Chapter 2

At a half-broken bench on an outcrop overlooking Wellington, Carl cracked open the six-pack in his bag and drank while the city came to light-speckled life under a cold, misty night sky.

His hands numbed quickly, and he wished the rest of him would numb too. The stuff inside his chest kept twisting and turning, roaring. He could never go back. Never go back to being Carl Birch, dud, with no prospects and a penchant for accumulating fines.

After his sixth beer, cans squashed and stuffed back into his bag, he stood, shoved his flannel hoodie hood up over his head, and let the wind at his back push him to the edge of the bushy drop below. Over the sound of crunching gravel on the path behind him, he sighed, and the sigh fogged before him like a new path unfurling.

He opened his arms wide. Wellington. This new place, much bigger than Earnest Point, where no one knew Carl; this new place, where he didn't have to be Pete's best man; this new place... could he start over?

"Don't jump."

The voice was deep and calm, and totally unexpected. Carl whirled around, dizzy, pulse singing. A grey-hooded figure—washed in moonlight, vaguely shimmering in the moist air—strode his way. Power, urgency, determination radiated from him, and each of his steps was a curious punch to Carl's stomach. Seriously, the only thing missing from this moment was some kind of cape—

A ticklish laugh bubbled out, and—

Gravity raced through him.

Carl wasn't the type to topple over at the barest outline of a sexy man, but... He tried to catch himself, but his foot twisted and everything became a rush of sounds. Shouts—his own. Someone else's. His hand was suddenly burning where he'd grabbed hold of a branch and clung onto it while his feet scrabbled on prickly bushes to propel himself back up to the outcrop.

He wanted to start over, not reincarnate! He liked this body, this face; those could stay the same please-and-thankyou! Just the substance was the problem.

Arms extended towards him, strong hands curling around his upper arms. A flash of pinched brow overhanging the cliff, the mist making the world blurrier, the grunted, "Hold on. I've got you." And later, the desperate, "I've got you this time."

A combination of Carl's own attempts and the stranger's heaving had Carl clambering over the precipice, and—

A final yank, the push of his foot finding purchase on a branch, throttling him forward against his saviour. They fell in a thumping heap to the firm, flat ground. For a good dozen seconds, Carl's heart hammered, adrenalin momentarily cleaving through the alcohol. A body was trapped under him. Firm lines, masculine, and breathing hard. A gruff, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, mate. Thanks." Carl rolled to the side; his saviour sucked in air and began picking himself up, knocking Carl's bag from the bench in the process. A crushed can slipped out of the open zipper and was picked up again as Carl decided against standing until his head stopped spinning. God, it was spinning.

He blinked through it and took in his hero. The guy was tall, and the hood of his windbreaker was pulled up. His mouth and nose were covered by a scarf. A sparkly silver scarf. Carl couldn't tell if the shades of grey made some kind of pattern, like birds or fish or... wow. Even drunk, even with most of that face covered, Carl could tell the guy was curling a lip at him, unimpressed.

Alongside the unimpressedness, Carl made out dark eyes. Eyes that scrolled over his every inch unflinchingly. Eyes that pinched with apprehension. Eyes that grimaced.

"Drinking? While hiking on your own? At night? Are you an idiot?"

Eyes that saw the truth.This probably wasn't Carl's smartest idea. "Carrying on like a right pork chop, wasn't I?"

His saviour stuffed the can into his bag and zipped it up for him, muttering something about tourists. "Alright. Let's get you off this hill."

Carl waved a hand. He'd embarrassed himself enough. "I'm not that far gone. I can make it down on my own."

When his rescuer's dark gaze slunk up and down him again, Carl pushed through an ill-timed and ridiculously slinky shiver and got to his feet. "See?" He flung his bag over his shoulder, saluted Silver Scarf, and—with as much grace and dignity as he could muster in his state—marched past him to the dirt track and steep decline. Grace was a joke. As soon as he was out of sight, his movements turned to hobbles, and each hobble had his head pounding and his limbs sluggish.

At a particularly rocky bend, he stumbled and yelped.

