Wedding Date With Mr. Wrong Read online

  Well, now she had, and where had it left her? Worse than before. Seriously in love with a guy who had no clue.

  To his credit, his reaction to her gift had blown her away. She hadn’t expected to see him emotional, and for a few tense moments beforehand had half expected him not to remember that day in Capri at all. But he had. And it had made her wish things could be different all the more.

  Instead she’d go back to working on his lucrative campaigns—with the bonus of having Nora’s medical bills taken care of—and he’d hit the surf on some exotic island far removed from Melbourne and the memories they’d built.

  Memories that would have to last a lifetime.

  For now, it has time to get on with her life, starting with a quick visit to Rivera’s to wish Artie a Merry Christmas and then spending the day with her mum.

  The Spanish bar was jumping when she arrived, with revellers in Santa hats and flashing reindeer noses spilling out onto the street. Many locals came straight from mass to get a taste of Artie’s special virgin sangria on Christmas morning, before heading off to their respective hot roast lunches with family.

  It had become a Johnston Street tradition, and one she enjoyed, because it gave her an all too brief taste of what a normal Christmas should be.

  Not like the understated days she’d had growing up, where she’d wait for her dad to show up with the pony he’d promised only to be disappointed yet again.

  Or the recent Christmases spent with Nora, forcing cheer when all she’d felt like doing was holding her mum fiercely and banishing the disease slowly sapping her life.

  She slipped through the crowd and entered the main door, her despondency lifting when she glimpsed Artie taking pride of place behind the bar, his costume this year more outlandish than the last.

  He’d gone for monstrous reindeer antlers that threatened to take a person’s eye out when he turned, a big red nose made from a dyed tennis ball, and a fake white beard that reached to his belly.

  It made her happy to see him enjoying life, a far cry from the devastated man he’d been following his wife’s death.

  He caught sight of her and waved, calling her over.

  Determined to put on a brave face, she wound her way towards the bar, where he swept her into a bear hug.

  ‘Hola, querida. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Same to you.’ When he released her she tweaked his nose. ‘How can you breathe with that thing?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, in a fake nasally voice, and she laughed. ‘Come. Have some sangria.’

  For a moment she wished it was the alcoholic version, despite the hour.

  ‘Tell me about this new business.’

  Great. Just what she felt like. Talking about her week in Torquay. Not.

  He poured her a drink, garnished it with a strawberry, slid it across the bar and winked. ‘And tell me more about this old amor.’

  She remembered contradicting Artie a week ago. I don’t love him.

  This time she didn’t have the energy to lie.

  ‘The business is exciting. I’ve developed an online marketing campaign for his new surf school, including online forums and interactive sessions on his webpage, and a social networking page unlike anything anyone’s ever seen.’

  ‘Sounds impressive.’ Artie topped up her glass even though she hadn’t taken a sip. ‘Now, tell me about when you weren’t working.’

  She blushed and Artie patted her cheek, his smile indulgent.

  ‘You’re in love. I can tell.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You have the look.’ He pointed at her eyes. ‘You have a sparkle dampened by sadness.’ Artie frowned. ‘This amor, he broke your heart, sí?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  More like she’d broken her own heart by being foolish enough to fall in love despite knowing the expiration date on their seaside fling, knowing he couldn’t emotionally commit, and knowing he had traits of her dad she’d rather forget.

  Artie cupped his ear. ‘You want to talk about it? I’m a very good listener.’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’

  Artie had listened to her deepest fears and regrets after their unofficial support group for two had formed. He’d been just as forthcoming in his sorrow, yet strangely this time she didn’t want to talk about Archer.

  Besides, what was there to say? They were headed in different directions, their lives on different paths, without a hope of colliding.

  Artie snapped his fingers. ‘I can see you don’t want to talk to an old man about your amor. I understand.’ He shrugged. ‘If you do, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, making a big show of drinking the refreshing fruit sangria as he was called away, when in fact her favourite Christmas drink had already lost its fizz.

  With Artie shooting her concerned glances in between mixing drinks and plying his customers with Christmas cookies, she sculled her sangria and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  She had to leave. Before she took him up on his offer to listen. For she had a feeling once she started talking about her relationship with Archer she wouldn’t stop.

  * * *

  Archer stared at the note in disbelief.

  Sorry to run out but had to get back to Mum.

  Tom & Izzy heading to Melbourne to visit Izzy’s mum, who unexpectedly dropped into town today so I hitched a ride.

  Thanks. Had a lovely time at the wedding.

  Will be in touch about the surf school campaign when needed.

  Merry Christmas!

  Callie

  ‘What the—?’ He slammed his palm on the kitchen benchtop, barely registering the pain of hitting marble so vigorously.

  His first instinct was to punch something. The second to grab his board and hit the surf.

  He settled for pacing. It didn’t help. After several laps of the balcony he flung himself onto the soft-cushioned couch where he’d once sat with Callie and uncurled his fingers to reveal her crumpled note.

  He reread it, no closer to understanding.

  She sounded so cool, so remote, so untouchable after all that had happened over the last week. They’d reconnected on so many levels, to the point where he’d been about to reveal his thoughts for the future to her this morning.

