Chapter 12

Polly

M an, I had monumentally fucked up.

It was official. Elias Giannopoulos, my gag-inducing—albeit four hundred times removed—half-cousin, was on his way, and I had agreed to not only meet him but be open to marriage.

From what my devious matchmaker mother had told me, Elias was short, fair, and handsome. A businessperson of his own making, he owned a chain of successful sporting goods stores and was involved in local charities that supported adults with disabilities. Much to my chagrin, he sounded attractive in a way I didn’t want him to be. If this guy turned out to be cute, not a loser, and philanthropic, I was screwed. And even whacked off her head on painkillers, Mum knew it.

Confident I could worm my way out of it, the panic didn’t set in for a day or so. But a day before Mum’s planned discharge from the hospital, her temperature steadily rose. Initially, she brushed it off as a nasty little cold, but we knew something was wrong when night chills became scorching fevers, and her surgical incision began to swell. Luckily, the nurses saw through Mum’s posturing and ran some tests, later diagnosing her with PJI. An infection in the tissue surrounding the metal screws connecting Mum’s femur and hip joint. Thirty minutes later, she had a drain sucking pus from her wound, two IVs pumping fluids and antibiotics into her, and a daughter who was resigned to her fate.

A few painfully long days ago, I refused to meet up with possibly the hottest guy alive. Now I was being flogged off to some desperate, gross loser who needed to marry a cousin because he was so gross and desperate. The fact that I, too, was deemed to be in the same position and could be assigned the same labels was neither here nor there.

Two desperadoes of the same genetic background being forced into marriage could never be a good thing.

Right?

Even so sick, she continued pushing the benefits of arranged marriages. “Your papou and yaya had an arranged marriage, and they lived together happily for forty magnificent years.”

“Mum. Yaya spent almost every Christmas and Easter chasing and walloping Popi with the spare spit skewer. She ran over two of his cats, and he died of food poisoning, which I’m pretty sure we all agree she was responsible for.”

Dad huffed a laugh but left me to face the consequences, sneaking out to get coffee when she gave him the look. “Polly. How can you say such horrible things about your family? Your grandparents, bless their souls, loved you and each other very much.”

“Hmm. Nothing says I love you like multiple rod-induced concussions and salmonella-laced pork buns.” Chuckling despite herself led her to wince and groan as pain shot through her leg. “Try not to laugh at my cruelty, Mum.” I teased, “Or your God will punish you with another infection.” I brushed my fingers over her clammy skin, sweeping the damp hair away before reapplying a cool compress.

As annoying and horrible as she was at times, she was still my mum and seeing her so sick scared me. She could have asked me to meet Jack the Ripper, and I’d have said yes. Plus, she’d been ... lovely. We didn’t argue. There was no IVF pushing, and my need to commit matricide had dulled significantly.

After all, I had done, losing my freedom was a price worth paying if it finally brought us peace.

“My two girls are smiling. Ahh, that makes this old man’s heart swell.” Dad cheered as he knocked on the door jamb before passing through with a bunch of Mum’s favorite yellow roses in one hand, and a bag of red licorice, my favorite lolly, in the other. He’d been at the pub all day, his aging face wearied. “I’ve come to swap shifts, Plop. For some reason, the boys at the bar think you’re better to stare at while they get plastered. Who’d have thought?”

“They must have been drunk before they arrived,” I deadpanned.

“That’s not true, Polly.” smiled Mum. “You’ll not find a prettier face in this whole town.”

I waited for the “Shame about your body.” Or “Except for that darling Evie Austen,” but it never came. In the face of such unprecedented flattery, I was almost speechless.

“Thanks, Mum.” I removed the damp washcloth from her face, pressed a light kiss to her temple, and then did the same to Dad.

“Don’t forget your licorice, darling,” Mum’s weakened voice called. “You need some sugar. You’re far too thin.” Again, I waited for the snark, and again, no one came.

Grabbing my wrist, Dad pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. “What the hell is going on, Polly? I knew things had improved, but when I came in, you both looked … happy. And now this. A compliment?”

“Delirious with fever?” I replied, “That’s the only explanation.”

Spending all day at the hospital and all night at the bar left me exhausted, but even with Elias looming, I was oddly content. The public lynching I’d expected on my return never eventuated, mum was acting not mum-like, and being so close to the water again brought a sense of peace I’d not felt in ... ever.

What also came was Luna. On the eighth day of my absence, she rocked up wearing six-inch stilettos, a long sweater that barely covered her ass, and not much else. I was in standard pub wear, a black tee, skirt, apron, and ugly, comfy flats. With minimal makeup and my hair swept up in a messy bun, I looked nothing like the Sydney me Luna was used to.

“Holy shit. You look … normal,” she declared, winking at my fellow bartender Henry, and popping herself on a barstool right before me. “Don’t get me wrong, annoyingly you’re still the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, apart from the Doc, of course … oh, and your cowboy—”

“Not my cowboy,” I muttered.

“Sure. Whatever. Anyway, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, you are still stunning. Just … different. Ewingsdale bar wench suits you, Pol.”

“Thanks … I think.” Leaning across the bar, I squeezed Luna with all the affection I could muster. “Why are you here? I thought we talked about my required degrees of separation.”

“We did. You talked. I listened, ignored, and arrived. Simple. Now, what’s your fanciest, fluffiest, most alcoholic cocktail? Seven-and-a-half hours in your smelly old car requires hefty memory obliteration.”

As I gasped, I began to mix. “You brought the Corolla up for me?”

“I did. I know how much you love that piece of shit, and since you’re going to be here for a while, I thought you might be able to use her for an occasional escape.”

