Carlene

It takes no time at all for Rome to have us parked and checked in. He collects the keys to our room and guides me up to the twentieth floor. I requested a studio of rooms where I could. Separate bedroom with a lounge area that the sofa converts into a bed. Maybe I should have splurged and gone with a suite, but the extra cost seemed too extravagant.

I’m not sure I’m ready to just meet someone and have them share a bed with me. That just seems way too forward for me.

There’s a knock on the door as I’m outside checking out the balcony and the view of the Pacific Ocean. I glance over my shoulder to see our bags arrive and Rome slip the guy some cash.

Must remember to tip. Must remember to tip, I chant silently in my head. That’s how things worked here.

A moment later, Rome appears at the balcony door. “Our luggage just arrived if you’d like to take a shower?”

“Sounds heavenly.” I immediately move back inside and to the bedroom where my suitcase has been placed.

“How about I order something from room service for dinner or would you prefer to go out?” he calls from the lounge.

For a fleeting second, the idea of going out appeals to me, or rather, it appeals to the part of me that’s keen to jam in as many experiences as possible. The reality, I know, needs to be quite different. The excitement and feeling of being on edge I have with a gorgeous man in my presence doesn’t seem to be registering with my eyelids. They’re becoming more and more demanding by the minute.

“Sounds good. Don’t think I’m going to be very good company, sorry. A shower, something to eat, and I reckon I’ll be ready to crash.” I look up from my suitcase and see him perched on the sofa going through the menu in the other room.

“What do you feel like eating? Salad, fish?”

“Burger with chips.”

He erupts in laughter. “Woman after my own heart.”

“I’m hungry. The plane food was blah. I need protein, carbs, and if I have to have the salad, I’d prefer it between the two halves of a bun, ideally topped off with a big dash of mayonnaise, oh and don’t forget the barbeque sauce.”

His laugher is now an amused chuckle and a head shake. “Anything else, Oz?”

“Yes, I’d like some tomato sauce with my chips, please.”

“That would be ketchup with your fries here, Oz,” he teases.

“Whatever, you figured out what I meant.” I throw back with a laugh.

“I did.”

Rome reaches for the handset of the hotel phone as I finish digging in my suitcase, finally satisfied I have all I need.

I hear his sexy voice placing the order as I step into the bathroom, close the door, put my back to it, and just breathe…

Oh—My—God, what have I got myself into? I’m never normally attracted to men, but this guy…

After taking a couple more cleansing breaths, I strip off and head to the shower and…it’s backwards! Well, the gadget to get the water running is, at least. For a split second, I think about calling Rome. No. I’m an independent, capable woman. I’m used to doing stuff on my own. Jesus, eighteen months ago, I was fixing irrigation pumps as good as any man. Just because there’s a man around, doesn’t mean I have to take advantage of that.

And that’s the crux of the lecture I give myself as I take a shower. Just because he’s available doesn’t mean I have to indulge.

Once I’m finished with my shower and I’m back in clean clothes, my stomach reminds me of just how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything of substance.

I emerge from the bathroom to find Rome setting out food on the coffee table in front of the sofa, rather than the table and couple of chairs, clearly intended for dining.

A fleeting look of concern flashes across his face. “Is this okay here?”

I give him a look I hope says, “you’re joking, right?” and add “of course, it’s perfect,” just to be sure.

“I like things pretty casual, Rome. I generally eat in front of the TV with a plate on my lap or out on the balcony,” I say as I take a seat on the sofa.

“Beer, wine, or something else?” he asks from over in front of the mini-bar.

“We’re having burgers, definitely beer.”

He chuckles. “Another thing we have in common.” He passes me a beer and takes a seat beside me. “Tell me more about how you like things casual.”

I’m just about to bite into the burger he’s laid out for me, complete with a little tub of tomato sauce for the chips. I put the burger back down on the plate.

“Sorry, I didn’t think. Eat first, and we’ll talk later.” I give him a grateful smile and pick up my burger once again.

You can always tell how good a burger is by the first bite, and this one’s exceptional. I can’t seem to help the moan of pleasure I let out at the taste. The meat patty is cooked to perfection and has a smoky taste. The mayonnaise is out of this world and the bun is soft, just the way I like it. Even the dreaded salad is not so bad when the rest of the burger tastes way better than good.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. Conversation isn’t necessary when the food tastes this amazing. I’m just about finished when I decide I’ve definitely had enough of the salad. I pull it out and leave it on the edge of the plate.