  Schmuck.

  This was his family all over again.

  Trusting someone with his heart, only to have them hand it back with a Thanks, not this time, maybe another, and having no clue as to why.

  To make matters worse it catapulted him back years, to when his family had first told him the truth. The same insidious doubts were creeping in, making him wonder what the hell was wrong with him that the people he trusted the most with his feelings didn’t return the favour.

  How could she up and leave without saying goodbye? Leaving a freaking note?

  He glared at the offending piece of paper in disgust, bitterness twisting his gut into knots.

  Growling in frustration, he shoved it in his pocket and headed for the storage room under the house where he stashed his gear. He had to hit the waves. It was the place he did his best thinking.

  However, as he stomped around, grabbing a wetsuit and his favourite board—the one with more dents than a dodgem—a funny thing happened.

  Some of his initial anger faded, to be replaced by a clarity that left him shaken.

  He paused mid-step, halfway between the storage room and his car.

  What the hell was he doing?

  It was Christmas morning—a time for warmth and caring and happiness. Emotions he’d been lacking lately, if he were honest with himself.

  Not this last week with Callie, but before that.

  Riding the tubes hadn’t held the same buzz in a long time, crashing in fancy hotel rooms after a competition had lost appeal, and the string of meaningless dates left him feeling faintly empty.

  The real reason behind the surf school had been to make his family sit up and take notice, see he was more than a sport-obsessed surfer, t
o show them they’d done wrong in not trusting him with his dad’s illness.

  But another underlying reason was that he’d wanted to give something back to the sport that had given him everything, and connecting with the kids at the beach last week had made him feel worthy in a way he hadn’t in for ever.

  That had been the hardest thing to realise over the years following his dad’s cancer disclosure—that somehow he hadn’t been worthy. He might now understand his dad’s motivation for secrecy, but it would take a while for his old beliefs to ease.

  Hanging with the teens had helped with that. Callie had too. He’d felt rejuvenated this last week, had truly felt close to a woman for the first time ever.

  She’d made him reassess the way he treated his family, made him see things in a new light. And he’d been happy in a way he hadn’t for a long time. So what the hell had happened?

  Buoyed by his overture towards his dad, he’d taken another risk and told her he had feelings for her. Why had she run?

  After she’d given him that gift last night he’d thought she felt the same way... Well, he’d thought wrong.

  The way he saw it, he had two options. Forget about the gift he’d bought her, then head for the surf before boarding that plane this afternoon and heading back to the life he knew.

  Or quit running and confront Callie.

  He headed for the car, the board tucked under his arm suddenly weighing him down. When he stowed it in the back, the weight didn’t shift. Then his gaze landed on the red Roadster he’d driven Callie here in—a replica of the car they’d explored Italy’s south coast with.

  He remembered the thrill of taking the curves of a spectacular scenic route, laughing and teasing, and later he’d explored her sensational curves in minute detail.

  He’d wanted to resurrect the past—this car was testament to that—but was he willing to try a different outcome this time?

  What would his life be like if he didn’t walk away second time round? If he made a full-blown declaration and truly trusted her with his heart?

  Terror made his hands shake, and he stuffed them into the pockets of his board shorts.

  He had his answer right there.

  He’d re-established a bond with his dad and he’d never felt so relieved. Taking a risk on people wasn’t all bad. And he wouldn’t be feeling this sick unless he really felt something for Callie. Something that went deeper than caring.

  The question was, how far was he willing to go to prove it to her?

  * * *

  Callie had put on a brave face for her mum. She’d made a show of savouring the cardboard-tasting turkey and dry Christmas pud, she’d sung the loudest through the residents’ carolling, and she’d fake-laughed over each and every corny joke pulled from a cracker.

  She’d thought she’d done a pretty good job of pretending there was nothing wrong. Until she wheeled her mum back to her room and Nora snagged her hand, concern deepening the fatigue lines in her sunken cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Callie opened her mouth to protest but Nora shook her head.

  ‘Do me a favour, sweetheart, and let me be a mum to you in whatever way I can.’

  As a guilt trip, it worked. She’d been taking care of her mum for a while now, and she knew it irked the once independent Nora.

  Nora had relished her role as a single mum, not once complaining. When a job had needed doing, she’d got on and done it, so to have her mobility and her dignity curtailed by this dreadful disease... Callie couldn’t begin to fathom how awful it must be.

  ‘Work pressures. Nothing major,’ she said, not wanting to worry her mum—not today.

  Nora had always loved Christmas with all the trimmings: roast turkey and stuffing, trifle, pudding—the works. They’d always had a fresh tree and stuffed stockings, and a day made all the more special by a mother who’d do anything for her only child.

  It might have been understated and only the two of them, but it had meant a lot to her mum.

  Now those Christmases were in the past, but the least Callie could do was not ruin this Christmas for Nora. Not when she’d already ruined her own.

  Nora searched her face, as if seeking the truth, and Callie ducked down to give her an impulsive hug. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, I’m fine.’