He was rubbing his ankle when his silver-scarved hero raced in a scurry of dust to his side. By the light of his phone he checked Carl's ankle. Fingerless gloves thinly covered his hands and each press around Carl's foot was a bite of cold with the gentle scrape of blunt nails and the coarse kiss of wool. Carl's pant leg was pushed back down over the tender muscle. Dark eyes hit Carl again. "Looks okay, but to be sure, hop on my back."

"I'm sure I'll be—" Carl slipped again trying to stand. "Yep, sounds good."

A huff. Perhaps one that came with a grin? Hard to tell now Carl was staring at the man's broad back. A silly laugh twisted through him as he pressed himself against this silver saviour. Sharp plunging insides robbed Carl of any more laughter as his hero swiftly stood. Confident hands grabbed Carl's thighs and wrangled him higher up around slim hips.

"I'll get you down safe."

It took a moment to talk over the... giddiness. Alcohol induced. "Big heart you have, mate."

"Not heart. Social responsibility."

"Bet it weighs heavily on you."

A huffed laugh. Carl draped himself more closely to his saviour's back and closed his eyes against a firm, sturdy shoulder for the fifteen-minute piggy-back ride.

"You're strong."

"You're lucky. People are lining up for such a chance."

"To ride you?"

Silver-Scarf tsked; hands shifted down the undersides of Carl's thighs to his knees and jolted him up another two inches. The sudden friction had Carl hurriedly changing the topic.

"Anyway, what were you doing hiking in the dark?" He smirked. "Are you also an idiot?"

"People need to be more careful, that's what I meant. I shouldn't have called you an idiot."

Carl sighed. "It's okay, I was a bit."

"If you'd had an accident—if you'd fallen back there—think of all the people who'd be hurt. Heartbroken. Look out for yourself, that's all. For you, and for them."

"You sound..." Carl lifted his head from one shoulder and laid it on the other. "Are you heartbroken?"

His saviour paused in his step for a moment before continuing, ignoring the question.

"I'm asking because you're taking this social responsibility very seriously."

"Would you rather I'd left you dangling from a cliff?"

Carl chuckled, but the kind of chuckle that preceded a groan. A groan that he expelled after he was deposited on a bus-stop bench.

His hero stuffed a red bus card into his hand, pivoted on his grey boots and disappeared.

Carl didn't actually need the bus to get home—his brother's place was literally two minutes up the road—but he was too tired to slur any of that. Instead, he called after his saviour's shadow, "Big heart. Yup. Owe you one."

After catching his breath—from the extremely exhausting effort of being carried down the hill—Carl crawled back to Jason's pad, a villa on a quarter-acre patch with heaps of lavender. He took a breather on the porch chair, and then fell into the spacious, pristine house.

The hallway was a good glimpse at the differences between him and his brother. They might be twins—with the same medium height, blue eyes, snobbish upturned nose, and dimpled smile—might both have this tiny freckle at their jaw, and even the same weird double-jointed toe. But that's where the similarities ended.

Just look at this hallway. Covered in framed, gleaming music awards, starting twenty years ago and carrying on throughout Jason's entire childhood and into adultdom. He was famous, in certain circles. Accomplished. Had a career that let him travel the world. Played for huge audiences. Was applauded by them.

Rubbing his nape, laughing, Carl stumbled to the grand piano in the living area and slumped onto the stool. The stand was crowded with heaps of notes—some Schulhoff concerto thing—and amongst the loose pages was a mag that Carl could actually read.

He'd read Jason's horoscope out to him before he'd left to play Carl back in Oz, but he'd skipped over his own in an effort to keep himself together. Now he was half undone anyway, so...

He snapped up the glossy paper and schlepped it to the master bedroom, where he stripped out of his beloved flannel and flopped into bed.

He flipped to the right page, and read... and tossed the mag aside, wagging a finger at it. "No integrity at all!"

The next morning,Carl's head was pounding. Like, really pounding.

It was hard to know, though, if it was due to the beer last night or the million thoughts that plagued him since reading his darned horoscope.

Capricorn may have mistaken friendship for something more and bitterly resent himself for not seeing the signs, but rest assured, it's better to face the music. New relationships will reveal themselves as you grow from this experience in heart, mind, and courageous spirit!

