head slightly, realising again how much her usual habit of planning had fallen away in the shock of Paul and Amanda’s betrayal. I’ll just wear another jumper tonight , she thought to herself.
Christie realised Blake had walked across the room, picked up her sleeping bag, was rubbing it between his fingers and thumb. “What?” she said defensively, on edge. Blake shrugged, putting her sleeping bag back on the bunk. Christie picked it up, started rolling it up.
“Where’s the bag?” he asked, clearly still watching her.
“It doesn’t have one anymore,” she said, self-conscious as she noticed Blake’s sleeping bag, saw it was obviously top of the range, fitted into an impossibly small storage bag. And yet was so warm , she thought, her self-consciousness increasing as her mind veered back to the night. “I haven’t been tramping for years,” she muttered, hastily stuffing it into the bottom of her pack.
“So you said,” he commented neutrally.
Forty minutes later Christie was ready to leave. She had put her pack on, ignoring the stab of disappointment as Blake made no move to help her, seemingly focused completely on packing away the cooker on which he had casually offered to cook them both porridge, making absolutely no reference to the night before, eating in relative silence.
Now all Christie wanted to do was head off, get away from Blake’s unnerving silence, his tense watchfulness. She had looked again at her map over breakfast, planning the trip, and the timing. Blake had expressed polite interest in her plans, subsided into silence again when she disagreed with his suggestion about the timings she should allow. She shook her head, thinking back as she walked towards the bay, turning slightly as Blake caught up with her.
“I might see you back at the pub,” she said pointedly.
“You might,” he said, refusing to respond to her rudeness. She quickened her pace; he easily matched it, seeming content to walk in silence. Averting her head slightly, Christie walked past the dunes, her heart pounding at the memories. The silence lengthened as Blake stayed next to her, a cold and remote stranger.
Eventually, the bay opened up before her, the ocean sparkling in the morning sun, the foam on the waves whipped up in the light breeze. Again, the stark beauty of the bay captivated Christie. She stopped, noticing a small aircraft approaching, wondering where it was going. “My friends,” Blake said shortly. “They’ll land on the beach,” he continued, anticipating her question. “Stay and watch.” Christie shook her head, suddenly uncertain. Blake had been cold, barely polite all morning; she was intensely aware of the raw, unfamiliar environment. Her usual confidence fled as she looked down the spectacular beach, Blake’s presence suddenly unbearably painful.
“Up to you,” Blake said, inwardly furious that she had hardly acknowledged him all morning. “After all, you’ve got such a busy day.”
Christie’s heart lurched at his cutting tone. “It’s not that,” she said quickly, and then stopped abruptly, realising what she had said. Blake looked down at her, noticing her expressive blue eyes were unguarded, troubled. In a flash of perception he saw there was no malice in them, only confusion.
He tried again. “The plane will be landing in a few minutes. Stay and watch it from here if you want to, then you can head off.” Still, Christie did not move; Blake watched her, silently admiring her figure, her long legs as she balanced on the sloping sand. And last night he had again noticed her quick mind, her obvious intelligence. He had always prided himself on staying one step ahead, yet with Christie, this was a constant challenge. She did not seem at all unnerved by the solo tramp, was obviously well prepared. Apart from her sleeping bag , he thought, a slight smile on his face.
Christie shrugged. “I’ll keep going, watch the plane on the way.”
Of course you
Christie realised Blake had walked across the room, picked up her sleeping bag, was rubbing it between his fingers and thumb. “What?” she said defensively, on edge. Blake shrugged, putting her sleeping bag back on the bunk. Christie picked it up, started rolling it up.
“Where’s the bag?” he asked, clearly still watching her.
“It doesn’t have one anymore,” she said, self-conscious as she noticed Blake’s sleeping bag, saw it was obviously top of the range, fitted into an impossibly small storage bag. And yet was so warm , she thought, her self-consciousness increasing as her mind veered back to the night. “I haven’t been tramping for years,” she muttered, hastily stuffing it into the bottom of her pack.
“So you said,” he commented neutrally.
Forty minutes later Christie was ready to leave. She had put her pack on, ignoring the stab of disappointment as Blake made no move to help her, seemingly focused completely on packing away the cooker on which he had casually offered to cook them both porridge, making absolutely no reference to the night before, eating in relative silence.
Now all Christie wanted to do was head off, get away from Blake’s unnerving silence, his tense watchfulness. She had looked again at her map over breakfast, planning the trip, and the timing. Blake had expressed polite interest in her plans, subsided into silence again when she disagreed with his suggestion about the timings she should allow. She shook her head, thinking back as she walked towards the bay, turning slightly as Blake caught up with her.
“I might see you back at the pub,” she said pointedly.
“You might,” he said, refusing to respond to her rudeness. She quickened her pace; he easily matched it, seeming content to walk in silence. Averting her head slightly, Christie walked past the dunes, her heart pounding at the memories. The silence lengthened as Blake stayed next to her, a cold and remote stranger.
Eventually, the bay opened up before her, the ocean sparkling in the morning sun, the foam on the waves whipped up in the light breeze. Again, the stark beauty of the bay captivated Christie. She stopped, noticing a small aircraft approaching, wondering where it was going. “My friends,” Blake said shortly. “They’ll land on the beach,” he continued, anticipating her question. “Stay and watch.” Christie shook her head, suddenly uncertain. Blake had been cold, barely polite all morning; she was intensely aware of the raw, unfamiliar environment. Her usual confidence fled as she looked down the spectacular beach, Blake’s presence suddenly unbearably painful.
“Up to you,” Blake said, inwardly furious that she had hardly acknowledged him all morning. “After all, you’ve got such a busy day.”
Christie’s heart lurched at his cutting tone. “It’s not that,” she said quickly, and then stopped abruptly, realising what she had said. Blake looked down at her, noticing her expressive blue eyes were unguarded, troubled. In a flash of perception he saw there was no malice in them, only confusion.
He tried again. “The plane will be landing in a few minutes. Stay and watch it from here if you want to, then you can head off.” Still, Christie did not move; Blake watched her, silently admiring her figure, her long legs as she balanced on the sloping sand. And last night he had again noticed her quick mind, her obvious intelligence. He had always prided himself on staying one step ahead, yet with Christie, this was a constant challenge. She did not seem at all unnerved by the solo tramp, was obviously well prepared. Apart from her sleeping bag , he thought, a slight smile on his face.
Christie shrugged. “I’ll keep going, watch the plane on the way.”
Of course you
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