Lawson Gale

 

 

“I beg your pardon?” To say I was surprised by the interruption was an understatement. Not so much the offer, but who it was from.

It was the man from the plane. The one who’d laughed at me when I was taking my seat, the same man who’d almost knocked me over when the giant decided to stand in the aisle at the same time as me. It wasn’t my fault he was absurdly tall and built like a mountain. And of course he had to be gorgeously handsome with his perfect scruffy brown hair and perfect twinkling brown eyes. And a dimple. Of course he had a dimple. It completed his perfect face.

He was wearing a shirt with a Parks and Wildlife emblem over the right breast, dark jeans, and work boots. The outdoor type that worked with his hands was not a look that would normally catch my attention, but it somehow made him even more… perfect. One side of his mouth cranked upwards. “I couldn’t help but overhear you, and I’m going your way if you need a lift.”

I stared up at him and his stupidly perfect face.

His brow furrowed. “To the museum?”

“Oh.” Right. He’d asked me a question. Or offered me a lift, more to the point. “Well…” I composed myself. “I’m not in the habit of taking rides from strangers.”

He found something about this funny because he fought a slow grin and lost. He stuck out his hand. “The name’s Jack Brighton. Now I’m not a stranger.”

I swallowed hard and looked around nervously. No one seemed to be paying attention. The car rental lady was on the phone to what sounded like another disgruntled customer. Probably the person she gave my car to. I quickly shook the offered hand in front of me. I aimed for a firm grip because I loathed limp-fish handshakes, but I needn’t have worried. His hand was warm, hard, calloused… perfect.

“Lawson Gale,” I declared. “And thank you for the offer, though it would hardly be wise for me to accept. I’ve spent a lot of money on education; I’d hate for my epitaph to read that I was indeed an idiot, who rather stupidly got into the car with a man I just met. Who turned out to be a serial killer.”

Jack stared at me for a second before he laughed. “Right. Well, I’ve been assumed to be a lot of things. A serial killer has never been one of them.”

I scraped my fingertips through my hair, fixing it into place. A nervous habit I was trying to quell. “I meant no offence.”

His smile was warm and wide. “None taken. I’ll just be on my way then. Good luck getting to the museum in”—he looked at his watch—“thirty minutes.”

I watched him turn and leave, wheeling his suitcase behind him.

Bother.

I was out of time. And out of options. I quickly scanned the taxi rank through the large glass doors to find it empty. Double bother.

I started after the man I’d just called a serial killer. To his face. His ludicrously perfect face. “Mr Brighton!”

He stopped and turned back to me.

“Mr Brighton, please wait,” I said, hurrying to catch up to him while struggling to pull my suitcase and keep my laptop satchel strap over my shoulder. “I apologise for my rudeness, and I would graciously accept a ride. If you’re still offering, that is. I’d most appreciate it.”

He smiled. “Sure thing. Truck’s this way.”

I followed him out to the car park where he stopped at a large four-wheel-drive utility with a Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife logo emblazoned on the side. He unlocked it, then threw his suitcase into the back tray like it weighed nothing.

I looked at my suitcase, which was half my size, and wondered how I could lift it in. Maybe if he put the back tailgate down, I could slide it up…

Without me asking, he effortlessly hoisted my suitcase into the back with his. The muscles in his arms expanded and bulged. He waved at the passenger door. “Well, get in or you’ll miss your appointment.”

Right, yes. Of course. Clutching my laptop satchel, I climbed in. “Thank you again,” I said, clicking my seatbelt in. “I really am very thankful.”

“No worries,” he said, starting the engine. He shifted the gearstick into reverse, looked over his shoulder closest to me, and backed out of the parking spot. He spun the wheel, slid the gearstick into place, and the four wheel drive lurched forward. It was bumpier than I expected, and louder, but it seemed the outdoor nature of the vehicle suited him.

“You work for Parks and Wildlife,” I stated the obvious. I didn’t need to be a detective: he wore their shirt and drove their car.

“I do.” He smiled brightly as we sped down the highway toward Launceston.

“An interesting occupation,” I noted. “Do you favour the flora or fauna?”

“Love it all.” Then he chuckled. “You know most people would just say plants or animals.”