“Luna!” An uncharacteristic level of joy led me to hug her again, a hum of pleasure sneaking in too. “You’re the best.”

“I am, and you owe me big time.”

“That I do. Why don’t we start with that drink? I suck at super fluffy cocktails, but how about an espresso martini? Triple everything.”

“You know me too well, my love. This is great. I need to enjoy loving, grateful Polly while I can. Oh, and you better make it two.”

“Two what?” I asked, turning to grab some ice.

“Two martinis.” There was every chance one was for me, but I could tell by her breathless, forced giggle that it wasn’t.

“What did you do, Luna?”

“I didn’t do anything … that I absolutely shouldn’t have.”

Before I could reply, a deep, rumbly voice reverberated through me, stealing the air from my lungs, and loosening my grip on the glass, that fell and smashed against the sticky tile floor.

“How you doing, Princess?”

Six-plus feet of pure, beefy, blue-eyed man candy that could pick me up, toss me onto the bar, and defile me had little to no effect on my body. My pulse did not thrum, my breath did not catch, nor did my mouth ... or anywhere else in my body struggle to cope with a sudden surge of moisture.

Not. At. All.

“You should not be here,” I snapped, my voice trembling with emotion I had no desire to explore as my eyes darted from said man candy to Luna. “And you, come with me. Back in a sec, Henry.” Skiting around the bar I wrapped my hand around Luna’s wrist and dragged her back to Dad’s office. Slamming the door behind me, I stalked toward her, my fingers clenching around the scratchy cloth of my apron, itching to do the same to her throat. “What the fuck did you do?”

Luna polished her nails against her cable knit sweater, inspected the sheen, and blew off the non-existent dust. “What does it look like I did? I drove to Byron, picked up Luca, and brought him here. And before you interrupt or slap me or both, hear me out. Obviously, he’s hot as fuck, but he’s also freaking delightful. Not only was he waiting for me at the mailbox, but he was also pacing, Polly. Pacing like an expectant 1950’s father. And he didn’t shut up about you the whole way here. When I tried to get him to reveal his plans for future sexy times, he blushed like a nun in a brothel and said he would prefer to keep your private intimacies private. I mean, c’mon. This is insane. You should have him pinned to a wall, not me.”

She was right. The wet, flustered part of me, knew what the dry, sensible zones refused to admit. “Luna, I told you not to contact him.”

“No, you told me not to give him your name and number, which I didn’t. You said nothing about hand-delivering him here.”

I slapped my forehead with an open palm and growled like the koala that lived in the park opposite the pub. “I would have thought it was implied.”

“Sorry. I didn’t pick up that vibe at all.” She leaned forward, kissed me on the nose, and ducked under my arms.

“I don’t like being pushed into things, Luna.” I followed her to Dad’s desk, where she made herself comfy on a pile of overdue invoices. I stood before her, my arms crossed over my chest and my nostrils flaring. “Making my own choices over who I see, when I see them, and what I do is important to me. You know that.”

“Yes, I do. But I also know you are terrified of being hurt and play the part of the bad party girl everyone decided you were so that you won’t be.” Taking a handful of my apron, Luna pulled me down to sit beside her and held my wiggling body in place. “Vulnerability is not weakness. You are allowed to be happy, and your smile the day I helped you get ready for your date told me that Luca has the potential to bring you that happiness. Even if it’s only temporary, don’t you think you deserve it? Don’t you think you’ve had enough pain? Paid a big enough price for your mistakes?”

Luke Bailey’s slimy face appeared before me. “No,” I replied, breathing shallow.

“Well, I do.” Luna nudged me with her shoulder, my body stiffening when she wrapped her arm around me.

“Luna, even if I wanted to see him, which I don’t, you couldn’t have picked a worse time. Mum’s set me up with a good Greek boy, and I googled this infection she has. It can be serious. Fatal. I couldn’t live with myself if she died still being so fucking disappointed in me.”

The excitement in Luna’s eyes turned to pity that soured my stomach. “So, you’ll just live a fake life to win her approval just in case she dies, which …” she paused and pointed her finger in my face for dramatic effect, “She will because we all will.” Damn it. Why do I keep surrounding myself with people who make valid points?

“I do know that. But … but … she’s been nice to me, Luna. And I know this stands in direct violation of me claiming to have no heart, but I’ve spent hours with her over the last week and there hasn’t been one snippy fat girl, mono brow, or hairy lip jibe. She didn’t bring up Evie. She even wrote out her galaktoboureko recipe. It’s my dad’s favourite. I’ve wanted to make that for him my whole life, and she finally entrusted me with it. If I was to see Luca and she found out—.”

“She won’t find out. I promise. And the timing is perfect. You can slip in a few shady hooks-up with your cowboy before Greek-boy arrives, then leave it as that. A fun, discrete holiday romance that puts the sin back in your bin.”

My brows furrowed. “Sin in my what? I don’t get it.”

“Haha. Trust me. You will soon enough.” The Mr. Burns-like muahahaha was interrupted by a tap, tap, tap on the door, perfectly matching the pounding of my heart.

Luna bit her lip, in a shit effort to stifle her snickering. “Can I let him in?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Great. Let me fix you first.” With that, she licked her thumb and rubbed off whatever foodstuff was on my face. My hair was next, the bun unceremoniously yanked from my head, allowing my thick locks to cascade around my face. Finally, a tube of red lipstick was pulled from her pocket and liberally applied. “Damn, you are freaking gorgeous, Pol.” She slipped away and opened the door before I could argue.