‘Poor thing,’ he says with atsk, brushing his knuckle down the side of my neck. He shifts so close that his protruding stomach caresses the back of my fleece jumper. I hunch forward, and Kye steps over to us.
‘Probably best if you don’t do that,’ he says to Buzz, the grouchy divot between his brows on full display. I don’t know if Kye is talking about aggravating the sting or about touching me at all, but either way, the director doesn’t even acknowledge him.
‘I’m in the cabin next door,’ Buzz says against my ear. ‘Still keen to pop over for that chat we talked about? I’ve got a top-shelf shiraz that needs demolishing.’
‘Sorry,’ I blurt out. ‘I’m going to bed.’ I want to add that I was never ‘keen’—I don’t want Kye to think I agreed to a late-night meetup with Buzz in his cabin. That’s not what happened. But Buzz already looks peeved.
Kye edges between me and the director. ‘Guess you should get going,’ he says to Buzz.
‘And you,’ Buzz retorts.
Kye makes a casual gesture over his shoulder, where his suitcase sits open on the bed. ‘Just getting my stuff together.’
The director tosses him an irritated look but then, mercifully, mutters a curt goodnight and clomps back through the sliding door.
The moment he’s gone, I release a pent-up breath. ‘He’s been acting a bit weird tonight,’ I say to Kye.
He shakes his head once. ‘That guy’s a fucking mayfly.’
‘A what?’
‘A mayfly. It’s an aquatic insect.’ He moves to the bed and zips up his neatly packed suitcase. ‘They’re only adults for a few hours before they die, so literally the only thing they think about is sex.’
My breath stumbles.
Those last eight words rolled off Kye’s tongue like he was auditioning for one of those old 1800-PHONE-SEX–type erotic hotlines. With his deep, rough voice, he would’ve been a shoo-in.
‘I’ll get out of your hair now,’ he says, yanking me from my thoughts. ‘If you’re okay.’
‘I’m good. Thanks.’ I smile widely to hide my embarrassment. I don’t know why my brain just went there about the phone-sex hotline. I might be a mayfly.
Kye’s gaze dips to my mouth for a split second.
Overcome by a bizarre rush of nerves, I glance away from Kye, then notice—‘Oh, you forgot your Scotch.’ I tip my head at the bottle of amber liquid sitting on the kitchen counter.
‘Bourbon,’ he corrects, ‘and not mine. Someone left it in the cabin. Help yourself if you want; I did. It’s good—a bit hard to break up with, but we’re better off without each other.’
His pouty lips purse with the threat of a smile, but it misfires, and his expression stays stoic.
He turns to leave just as I blurt out, ‘You want a glass now?’
His eyebrows shoot up, and I wish I could take the words back. When I’m nervous, I tend to overdo the friendliness—just like when I told Buzz at the wardrobe fitting that I loved all the clothes he picked out. It’s like a tic I can’t control; I’m not actually expecting Kye to—
‘I could use a nightcap, actually,’ he mutters, before clearing his throat.
‘Oh, okay; sure, great!’ I ramble brightly, hiding my panic by leaping towards the kitchen.
What did I just do?My pulse skitters as I reach for two glasses from the top cupboard and pour a couple of nips of bourbon.
‘Thank you,’ Kye says as he takes the glass from me, his long fingers accidentally grazing mine. He swallows and tips his head at the sliding door. ‘Want to sit outside? No wasp nest here. Luckily, I had a lighter and a can of hairspray with me when I arrived.’
My eyes widen, but Kye says, ‘Kidding, Evie.’ He nudges the sliding door open with his shoe and steps aside so I can go first.
Thrown by my strange reaction to him simply saying my name (my mind goes to the phone-sex hotline again), I keep my hands busy by grabbing my portable speaker and a packet of sweet-and-salty trail mix from my tote.
We head outside onto the verandah, where a soft chorus of frog calls and cricket chirps greets us like alittle animal orchestra. I sink into a cold metal chair and resume the Lucky Daye mix on my speaker, keeping the volume low so we don’t disturb anyone else.
‘Nice choice,’ Kye mutters, nodding at the speaker.
