The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 20

Stripping off, Solo stepped into the shower cubicle and grinned as he pulled at the rope that promptly dumped a bucket of warm water on his head. Heck, he’d forgotten how much he loved bush showers. Makeshift wrought-iron shelters, the water heated by what got to be called a donkey by bush folk, but was actually a wood-fired burner, and then hoisting the water up in a metal bucket and whoooshhhh.

He wiped rivulets of water off his face and, grabbing the bar of soap, lathered away the sweat and dust from a solid afternoon’s labour.

Working side-by-side with Joe and Polly had felt good, reminded him of those days when Drew and he used to help Pop on the farm, rounding up the sheep for the shearers. He’d kept watching Polly out of the corner of his eye, the play of her strong, shapely arms, the curve of her beautiful butt cheeks in her jeans, the little display of belly when her T-shirt rose and the glint of her belly button ring. And somehow he’d kept the yearning and the throb of desire in the background.

He blinked water—and the images of Polly—out of his eyes and soaped over his abdomen and there it was again, a frigging half mongrel between his legs. He did his level best to ignore it but it clearly had a mind of its own as it bobbed into a salute. Once a week wasn’t keeping his libido in check, not with the fresh air and exercise and constant nearness of her. She must feel it too, surely?

He yanked the towel off its hook, stepped out… and oomph, a body bowled straight into him. Curls tangled in his mouth and stuck to his damp skin, arms flailed wildly. Both of them reeled backwards.

Polly’s eyes flew straight to his groin. Oh shit, he still had an erection. It was true, when you blushed naked, it didn’t just stop at your face.

“Jesus, Polly!” It came out gruff, because his dick was now tenting the towel he’d slung round his midriff.

“I—oh?” she panted. Her eyes rounded and then shot to his face and that’s when he realised something was wrong.

Not turned on. Or even amused. Scared.

Twisting the towel into a tight knot round his waist, he asked sharply, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Dad. No-one can find him and he’s not answering his mobile. I was wondering—would you—could you help look for him?”

Solo sprang into professional mode. “Sure. I’ll just throw on some clothes.”

The tension was ebbing out of her, flowing into him, stoking his body with adrenaline.

She said, frowning, “I’ll um, just wait outside.”

When he got out she was standing with her arms bunched over her chest.

“What’s going on?”

“No-one can get him on his mobile. Which is Dad all over, of course, but he promised Mim today he’d keep it on. And he was supposed to be back well over an hour ago. The guests are due to arrive soon. Mim’s out of her mind with worry.”

“Okay. Where was he working?”

“Joe’s gone to check the far paddocks. Though, to be honest, the most likely place he’ll be now is his den. I said I’d check, but I— I don’t want to find him…”

He looked at her, alarmed. “You don’t think he’d harm himself?”

She shook her head. “No—I don’t think so. Not nowadays. Ask me fifteen years ago, I’d say something different, but, eshhh.” Her shoulders hunched nearly up to her ears, her hand came up and she chewed on the cuticle of her thumb. “Drinking, I bet.” The eyes that met his were dulled by dread. “But the thing is, when Dad starts… he doesn’t stop…”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah.” Her laugh was mirthless. “Not a good look, punching your guests’ lights out.”

“Would he?”

“He used to get aggressive. Mostly, as he’s got older, he just gets maudlin and loud and embarrasses his family.”

Solo braced. “Okay, tell me how to get to his den.”

“It will take three minutes on your bike. It’s the building you can see on the road in, just before you get to the farm gate, with the eucalypts around it.”

He remembered seeing it.

She grimaced. “I know this sounds pathetic but can you check it out first? I’ll follow in my car and you can phone me and let me know if…” Her voice trailed off and he saw fear pinching her features.

“It’s, um, just—” Her lower lip quivered. “I can’t face him like this without a warning first… too many memories…”

He moved closer. “I get it. Hey, I get it, okay?”

Her face turned up to his and his heart slammed against his ribs. Tears swam in her eyes. Something inside him cracked open with tenderness. He bent his head, kissed her just beside her ear and whispered, “It’ll be okay,’ before striding towards the house and his bike.

Did he know that? Of course he didn’t. He just couldn’t bear to see her fall apart.