Carl lifted one of the dozen pillows he'd drowned in last night and muffled a growl into its feathery mass. As if predestined or something, his phone shrilled with a call from his twin.

Jason sounded rather breathless as he interrogated Carl about the cop he shared a fence with back home. "I got the feeling you're rather infamous at the station."

"Well," Carl grimaced. "I might've been the subject of a tweet or two..."

Carl answered Jason's questions about his neighbour the sergeant on automatic, his mind blasting ‘Dead-End Dude' like it was a chorus in a bad song. ". . . he seems as annoyed as I am that I'm always getting tickets. Or getting caught with a beer in a public place—" Like last night! "You know... I might have a problem with rules."

Carl should make it his mission: No more trouble.

But trouble, it seemed, was also plaguing his otherwise-rule-abiding twin brother who was currently at Carl's house pretending to be Carl. Turns out, pretending to be someone who looked exactly like you could actually be a bit tricky. Carl's grip on his phone doubled. This couldn't be all over before it began. He couldn't face the music. Pete, the boy he'd known forever. The one he'd been most comfortable with in the world. Pete, who was tying the knot with Nick. He had no guts to go back to Tas until the wedding. Even then... could he not run away forever?

When Jason vowed "This is not over yet," Carl let out a deep breath of relief.

Call over, he rolled out of bed, foot miraculously okay, and found Jason's bike and rainbow helmet in the garden shed. He always felt better leaving his devices behind and getting some good wind in his face, so he peddled hard and fast down the wide road towards Island Bay and swung a left around the coast. The surfers were out at Houghton Bay this morning, the sea sparkling turquoise and navy before crashing into white rushes up the beach, and it looked... like a good spot for a fast dip.

His shorts were pretty much the same material as swim shorts. They'd do.

He stripped off his flannel and the t-shirt under it, and stuffed his socks into his shoes. His stuff he left with the bike, leaning near some benches on the footpath.

He got as far into the—crikey—cold water as his hips when a familiar holler of boredom and mischief had him whirling towards the shore.

Just his luck. "Oi!"

His shout fell on dismissive ears; the rascals took off with his bike, one riding, the other perched on the bag rack.

A nearby surfer, already half stripped out of his soaked wetsuit at the back of his ute, caught the whole incident and sprinted—barefoot and bare chested—after the teens. He yelled... something. Whatever it was, it had the teens coming off the bike, abandoning it at the side of the road, and running off.

Carl waded out of the water and sand clung ticklishly to his feet and ankles. The surfer strode along the footpath, the bike alongside him. Grey neoprene clung low on his hips, the fine tight muscles on his perfectly tapered torso shifting under his damp skin. He moved with a cool, easy gait, showing off an overall physique that could only be described as... too much work.

Too much work and too hard to look away from. How many innocent bystanders got locked into gym memberships after looking at this?

Carl ignored an appreciative swoop in his belly and grinned as he came up the steps; his bike rescuer leaned the bike in its original spot, and then shook his dark, damp hair like he was being filmed for a shampoo advertisement. Like he knew he'd sell a lot of it.

When he glanced over at Carl, he did a double take and blinked. Carl totally got it; one of them was a heart-throb, and the other was a guy in sort-of-swimshorts too au-natural in colour. Possibly like he wasn't wearing anything. Upon closer inspection, though, things were all squared neatly away, everyone's purity preserved.

"Thanks."

Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude cocked his head, dark eyes stomach-jumpingly riveted onto Carl.

"You haven't seen a multicoloured helmet, have you? Or my clothes? Little devils."

Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude's frown deepened. He shook his head as if ridding himself of a wayward thought. "They took off with the helmet."

"What'd you say to get them to leave the bike?"

"They rightly figured they'd be in bigger trouble if they kept going. I know their mums. Lock your bike up next time. Your helmet will show up somewhere, no doubt."

He went on his way, and Carl followed with a thought. A small-towner, everyone's-your-friend-and-neighbour kind of thought. "Are you heading through Berhampore? Can't ride without a life-saving headpiece, I spotted cops out this morning." Carl leaned in where his bike rescuer was stretching a muscular arm into the ute. He pulled out a towel and flung it around his neck. "I'm doing this thing where I try not to get into trouble."