And there it was. The ever-forthcoming dig at my vocabulary. “I’m not most people.”

He just seemed to smile wider. “You certainly aren’t.”

I feigned interest at the passing scenery instead of trying to pretend I wasn’t offended.

“That wasn’t an insult,” he went on to say. “Just the opposite, actually. I like the way you speak. You’re obviously pretty smart.”

“Above average IQ, one could say,” I offered modestly.

Mr Brighton scoffed at me. “Right. And where exactly do you fit on the cognitive designation bell curve?”

I shot him a look. He knew what the measure of IQ was? Normally I would rebuff his question, uncomfortable discussing such matters, particularly with someone I just met. But I found myself wanting to be honest with him. “Genius.”

The dimple in his cheek appeared when he smiled out the windscreen. “Thought so.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Hell no. Why would it? Believe me, the last thing I am when it comes to a man’s intelligence is threatened.” He gave me a strange look with a questioning eyebrow as though he was implying something else.

Intelligence was not an issue for me either. I was, however, reminded constantly by those I worked with that I lacked social cues. And heaven knows small talk was not my forte.

“So,” he started again. I must have let my side of the conversation lapse too long. “Important meeting at the museum, huh? Is it for a job?”

“Not really. Well, in part, yes.” I cleared my throat. “I’m meeting a retired professor from my field. I have a two-week case study as part of my doctoral degree.”

“Doctoral degree? As in medicine?”

“Oh no. Not a medical doctor, heavens no. I don’t have the stomach for blood.” Even the thought of it made me uncomfortable. “I’m a lepidopterist.”

He nodded slowly. “And that is…?”

“I study butterflies and moths. Predominantly butterflies.”

“Wow. Interesting,” he said, seemingly genuine. Most people thought it was cute that I chased butterflies like a child. “They’re complex little things, I bet. You know, my favourite animal is a dragonfly. Don’t tell my dog that, she’ll never forgive me. And I know butterflies and dragonflies are different, but dragonflies are… well, I dunno, they just defy logic.”

I stared across the cabin at him. “Dragonflies are an incredible insect. I’m not sure what you mean by defy logic, though. Logic for which purpose? For whose purpose? Because logic is a human reasoning and hardly quantifiable in the Animalia kingdom.”

He smiled broadly. “I just meant they look like they shouldn’t be able to fly, but they can. And they look kinda alien. Not that I’ve seen any aliens to quantify this generalisation.”

I sighed. “I apologise. I don’t mean to offend…” I picked at the cuticle on my thumb. “My boss, leading Professor Michael Asterly, keeps reminding me of my inability to hold a conversation. Of course dragonflies can defy logic, and I apologise if I implied it was a foolish thing to say.”

Now he laughed. Though it sounded loud in the confined space of the utility cabin, it was a warm sound, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I thought we were holding down a conversation just fine. And it sounds like your leading Professor Asterly might not know how to have interesting conversations with intelligent people.”

I found myself smiling. “The professor is a smart man.”

“But not as smart as you.”

I shook my head, unable to draw my eyes away from this confounding mountain of a man who liked dragonflies. “No, he’s not.”

Mr Brighton stared right back at me and licked his bottom lip. “Um.” He cleared his throat. “Well, the museum awaits.”

I looked outside, only to find us parked out the front of the Queen Victoria Museum. I hadn’t even been aware we’d stopped moving, let alone arrived at my destination. “Oh, right.” I grabbed my satchel and quickly checked my watch. It was 11:55 a.m. I had five minutes to get inside. I quickly opened the door, then stopped. “You do know Da Vinci drew the very first design of a helicopter, hundreds of years before the Wright brothers designed the aeroplane, based on a dragonfly?”

The corner of his mouth drew up. “I knew that, yes.”

“So maybe the design was not so illogical after all.”

“Or maybe Da Vinci thought it was so illogical he just had to see how it worked.”

I went to rebut his argument, but the more I thought about his reasoning, the less I could argue. “Possibly.”

He grinned like he’d won first prize. Then he said, “You should get going.”

Oh, yes. Right. I got out of the vehicle, and before I shut the door, I said, “Thank you, Mr Brighton. I truly do appreciate the lift.”

“Anytime,” he answered. “And please, call me Jack.”