That earns me a laugh from Rome. “You really don’t like the veggies, do you?”

“Not so much. It’s okay sometimes, but I can take or leave side salads, and I’m not much for salad on bread. It makes it go all mushy.”

“Duly noted. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m ordering for you.”

I shrug my shoulders. “It’s okay. I can order for myself.”

“I’m sure you can. But I like doing it.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Anything else you don’t like to eat or drink?” he asks as I put a chip dipped in a solid helping of tomato sauce in my mouth.

As I chew, I think over what I don’t like to eat.

“To be honest, I’ll eat just about anything. I don’t like offal though, and I’m not keen on tons of lettuce, although I will eat it.”

“That’s it?” He looks a little surprised.

“Pretty much. I’m not the fussy type, although I can’t say I’ve had a lot of experience with eating out much.” He looks both unexpectedly pleased and a little confused

“I could tell by your request for the mayonnaise that you’re not too fussy. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since a woman happily asked me to order a burger and fries? Let alone to have it loaded with all the good stuff. That would be a big never!”

“I’m not into crazy diets and stuff.”

He puts his hands together as if praying. “Thank the Lord. My prayers have been answered. Music to my ears. But what do you mean on the not eating out much?”

I load up another chip with sauce and answer him. “Exactly that. Up until eighteen months ago, I lived on a cattle property ten hours from the nearest city you might recognize and that city would be Brisbane.”

“I’ve heard of it. Can’t say I know anything about it.”

“Has a population of about two million people, according to Google, but apparently feels more like a big country town. Not that I’m the best person to ask because it seems massive to me.”

“Two million isn’t that big.”

“Maybe not to you. But when it’s a twenty minute drive from the house to your front gate, you might change your mind. There weren’t a lot of restaurants out there. About the best we could expect was a counter meal at the local pub, when we went into town. Not to mention, the menu was generally roast of the day, or steaks however you liked them and chips.”

I watch his jaw drop in awe as I take a sip of my beer.

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Holy shit. That’s amazing.”

That surprised me. “Amazing?”

“I guess. I’ve just not come across someone that lived in a place like that. It’s interesting.”

I let out a snort of laughter at his choice of the word interesting. “I guess it might seem that, but the reality is very different.”

“I’ve only lived in a couple of the most densely populated cities in the world—New York, and now, LA. Total city boy here so you can see why I’m curious.” He looks intrigued and genuine in his interest. “How big a cattle ranch are we talking?”

“Well, we call them stations in Australia and ours was about five thousand square kilometers.”

His eyes grow wide, and he grabs his phone and does exactly what I would have done—Googled it. Then looks up, astonished. “Wow. That’s just over two thousand square miles. That is totally insane. You really lived there?”

I nod, confirming his question. “I lived at Colanara, that’s the name of the station, for just over twenty years with my husband. I sold it, just after he died.” That’s the abridged version including only the basic facts, but I’m not sure I want to give him the real story just yet, or at all.

He doesn’t wait a second before he’s all over it. “So tell me what it was like living there. What was an average day?”

Where to start?

“Have you ever lived on a farm or spent time on a farm?”

“Nope,” he says with cheer. “Closest I’ve come, is seeing photos of ranches in investment portfolios.”

Right! Big difference between paper and reality.

“I don’t know about US cattle ranches but Australian cattle stations are generally in what we call the outback. Away from the populated coastal fringe. The land is very barren, incredibly dry, and totally unforgiving. It’s very tough work trying to make a living out there. Drought is our number one enemy. We could go years without having any rain. Then the rain would come and we’d have a flood. It’s very much a vicious cycle, like that.”

He’s nodding, encouraging me to go on. I load up another chip with tomato sauce and pull up an average day in my head.

“Do you have some photos?”

“Yeah. I think so.” I reach for my phone and pull up an album on Colanara and pass it to him. In fact, the images are the ones the agent used in the sales package.

“It’s beautiful, quite awe inspiring.”

Hardly! I snicker in my head. To Rome, I murmur, “it was, at times.”

“So you were going to tell me about an average day out there,” he prompts.

“An average day is awake before the sun. I’d cook a big breakfast for Phillip, he was my husband, and myself. Depending on what was happening, I might have to cook for the jackaroos as well.”

“Jackaroos?” he interrupts.

“Workers. Mainly men that tend to the herds and fix fences that sort of thing.”

“We’d call them ranch hands.”

Out of habit, I stack our spread plates neatly on the coffee table.

