Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
There were freckles at the edges of his eyes, making his short lashes appear thicker. The arch of his brow. Something about this felt familiar . . .
A hand pressed against Carl’s chest, and finally, finally Carl ripped their mouths apart and threw himself aside. “That threshold is hazardous.”
“Sure it’s the threshold?”
Before arriving here, Carl had imagined asking the guy’s name and suggesting a drink to thank him for the bike rescue, but he quickly dismissed that idea. Especially after he’d gone and mauled the stranger. The last thing he wanted was for any of this to be misconstrued. This was not Carl trying his luck!
He jumped to his feet, gathered and plunked all the red on a table, thanked the man for his services—headpalm—and dove out of Over The Raindough with no intention of ever returning. He could bake his own bread, thanks. Ice his own cupcakes.
No need to see those dark, gently judgy eyes ever again.
You must walk. It is a long journey, through a country that is sometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible.
L. Frank Baum
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Chapter Three
He saw those dark, gently judgy eyes again that very day.
The first time, at the roundabout. Carl had stopped abruptly at the sight of Jason’s rainbow helmet hanging from the powerlines, and a vehicle had to come to a sudden halt. This had Carl jumping and throwing out a thanks that got truncated when he noticed the familiar ute, and the more familiar dark-haired heartbreaker behind the wheel. The toot that came sounded incredulous, and their eyes locked as the ute carefully passed.
The second time, after lunch. Carl had headed off to explore Jason’s suburb on foot, and narrowly avoided being run down by an electric scooter. In the process of leaping aside, he smacked his hand on a freshly painted green fence, through the gaps of which dark eyes stared with a series of disbelieving blinks. Carl blinked back, and Berhampore’s Heartbreaker rose out of his crouch with his green-dripping paintbrush, reached over the pickets, and without a word erased Carl’s handprint.
The third time, mid-afternoon, when Carl headed to the supermarket to stock the pantry and ended up on the phone with Jason, shaking his head at his twin becoming involved in a fake-boyfriend plot in his name—only to have Berhampore’s Heartbreaker round into his aisle as he was saying “. . . I’m into PDA.” Which earned him a look like Carl had said it only to let him know. Like he really was hounding after him!
He returned home, unpacked, dealt with a wash he’d forgotten to hang out, and slunk into a local bar to drown the mortifying moments involving those gently judgy eyes. Seriously, who was this guy?
Behind the bar, the bartender was unpacking a box of cider. Carl used the time to glance over the beer list.
“What would you like?”
“A hazy IP—” Carl looked up and lost the rest of his order. His mouth gaped open, and unfortunately, he suspected a string of saliva had followed in the suddenness—leading to yet another assumption Carl was here drooling at all this beauty.
There—that jump of his brow. That totally implied he thought Carl was another groupie chasing after him.
Outrageous.
He smacked away any traces of unwanted drool. “Just the beer, please.”
He paid, zipped to the furthest table available, and shielded himself from view with a menu. His beer came with a low tutting and blunt-tipped fingers dragging condensation off the glass. Carl refused to look up until he was sure the man was once more behind the bar.
Yep, stay right there where he could keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t poof! and turn up again in Carl’s shadow.
A gaggle of prettily dressed-up ladies and gents swelled into the pub and took seats at the bar. Carl wanted to point a finger and declare that was flirting, nothing like what he’d done. He shook his head and grumbled into his beer. And grumbled some more upon witnessing those groupies getting sweet, polite smiles.
Not that he was a groupie, dammit.
At the table behind a beam on his right, Carl caught a glimpse of three middle-aged women in various shades of green seating themselves and clinking their wine glasses. “Let’s down these, girls, and head to the Street Greet.”
The Street Greet. He’d forgotten about it. Which was probably an indication he’d sensibly given up the thought of heading there as his twin.
“I saw Sage when I picked up some breadsticks,” one of them said. “She was harking on about having seen Jason Lyall; she’s invited him, apparently.”
“Probably meant she glimpsed him heading home and stuffed a flyer in his letterbox. She’s always exaggerating.”
“She has to, though. She’s got nothing else to talk about.”
“Bit dim, that one.”
“What kind of conversation do you expect from a mum who got knocked up at fifteen?”