Judgy laughter, muffled through the towel as he wiped his face.

Carl looked from his stolen bike to his wet shorts and grimaced. "As you see, it's going well. Can I pop my bike in the back?"

Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude reached back into the bed of the ute—and pulled out a bright red helmet and oversized, equally red jacket. He pressed them against Carl's chest. "You're set."

Carl blinked as his rescuer hopped into the driver's seat, and sighed, patting the vibrant headsaver. "Toto, I've a feeling we're not in small-town Tassie anymore." He called out louder, "Where do I return these?"

A hand popped out of the open window and flashed a wave. And, with a roar of the engine, the ute peeled away from the curb.

Carl donnedthe jacket and Toto, found one of his shoes, and made do. At least the jacket was warm. And it smelled good—the pleasantest trace of aftershave lingered at the collar, and he kept breathing it in. The helmet was a perfect fit too, but he'd had to tighten the chin strap, which he'd perhaps done a little too tight, because it was rubbing under his jaw at his rather sensitive spot there...

He shook off the vision of the helmet's owner. Beautiful but a bit... aloof? Seriously, how much trouble would it have been to drive him? If this were Tassie...

He'd have bigger problems.

Carl screeched to a tire-burning halt as a crying strawberry-blond kid stepped blindly into the street.

The kid scrambled back with sorries and more tears, and Carl—well, tears really worried him. He stopped and asked if they were okay.

The kid looked panicked. "Bee sting."

"Oh shit," Carl said, frantically making a plan to flag the next passerby and get them to call for an ambulance. "You allergic?"

"N-no," they cried. "It just hurts. I want to go home but I don't want the other kids to see me. Boys sh-shouldn't c-cry."

"Aw, kiddo. Boys can cry whenever they like! Where d'you live?"

"B-berhampore."

Thirty-minute walk. Or five minutes on the back of Carl's bike. He took Toto the Red Helmet off and set it on the boy. "Hop on, I'll get you home quick."

The boy hopped onto the bag rack and clung to Carl all the way, then thanked him and streaked towards his house with the helmet on. At the same moment, a cop unfolded from a car across the road and trundled towards him. Carl knew from experience what that grimace-and-swagger meant. He bowed his head and gritted his teeth. Riding without a helmet. Another ticket.

So much for avoiding trouble.

He was on his way again, pushing his bike up the hill, when someone called from behind him. He turned to a young woman with bright strawberry blond hair and guessed at a glance she was related to the boy; if he hadn't been certain from the hair, the red helmet she carried would've clued him in.

"Thank you for helping Leo home." She tapped Toto and gestured to his red jacket. "You're not from Over The Raindough."

Over The Raindough. Is that where Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude worked?

"How do you know I don't work there?"

She laughed and pointed diagonally across the road to a bright red bakery fa?ade he hadn't noticed. "I work there."

Really? "Do you know a tall guy there?" Carl asked her after a short explanation how he ended up in half of the delivery uniform and how he'd come to help Leo—her son, she said—home. He took Toto when she handed it back to him. "Around my age? Surfer type?"

She smiled brightly. "Ah, you mean Berhampore's heartbreaker. You don't get out much. He's working the early shift tomorrow."

Heartbreaker? Beautiful and probably knew it, a little aloof . . . That fit. "Heartbreaker, eh?"

She giggled. "You'll see."

"I just want to return these when I'm done with them."

"That's what they all say."

"Muuuuum!" Leo yelled from behind the fence. "You left the stove on, and this jam isn't helping."

Carl chuckled. "He means honey, right? Onion helps too."

"Honey! I knew it was one or the other." She started running back to Leo, frantically apologising. "Head full of straw, I have."

Carl waved, and Leo's young mum shut her gate and whirled back, yelling. "By the way, there's another reason I know you don't work at Over The Raindough."

"What's that?" A bakery would totally be the type of job Carl would gravitate towards.

"You're Jason Lyall, right? Piano genius? The one all the mums want their sons to turn out like?"