“I’ll take them out into the hall in a bit.” I glance at them again.

He watches my eyes then swiftly plops the plates on a tray and takes them out into the hall.

“Want another beer?” he calls as he moves by the mini-bar on his way back into the room.

I probably shouldn’t, but the last one was so good, and I’m on holiday, after all. “Sure. Thanks”

Rome grabs a couple from the fridge and takes the top off before passing me the beer and settling in the seat right beside me.

I can’t help myself from uttering, “I’m sorry.”

A small frown creases his forehead. “What are you sorry for?”

“I’m a bit particular when it comes to dishes and house stuff like that. I like to have it all cleaned away quickly after I’ve finished with it.”

He takes a long look at me, analyzing and motions for me to put my feet up on the sofa in his lap. “You mentally need for it to be gone so you can move onto the next thing without that hanging over your head as an unfinished chore.”

“Yes! Exactly. How did you get that so easily and my husband of twenty years never fathomed that about me?” My astonishment at his insight after a couple of hours with me encourages my mouth to run on more than I should.

A shrug and an easy smile are his initial answer. “I’m observant. When I mentioned putting them out later, I watched your eyes drift to the dishes and saw them grate on you. I knew you wouldn’t relax until they were gone. I want you to relax and enjoy the next two weeks, Carlene. That’s what it’s all about. Now give me your feet, so I can give you a foot massage.”

I’ve never had a man offer to give me a foot massage.

“Is this an American thing?” I ask skeptically.

“What?”

“Wanting to give me a foot massage?”

He bursts out laughing and reaches for my feet.

“Nope. It’s what a guy does when he wants to look after his woman and to help her relax.”

I twist in the seat and let him have my feet. “Ooookayyyy. I can’t say I have any experience with it, but I’ll try anything once.”

Then he takes my right foot and starts doing some sort of sorcery because, by God, does it feel good. Actually, good isn’t a strong enough word for how this feels. I’m still not at all sure about this but definitely open to changing my opinion.

“Thanks…and I’m sorry for my quirks. And what the devil are you doing?” I wave my hand toward my feet.

“No need to apologize. Quirks are what make us all individuals, and I’m giving you a foot massage, which you will forget about, sit back relax and enjoy.” I try to form a protest, but he’s too quick. “Now you were telling me about your days at Colanara.”

“Good memory.”

He just grins and rolls one hand at me encouraging me to get on with it, before he places his hand around my foot once again.

Suddenly telling my story has become so much more difficult. The feeling of his hands on my feet seems to be numbing the neurons in my brain or something. “Yeah, so um, I probably would have cooked a massive breakfast for about twenty if we didn’t have a camp cook. More often than not, we didn’t. We generally only had them when things were going well and we could afford it. It’s also really hard to get and keep staff out there so I’d often find the cooking would fall to me, simply because there was no-one else and I happened to have been born with a vagina.”

Rome roars with laughter for a few seconds.

“You’re a hoot, Oz. But hell, that’s a lot of people to cook for, all the time,” he says, digging his thumbs into the ball of my foot in the very best of ways.

“You’re not wrong. But that was just how it was. We had to make do. So if I was the cook, then in between, I would go out into the paddocks and check fences, or check watering stations—whatever I could fit in.

“If the men were around the homestead, I’d cook lunch for them all. The property was so vast, at times they’d head out for a week or more at a time and they wouldn’t leave our property. If Phil and the men were moving cattle or out fencing or something like that, they often camped out in swags to save the drive back to the main homestead each day. They’d take a truck out loaded with horses and a few four-wheel drive vehicles and just do whatever they needed to do.”

I pause to take a sip of my beer. “Am I boring you? It feels like I have verbal diarrhea.”

He shakes his head no and grins with a chuckle. “Quite the opposite. I love hearing about how other people live.”

“As long as you’re sure.”

“Please, go on. I mean it.” And I can see he does. His dark, chocolate-colored eyes are sincere.

“Where was I? It’s kind of hard to concentrate when you’re doing that and I’m drinking these.” I tip my beer to him in salute.

“You were telling me about the camp.”

“Oh yeah. If they went out on a camp, I’d stay at the house. Phillip didn’t like the idea of me camping out with the men, even if he was there. So, I’d just go out to their camp every couple of days with more supplies. Most nights, I’d do the books or read. For a long time, I used to study at night, while I was getting my business degree remotely.”