No more than seven minutes later, Solo drew up outside Ted’s shed. It was grey jarrah, worn and beaten by the weather, with bits of farm paraphernalia—old wheels and twisted tractor axles—hammered onto the outside. The large doors were shut. It looked deserted, then Solo saw Ted’s old ute tucked around the back.

A gunshot rang out.

Shit!

He was off the bike in seconds and sprinting, no thoughts, just pure adrenaline.

Another shot.

“Christ.” Solo got to the doors and his fingers, suddenly shaking, dragged a couple of times on the metal handle, before he pushed it roughly open, blinking to adjust to the dimness inside.

There was an eerie stillness. Eyes wide and scanning, Solo advanced slowly. If Ted had shot himself… Christ… the implications were too much to take in, the present moment and the rasp of his amplified breath filling his ears.

Then there was a rustle as a figure moved somewhere in the shadows.

“Ted!” Solo called.

A grunt. Was he injured?

“Ted!” Louder this time.

“What is it, lad?” Solo’s highly tuned ears registered that the voice didn’t sound injured or in pain. Just slightly irritated.

“Ted, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just needed some quiet time.”

Solo didn’t point out that firing guns was hardly freakin’ quiet time.

His legs almost gave way with the surge of relief, and then, as his eyes took in more, his stomach dropped. His nostrils registered the pungent scent of what—whisky? Mixed with something else, sweeter. Rum?

Anger surged in Solo’s belly. How dare he do that, the selfish old bastard? After all the trouble his family had been to…

He knew to hold himself in check. Advanced slowly, cautiously.

Ted’s bulky frame was slumped in a chair on the far wall. Lined up on the bench in front of him were bottles of alcohol. At least half a dozen.

Solo’s foot squelched into wet straw, then scrunched on broken glass.

He looked at Ted and realised the guy had a gun; he was still holding the fucking gun.

His body brittle, his mind switched into icy professional psychiatrist mode. Smoothly, he said, “Perhaps you could put the gun down, Ted.”

Ted stood up, his big body looming.

Solo swallowed, his throat dry as dust. “Put the gun down, Ted.”

“Shit, boy, you don’t think I’d shoot you, do you?”

Solo watched, all senses on high alert as Ted brandished the gun.

“Put—the— gun— down, Ted,” he repeated.

“What, you thought I’d shoot meself?” Ted sounded incredulous.

“I don’t know, Ted. Were you planning to?”

The older man let out a harsh laugh. “Smell that?” He pointed the gun barrel at the bottles. “I used to think that was nectar of the gods. Now it’s the devil’s brew, son. That’s the enemy. I’ve been shooting the fucking bottles.”

Solo nodded. “Okay.”

“It was that or drink the bastards. And where would that have bloody got me?”

Solo nodded again. “So now you’ve done it, you can put the gun down.”

Ted sighed. “Guess I’ll have to clear all this bloody mess up now, won’t I. Still…” He barked out another laugh and relief flooded Solo as, finally, Ted placed the gun against the wall. “Better than clearing up the mess I’d make of myself, Mim and the kids if I drank the stuff.”

Ted slumped back in his seat with a big sigh. “I’m just trying to put off going to that bloody shindig, to be honest. When I came up here it was 50/50 I would drink myself blind, or get rid of it all.”

Solo advanced slowly, eyes scanning between the gun against the wall and Ted’s hands, now in his lap. “You decided to do the latter.”

“Yeah.”

Solo registered the thud of his heart slowing as the adrenaline ran its course. He was close to Ted now, but not too close, not threateningly close.

Ted looked up and a sad smile twisted his mouth. “You want to sit for a bit, lad?”

Solo hesitated, feeling for his phone in his jeans pocket. “Sure. But can I just let your family know you’re okay first?”

Ted’s face in the shadows looked surprised. “Were they worried?”

“It’s nearly time for the party to start, Ted.”

“Oh, bugger.” The older man hung his head, stared at his clasped hands. “Time loses its meaning sometimes, when… Yeah, call Poll. Let her know. She’ll smooth it over with the others.”

Yes, thought Solo. Polly the peacekeeper. He moved away and dialled her number. She picked up straight away.

