“Cool,” he said, with a thumbs-up that felt sarcastic.
“Don’t tell anyone my name is Lysander. It’s weird.”
“You don’t say.” Mike tugged my water bottle from my hands and began filling it. “Well, rest easy, Princess. You’re not at risk of anyone here saying a full name.”
I’d forgotten I’d come into the kitchen for water. I’d gotten distracted by a lovely drum-shaped chest I wanted to lay my head on and rise up and down as he breathed. I wanted his ribs in between my thighs as I stretched out over him and he kissed the indents of my clavicle. I wanted?—
“Water,” I remarked uselessly, as he passed me the refilled bottle. “Cool.”
“Everyone in Woodville shortens things,” Mike said. “You may have noticed.”
It took me three whole heartbeats to remember what we were talking about.
“Kevin is Kev and Priscilla is Cilla,” I listed. “Tanya is Tanz. Everyone’s name is shortened. Is it a rule of living here? Because that would be the line between small-town charm and cult. In my opinion.”
Mike huffed a laugh. “It’s not a rule. It just happens. Who’s got time to be long-winded? A cup of tea is a cuppa. Afternoon is arvo. And why say Oscar when you could say dickhead?”
Something was bugging me. “But it’s important to make sure that people like being called by a shortened name, right? Caroline hates being called Caro.”
“She does.”
Despite the topic, I couldn’t help the warm flush that came from getting something correct, from knowing something. I was hard wired to want to impress people, and impressing Mike made me tingle.
He continued, “My sister hated living in Woodville, and being called Caro just reminds her of that. She’s a Caroline, and she always has been. Some people are full name people.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “It’s only English names that people shorten, right? Or Maori ones too? Or is that offensive?”
Mike exhaled and leaned a hand on the bench. “Talking about cultural sensitivity feels like the kind of chat I shouldn’t be shirtless for.”
“Sorry.” I flushed. “You can?—”
He held up a hand. “I’ll give you the key bits, and if you want more, you’ll have to do some research. You’re right, it’s important for Pakeha—that means white New Zealanders—and manuhiri, which is you, a visitor, to try to say te reo names and words correctly and in full. It’s a mark of respect. Mispronouncing something is a reminder of the way the language and the lands were ripped away from Maori by my ancestors years ago. Names matter. Language matters. There’s still plenty of old Pakeha here who don’t bother to say things right, whether because they’re stubborn or ignorant or racist, or all of the above. But this language is a treasure, and everyone who calls Aotearoa home has a duty to protect it. You visitors can help too.”
The weight of this knowledge, which was hard won and drenched in all the hurts of history sat heavily with me. “Thank you for explaining,” I said eventually. It felt insufficient. But it was all I had. “I’ll try my best.”
Mike nodded. “No one here will give you a hard time if you say stuff wrong. Te reo is hard if your first language doesn’t have rolled R’s. But if someone teaches you how to say something, make sure you pay attention and try your best.”
“I’ve yet to hear a Kiwi pronounce any R at all.”
Mike barked a laugh. “Fair point, Princess. Fair point.”
Fayhhhhhh was how he said fair. The R’s at the starts of English words were audible in the New Zealand accent, but you could forget about hearing one in the middle or end. But a slow grin spread across my face as I realized I was getting better at decoding it.
“More water?” Mike asked abruptly.
It sounded like mohhh wadah?
We both knew I hadn’t touched the bottle he’d filled. Maybe he was trying to tell me to go away, but his Kiwi politeness was obscuring the message, and I couldn’t make my feet move. When I shook my head, Mike shrugged and filled a glass for himself. I knew he was using a glass on my account, as he hadn’t bothered before—same as he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt.
Belatedly, I realized I’d been so focused on the little he was wearing, I hadn’t thought about what I was. (Again, rare.)
I had on blue cotton panties and a cami that I’d painted dancing molar teeth all over. It was cute as hell but not exactly full-coverage. I folded my arms over my chest.
Mike lifted an arm and scratched at his neck absently, and I caught a peek of a dark tuft under his arm. It wasn’t sexy—underarm hair wasn’t sexy!
And yet.
There was something about the way Mike owned space, completely unselfconscious, that appealed to me. If I was being honest, Mike appealed to me. He had the subtlety of a wrecking ball, but after four years in fashion where people seemed nice but were actually mean, Mike’s straightforwardness was refreshing.
