snapped off the torch, casting the hut back into darkness. “No talking,” she reminded him, real light-heartedness in her voice for the first time in weeks. She heard, felt, the low rumble of Blake’s laughter, sensed his arm tighten around her.
— # —
Christie woke up slowly the next morning, realising with a start her head was resting against Blake’s chest, feeling the rough wool of his jersey, the even rhythm of his breathing. Panic filled her, humiliation close behind as she remembered kiwi watching, the nightmare, Blake sharing her bunk. Christie tensed as she realised she was still fully clothed, embarrassed at the direction her thoughts were taking. She realised she had slept through the rest of the night without waking, that it was now morning, pale sunlight lighting the room.
“Don’t worry, nothing happened.” Christie heard Blake’s words with a shock, desperately tried to remain calm, casual.
“You jumping into the bunk was hardly necessary,” she said, hating the edge in her voice.
“Hindsight,” Blake said, his sarcasm unmistakeable, his voice close in her ear.
“God knows what that other tourist thought,” Christie continued waspishly.
“I thought it was fairly G-rated actually,” Blake retorted. “Apart from your dream, of course. Which you won’t talk about.”
“That dream had nothing to do with you,” Christie said, pulling away from Blake, hurt.
“That was obvious,” Blake said cuttingly, not wanting to betray his confusion, his hurt at Christie’s reluctance to explain. He had instantly accepted the offer to join a hunting group at the last minute, hoping to spend time with Christie, that the hut would not be too crowded, that… He thought back over the evening, the kiwi watching, still able to taste the disappointment of Christie’s indecision, of the other tourist taking a bunk in the room at the last minute. Each moment of the evening played out in his mind.
If only those memories weren’t so vivid , Blake thought, fighting down the cautious hope he had felt when Christie pointed out the empty bunk in the room. To lie there through the night knowing she was in the room and then next to him, in his arms, had been almost unendurable, knowing he could make no real physical advance, trying to decipher her mixed messages.
Still trying to disguise her feelings, Christie sat up on the edge of the bunk, ignoring Blake, unzipping her sleeping bag as she tried to forget her dream and the night in his arms. Silently, she focused on looking in her pack for breakfast, conscious of Blake still lying in the bunk, watching her. She smiled politely at the tourist as he walked into the room to collect his pack, left again.
She sensed Blake move, half turned, acutely aware they were now alone in the room. Hastily, she made a comment about breakfast; Blake’s eyes narrowed. “And now I’ll mention the weather, shall I?” he said scathingly. “We can have a nice safe conversation.” Christie turned away, her face burning at his obvious derision. Which is justified , she thought despairingly. One moment we’re almost kissing in the sand dunes and the next asleep together, and now I’m making small talk about porridge.
Blake saw her shoulders hunch slightly as she averted her face; he swore to himself, reminding himself of her obvious distress when she had woken overnight. He got out of the bunk, moved over to his pack. “Were you actually cold last night?” he asked abruptly as he zipped up his sleeping bag. Christie looked at him quickly, glanced away. She hesitated. “Before you woke up,” he added, his face impassive. Her heart ached as she thought of the flirtatious comments she could make, wanted to make.
“Not really,” she lied, not wanting to admit the uncomfortable cold in her thin sleeping bag that she had packed so hastily in Auckland, not thinking through the fact that even summer nights on the island would be colder. She shook her
— # —
Christie woke up slowly the next morning, realising with a start her head was resting against Blake’s chest, feeling the rough wool of his jersey, the even rhythm of his breathing. Panic filled her, humiliation close behind as she remembered kiwi watching, the nightmare, Blake sharing her bunk. Christie tensed as she realised she was still fully clothed, embarrassed at the direction her thoughts were taking. She realised she had slept through the rest of the night without waking, that it was now morning, pale sunlight lighting the room.
“Don’t worry, nothing happened.” Christie heard Blake’s words with a shock, desperately tried to remain calm, casual.
“You jumping into the bunk was hardly necessary,” she said, hating the edge in her voice.
“Hindsight,” Blake said, his sarcasm unmistakeable, his voice close in her ear.
“God knows what that other tourist thought,” Christie continued waspishly.
“I thought it was fairly G-rated actually,” Blake retorted. “Apart from your dream, of course. Which you won’t talk about.”
“That dream had nothing to do with you,” Christie said, pulling away from Blake, hurt.
“That was obvious,” Blake said cuttingly, not wanting to betray his confusion, his hurt at Christie’s reluctance to explain. He had instantly accepted the offer to join a hunting group at the last minute, hoping to spend time with Christie, that the hut would not be too crowded, that… He thought back over the evening, the kiwi watching, still able to taste the disappointment of Christie’s indecision, of the other tourist taking a bunk in the room at the last minute. Each moment of the evening played out in his mind.
If only those memories weren’t so vivid , Blake thought, fighting down the cautious hope he had felt when Christie pointed out the empty bunk in the room. To lie there through the night knowing she was in the room and then next to him, in his arms, had been almost unendurable, knowing he could make no real physical advance, trying to decipher her mixed messages.
Still trying to disguise her feelings, Christie sat up on the edge of the bunk, ignoring Blake, unzipping her sleeping bag as she tried to forget her dream and the night in his arms. Silently, she focused on looking in her pack for breakfast, conscious of Blake still lying in the bunk, watching her. She smiled politely at the tourist as he walked into the room to collect his pack, left again.
She sensed Blake move, half turned, acutely aware they were now alone in the room. Hastily, she made a comment about breakfast; Blake’s eyes narrowed. “And now I’ll mention the weather, shall I?” he said scathingly. “We can have a nice safe conversation.” Christie turned away, her face burning at his obvious derision. Which is justified , she thought despairingly. One moment we’re almost kissing in the sand dunes and the next asleep together, and now I’m making small talk about porridge.
Blake saw her shoulders hunch slightly as she averted her face; he swore to himself, reminding himself of her obvious distress when she had woken overnight. He got out of the bunk, moved over to his pack. “Were you actually cold last night?” he asked abruptly as he zipped up his sleeping bag. Christie looked at him quickly, glanced away. She hesitated. “Before you woke up,” he added, his face impassive. Her heart ached as she thought of the flirtatious comments she could make, wanted to make.
“Not really,” she lied, not wanting to admit the uncomfortable cold in her thin sleeping bag that she had packed so hastily in Auckland, not thinking through the fact that even summer nights on the island would be colder. She shook her
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