“Have you found him?”

“Yes, he’s safe.”

“He hasn’t been…?”

“No. No, sober as a judge, aren’t you, Ted?” Solo made his voice jovial. “I’m just going to stay here with him for a while, but tell everyone he’s fine.”

“Is he coming to the party?”

“Soon.”

“Okay.” She clearly got the message.

“I’ll text you if we’re going to be longer than half an hour.”

“Right. Thanks so much for doing this.” Her voice sounded small, exhausted. So unlike the usual ebullient Polly that his heart almost broke as he put his phone away.

“They’re not upset?” Ted asked.

“No, they’re cool.” It was a lie, but clearly it wasn’t going to make Ted feel better hearing they’d been worried sick.

“I’d offer you a drink, but…” Ted said.

They both laughed, a flimsy token but a start. Ted motioned to the chair next to him. “This one at least has a seat.”

Solo parked his butt on the old busted chair, felt the ping of a spring up his arse and chuckled. “Not much of one.”

“I only get the things that are thrown out. Bit like me, on the scrapheap.”

“Don’t say that. Your family love you.”

Ted sighed. They sat in silence for long moments. “You know what the irony is? The thing that makes me want to drink the most is knowing how much I’ve let them all down. The shame. That’s what I try to drown out. That, and the memories.”

“Pretty bad, huh?”

“Vietnam. Did Poll tell you? You being a shrink and all, she’s probably told you everything about my fucked-up life.” Ted’s voice had an edge that Solo sensed would need careful handling.

“Yes, she mentioned you were in Vietnam. My best friend served in Afghanistan. It roughed him up a lot.”

Ted turned his head and looked at Solo, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “So, you’ve seen what it does to someone first-hand?”

“I have. It’s not pretty.”

“Telling me.” Ted leaned back. “I get them less now, you know, the flashbacks. That sound, though, phtpht phphhht, pphhhttt. Helicopters. Even now, if I hear one I want to flatten to the fucking ground. I keep away from the bastard things. And that stuff, the magic elixir”—he waved his hand at the lined-up bottles—“helps you forget. All you want, all you need, is to forget. It’s a battlefield… only up here.” He tapped his head.

“That’s pretty much how my best mate described it.”

“Shit, is the poor bugger okay?”

Solo paused. Was Drew okay? He couldn’t know for sure. “He’s getting treatment.” That much was true, at least.

Ted sighed. “Did Polly say I drove her mum away, too? With my drinking, my verbals. I hit her, once, twice at most. Lowest points of my life. It was mostly words, but I guess words can be just as bad. Poll, she was a good girl, always smiling, always forgiving, hugged me as she cleaned up the freakin’ mess afterwards. Told me ‘you’ll be okay, Daddy’. Then her mum left. And her gran died. She adored her gran, our Polly did. That’s when it changed. She stopped talking to me. Scarpered. Can’t blame her.” Suddenly his shoulders shook. “I want to tell her…”

“Tell her what?” Solo asked softly.

“That I’m sorry… For what I did.” Ted’s voice choked up. “For what I didn’t do… how I, you know, wasn’t a real dad to her all those years.”

Solo turned towards Ted, his body language open and accepting. “You were unwell, Ted. It’s hard to treat people decently when you’re suffering. And no-one can see psychological wounds.”

“Dead right. would have been better if my bloody legs had been blown off. Then they’d have seen it.”

“PTSD is as bad as losing limbs,” Solo pointed out. “Maybe worse, because nobody can see when we lose part of our mind. They just feel the effects.”

“Yeah, like a fucking great mine blowing up in their faces. I tried to get help, several times, and then, you know, you feel better, you think, ‘Christ, stop being a sook, you don’t need these bloody pills. Man up. Just get on with it’. And I’d ditch them down the loo. A week later be back on that stuff.” He waved a hand at the bottles again. “Just got to shoot the rest and I’m done.”

“Maybe not, Ted.”

Ted hung his head. “Ah, it felt good smashing the buggers.”

“Empty them out instead.”

“Gah, you young ’uns. No sense of adventure.”

“Not around guns, no.” Solo dared to grin now the mood was lightening. “Now, motorbikes, that’s a different thing altogether.”