  And then she glanced over her mum’s shoulder and saw Archer hovering in the doorway.

  ‘What the?’

  ‘Callie?’

  She straightened and laid a comforting hand on her mum’s shoulder, hoping her glare conveyed what she wanted: for Archer to turn around and leave the way he’d come.

  Following her line of vision, Nora slowly swivelled until she too faced Archer.

  ‘Can I help you, young man?’

  He hesitated a moment, before squaring his shoulders and stepping into the room. ‘I sure hope so, Mrs Umberto.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘I’m Archer Flett, a friend of your daughter’s.’

  The way he gently shook Nora’s hand eased Callie’s anger somewhat. Though she couldn’t figure out why she was so angry. Was she upset at him showing up here, or upset at herself for wanting to fling herself at him despite a definitive goodbye?

  Well, on her part anyway. It looked as if he hadn’t taken too kindly to her brief farewell note.

  ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I need to see Callie before I fly out later today.’

  Callie frowned but he blithely ignored her, his dazzling smile deliberately taunting.

  ‘Merry Christmas, by the way,’ he said.

  He produced a box from behind his back, in crimson shiny paper bound by gold ribbon. ‘Not very original, I’m afraid, but if you’re anything like your daughter I thought you might enjoy a sweet treat.’

  ‘How thoughtful.’ Nora’s hands shook as she took an eternity to undo the ribbon and rip the paper.

  Callie had to stop from reaching out to help. Not from pity for her mum but the desire to see Archer leave.

  ‘Dark mint, my favourite.’

  Nora’s grateful smile made Callie’s heart ache. She hadn’t wanted to tell her mum anything about Archer, and now the rat had left her no choice. Nora would want to know all about the nice young man who knew her favourite chocolates and how he knew and...the rest.

  She’d kill him before she sent him packing.

  ‘I hate to intrude, but do you mind if I have a quick word with Callie?’

  Nora shot her a quick look—a very perceptive look by the mischievous gleam in her eyes.

  ‘Not at all. Go ahead.’ Nora rattled the box. ‘And thanks for these. I’ll enjoy each and every one.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  His smile was genuine, without an ounce of pity, and Callie grudgingly admired him for it.

  ‘We can talk outside,’ she said, with a subtle jerk of her head towards the door. The last thing she needed was for her mum’s gossip radar to prick up. Any more, that was.

  Callie couldn’t figure out what Archer was doing here. She’d given him an easy out with that note, and she’d assumed he’d jump at the chance to fly off into the blue yonder and resume his life.

  The last thing she’d expected was to see him rock up here. It made her angsty and uncertain and decidedly edgy.

  She’d had this all figured out—end fling; resume working relationship—and now he’d messed that up.

  She waited until they’d stepped outside Nora’s room before jabbing him in the chest. ‘How did you find me?’

  Her snappish tone only served to make him lean against the wall, arms folded, grin cocky.

  ‘Not all that difficult. You said you’d be spending the day here, so I checked redial on the phone at the beach house for the number, rang it, discovered where your mum was staying.’

  ‘Nice one, Sherlock,’ she muttered, still clueless as to why he was here.

  ‘Actually, I’d make a lousy detective, because I have no clue as to why you ran out on me in the middle of the night.’

  ‘It was early m
orning. Tom and Izzy were heading to Melbourne, so I thought I’d get a head start on spending Christmas with Mum.’

  ‘Bull,’ he said, his grin replaced by thinly compressed lips and an unimpressed frown. ‘You couldn’t have rung Tom at four a.m. on impulse to hitch a ride, which means you must’ve organised this last night.’

  Why couldn’t he be all brawn and no brains?

  ‘Tom’s wisely not answering his phone, but I have no doubt you coerced him into aiding and abetting your little escape.’ For the first time since he’d shown up a flicker of uncertainty creased his brow. ‘I don’t get it, Callie. I thought we had something going—’

  ‘Had being the operative word.’ She shook her head, wishing her heart would stop flipping all over the place and slamming against her ribcage at the thought of him showing up here because he genuinely cared.

  No use wishing for the impossible.

  Fact: he was still getting on that plane later today.

  Fact: whatever he said wouldn’t change a thing. They led different lives, a world apart.

  Fact: she loved him, and seeing him again only drove the knife in that little bit deeper.

  ‘Look, we had a great time, Arch, but it’s over.’

  His glare turned mutinous. ‘Doesn’t have to be.’

  He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

  ‘Here. This was supposed to be your Christmas present.’

  When she made no move to take it, he placed it in her hand and curled her fingers around it.

  ‘Go on, take a look.’

  More than a little curious, she unfolded the paper and gasped.

  A computer printout for an open-ended, first class, round-the-world air ticket.

  In her name.

  ‘We’ve got a pretty good thing going, Cal, I don’t want it to end. This way you can join me wherever I am. We can hang out—’

  ‘No.’

  She crumpled the paper ticket and let it fall to the floor, her gut spasming with sorrow.

  ‘Don’t you get it? I can’t just jet off whenever I feel like it. I have obligations.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘I can’t leave Mum and you know that.’