Jason. Genius.

Carl sighed and dropped his head, which might have looked like a nod because it received a delighted squeal. "I knew it. From the pics they posted of your latest concert-album."

"Oh wait—"

She clapped her hands as Leo pulled at her elbow to remind her that he was there and he still had an ouchy. She stepped back, staring at Carl with big, awed eyes. And those eyes. Not gonna lie. They tickled his pulse. To be looked at like that. Adored. It was a pleasant kind of feeling. Quite addictive, he could imagine.

"Please, please," she said. "We have our Street Greet tomorrow evening, the mums will be amazed if I got you to come. Would you?"

Of course he wouldn't.

Would he?

Early the following morning, Carl was still debating this. He shook his wet hair, fresh from a shower, and opened Jason's wardrobe. A couple of lonely shelves in the corner held all his comfy jeans, soft t-shirts, and the softer flannel that he liked to throw over them. The rest of the space was filled with pressed suits, coats with long tails, casual-fancy blazers, skinny jeans and skinnier t-shirts.

Jeez. Yeah, even the wardrobe looked accomplished.

He picked out a button-up shirt, a tie, and a waistcoat which shared a hanger with the matching pants. He held up the shirt against his damp chest. Good thing about this twin business. All this would fit.

What if... what if—until he headed back home—he pretended he was successful? He had this dreamy villa, these fancy suits, expensive wines. The grand piano and the manicured backyard. He could be Jason while Jason was being Carl. Carl was good at the Kiwi accent, too. He could totally pull it off. Live as if all this were really his.

Carl shook his head violently and stuffed the outfit away. Silliness. Jason posing as Carl in the lead-up to his ex's wedding was understandable. It addressed Carl's broken heart and gave Jason the chance to meet his biological family. Play-acting to make himself feel like he had a bright future—a bright present—full of big boulevards and no dead ends... might be indulging himself a bit.

He stuffed on his own jeans and his flannel hoodie, grabbed the red jacket and Toto, and emerged into a dark, dewy morning. It was five a.m., and honestly, Carl loved being up this early. In Aussie he was up at four-thirty most mornings. Nothing compared to the quiet that came with this time. The freshness of the air. The first calls of birds.

He followed still-bright lampposts down to the shops and Over The Raindough, the only building glowing with life.

He rapped against the door and peered through the glass. The form of a figure came around a counter, but was obscured by the partially fogged glass, and—

The door snicked and whooshed open. His bike saviour, in charcoal jeans, a grey t-shirt, and—most prominently—a flour-dusted apron the colour and shine of tinfoil. Dark hair sat behind a dark net, and darker eyes glinted under short lashes. The corner of his mouth twitched as if in spite of itself. "No Trouble Boy." He looked at all the red Carl carried. "Easy enough to find me?"

"It was . . . no trouble." Carl winced.

Berhampore's-Supposed-Heartbreaker-and-Carl's-Bike-Rescuer folded his arms. "What prompted a pre-dawn delivery?"

There was something about the way he said it that implied Carl was acting like a love-struck stalker. Like he'd felt the echo of the sharp, low shiver Carl experienced upon seeing him. Well, the guy could get that idea out of his mind asap! Those shivers were out of his control. Physical only. Automatic response.

There was only one reason he was here. "Like they say. The early bird—" Carl went to set the bundle on the table inside to avoid all that dusty flour—and be done with the visit—but his foot hit the raised threshold and he tripped violently, tackling his rescuer to the floor. Whoosh, another few bolts of out-of-his-control electricity. The helmet and jacket flew across the timber boards and they ended up a sprawled tangle of limbs. Both expelled shocked puffs of air; Carl slammed his eyes shut as he peeled his cheek off his rescuer's groin. "—catches the worm," he finished on a mortified whimper.

His rescuer let out a short, sharp laugh at this, and tried to sit up as Carl attempted to extricate himself—

Their foreheads met with a resounding smack, and they toppled back to the floor, lips parting—and clashing—as they groaned...

They froze, suspended in the shock of tingling skin and the drizzle of released breath. Dark eyes hit Carl's and the long limbs under him shifted.

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.