a stranger?
We’re on what appears to be a relatively busy street for this city when he leans in my direction, bringing a pleasant whiff of men’s soap. ‘There it is.’
The white letters spelling ‘QUEST’ are barely visible through a thick cluster of trees. There are empty parking spots everywhere—another thing I’m amazed about—and Zac pulls his car up right outside the front entrance.
I turn to him. ‘This is me,’ I say, trying to be cute to mask my disappointment at how out of reach he feels. When his golden-green eyes trap mine and hold on for a moment, my breath lodges in my chest and triggers a fit of coughing that’s been plaguing me for weeks.
Zac frowns. ‘Are you OK? Jeez, that cough doesn’t sound good.’
My stomach plunges to the carpeted floor beneath my leather slides.
That cough doesn’t sound good.
Bile rises up in my throat, and my heart begins pummelling my ribs.
That cough doesn’t sound good.
That cough doesn’t sound good.
Don’t panic.
Don’t panic.
I can’t breathe.
‘Do you want me to come and look at rentals with you tomorrow?’ Zac offers lightly, like he hasn’t just confirmed my worst fear—that I have cancer spreading through my body. I can barely hear him through the pounding in my ears.
That cough doesn’t sound good.
‘You said you have some appointments lined up?’ he adds.
I cling to the distraction of his question. ‘Yeah, I—I’ve got three possible roommates to meet.’ My voice trembles, but my heartbeat’s already slowing.
That cough doesn’t sound good.
‘So, would you like me to come along?’ His eyes travel over my face, the direct contact making me feel even more exposed. But it diverts my mind from the dark place it just travelled to.
‘Do youwantto come?’ I ask.
I want him to say yes, but I don’t want it to be out of a sense of ‘former best friend’ duty. If that’s the case, I’d rather go alone.
He shrugs a shoulder. ‘I’m off-shift tomorrow, and there’s not meant to be much swell, so I can’t surf.’
‘Yousurf?’ I tilt back a little, one corner of my mouth lifting.
He blinks at me. ‘This is a shock to you because?’
‘It’s not ashock’—Sydney is teeming with surfers—‘I’ve just never known you to be a wax-head.’
Live music bar addict, whisky connoisseur, practically Michelin-starred chef, health and science geek—yes to all of those. I have discovered many sides of Zac Jameson over the years, but I have never seen him go anywhere near a surfboard.
He laughs lightly, looks away, and then back to me again, reminding me of when he used to flirt with girls at university. ‘I guess you’ll have to reserve your judgement, Ms Larsen,’ he says. ‘Clearly, there’s a lot you still don’t know about me.’