“It must have been hard, studying remotely.” His eyes roved between his hands on my foot and my face. I’m not sure what was more mesmerizing—the feel of his hands or the feel of his eyes on me.

“It wasn’t easy, but I took my time and it gave me something to do. I always wanted to go to university, but my life didn’t quite follow the normal path.” He’s moved onto my other foot, and my eyelids are starting to droop.

Because he seems totally absorbed by my every word, I go on. “Don’t be mistaken into thinking it is some sort of romantic lifestyle of getting away from it all or something like that. It’s mentally and physically draining. There’s nothing more harrowing than having to destroy half your herd to keep them from starving to death or dying of thirst. Raising cattle in essentially a desert is an unforgiving lifestyle and one I wouldn’t recommend unless you crave constant hard work and mental torture. You’re at the mercy of Mother Nature and she’s a callous bitch more often than not.”

Rome’s eyebrows rise in surprise at my harsh words and tone but he chooses to say nothing. I can’t help what I believe and know to be true anymore than I can keep the bitterness from my tone. I lived it first-hand.

“You can’t possibly understand unless you’ve experienced it first-hand. It’s all that and then some. It’s a hard, tough life and quite a simple existence. No restaurants, fancy clothes, beauty salons or anything like that. And for crying out loud don’t have an accident or get really sick. The flying doctors could be hours away.”

The mention of the flying doctors has Rome jolting to attention. “How does that work?”

“Because of the remote nature of where the station was, if we had a medical emergency we couldn’t deal with, we’d call up on the UHF radio or the satellite phone and they’d send a plane with a medical crew. We had a landing strip. Like most large stations.”

“Wow!” He looks stunned.

“Don’t feel bad, I don’t expect you to understand. No one truly does unless you’ve personally lived the life. Most outsiders don’t last. It just sucks the life out of them. Hell, I didn’t last, and I was born out there.”

We talk for another twenty minutes about living out on the land. I keep it factual and try to be entertaining. Rome doesn’t need to know that by the time my husband passed, I was at my wits end with living out there.

“So tell me about where you live now?”

I feel my back stiffen automatically and a wave of guilt hits me hard in the stomach. As much as I tell myself I did the right thing and logically know it, I still feel an overwhelming sense of guilt.

“I sold Colanara soon after Phillip passed and moved to the coast. I needed a change, and I didn’t fancy running the property by myself. I live in a high-rise apartment right on the beach, down the southern end of the Gold Coast, which is south of Brisbane. Totally different to an outback cattle station.” What I tell him is the truth, I’m just choosing to leave out the bits I don’t want to talk about. The bits that still give me cause to question, doubt and beat myself up every single day about my decision to sell and subsequently move.

Between having a full belly, downing my second beer, and experiencing the most delectable foot massage, I’m about to succumb to sleep. As much as I fight it, I can’t suppress a yawn, and with each second, my eyelids feel more and more leaden.

“I should let you go to bed, but I want to hear more. I’ve really enjoyed our chat.” He runs his hand up my calf as he says it and a lovely warmth spread upwards. His voice is low and seductive. If I wasn’t so tired…I’d be either way more alarmed at the attraction I feel toward him, or I’d already be in his arms.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

He takes my hands in his and pulls me forward until our lips meet. It’s a soft but lingering kiss. A warm brush of lips, a long promise of understanding. It also awakens feelings in me that died long before my husband passed. Feelings I didn’t really expect to ever experience again toward a man—excitement, interest, attraction…need.

Rome pulls back a little. “Go to bed, Oz.”

Reluctantly, I slide my hands from his and stand.

“I might watch a little TV for a while before I turn it. It’s a bit early for me yet, if that won’t disturb you?”

“That’s fine. I’m a sound sleeper but thanks for asking. I appreciate your consideration. It’s really nice of you to think about what I might need.”

Rome nods once, and there’s a knowing look in his eyes, as if he just read deep into my soul. “I want you to be comfortable and if the TV is a problem, I can always read a book. Either is fine with me. But while we’re talking about consideration, are you okay with me sharing your bed or would you prefer I sleep on the pullout? I promise you can trust me, nothing will happen that you don’t want.”

My head is screaming I should relegate him to the couch. What do I know about this man? My gut is quiet and fully onboard with the idea. He asked me to trust him, and I realize I do. Not once since I met him this afternoon, have I felt the least bit uncomfortable with him. In fact, the exact opposite.

I’m far too tired to think on this anymore—decision made.

“I’m going to trust you.”