“Thought I heard an engine coming up the hill. What is it, a Honda?”

“No, Ducati Monster.”

“Used to have a Bonneville.”

“Really? You lucky man.”

“A real beaut, that one. Rode it pissed as a fart one day and that was it, written off and one broken collarbone.”

“You were lucky.”

“Maybe. Maybe the world would be better off without me.”

“No, Ted, never.”

Ted heaved another heavy sigh then landed his big hands on his thighs and stood up. He cocked his head as he looked down at Solo.

“You going to let me ride on the back of the Monster? Reckon it’s the only way you’ll get me back to that gig.”

Solo laughed and stood up. The danger had passed. “If I agree to it, we’ll be going at a snail’s pace.”

“What, because I’m a fat bastard?”

“No, because you won’t have a helmet on.”

“Okay, I’ll accept that. And, lad, thanks for the chat. It’s eased my mind.”

“It’s not too late to get some help for this, Ted,” Solo said as they walked out into the evening air. The horizon still glowed red from the setting sun. Ted’s features softened as he looked at Solo in the deepening light. Solo pressed on gently. “Especially now with your first grandkid on the way.”

Ted scratched his head. “You mean the touchy-feely talk-talk stuff? The stuff our Poll does?”

“Well, obviously not with Polly. But there’s good people out there.”

Ted looked at him hard. His eyes were so like Polly’s, suddenly soft and clear. “If I give you my number, could you ask around for me? Get a name? Not going to ask Polly, not appropriate. But it would be good, maybe, if Mim and I could see someone together and sort a few issues out.” Ted hesitated, his eyes almost pleading. “Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” Solo said. “I’d be happy to help.”

He swung a leg over the bike. “Hop on, but I’m warning you, this isn’t going to be the Grand Prix.”

“Jesus Christ, spoil an old man’s fun on his birthday, would you?” Ted huffed. “All right, lad, all right.”

* * *

“And I wantto thank my long-suffering partner, Mim; my big ugly son, who’s worked his arse off for this place; and his lovely wife, who’s going to make me a very proud granddad shortly…”

Polly held her breath as Ted’s eyes sought hers across the crowd, “And my beautiful daughter, Polly.”

Dad’s big hand trembled on the microphone. He looked down at the floor. What was he going to say next? Please god, don’t let it be embarrassing.

Ted gave a wavery laugh. “She’s an amazing girl. You know, as a kid, she always used to know the right thing to say. Knew how to make a bad situation better. And, er, I’m not proud to say, but at my age I can admit it, there were a few of those. Guess that’s what makes her amazing at her job… she’s a… she’s a social worker, most of you know… and ah, a great artist.” A thick thumb jerked up to the swinging wonky 70 sign she’d made… Another embarrassed laugh then, gruff as old boots grinding on pebbles, Ted said, “I’ve never told you, Poll, but I love you, girl.”

Polly’s lower lip wobbled dangerously as a round of applause and whooping filled the air.

“Come up here, my four favourite people, and give a gnarly old seventy-year-old a hug.”

Polly’s legs felt like someone had removed the bones from them, but she got up there somehow and found herself in a group hug with Joe and Mim and Kate and… Dad.

And her heart felt like it might just jump right out of her chest. More cheering and laughter and someone—Dad’s old friend Bill, who’d stood by him all these years—hollered from the back of the crowd: “A toast to Ted Fletcher, the old bastard. May he live forever.” And suddenly it struck her—they all loved him. This community of Wadgigaree who had dragged him out of the gutter countless times and driven him home and got him out of the lock-up a couple of times, they all loved her dad.

Her head kicked back and she heard herself laughing and cheering, and then her gaze snagged on Solo standing quietly, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his beer and a look… a look so warm and soft and loving on his face that suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

The laughter got caught in a strange little hiccup in her throat and in that moment, she knew, she fucking knew, she was at risk of falling for Solo Jakoby.

Sometime later he found her by the drinks table.

“Your dad’s done amazingly.”

“Yep. He’s stuck to no-alcohol beer all night.”

“And that speech. Straight from the heart.”

“Did you hypnotise him—cast some weird Dr J spell on him?” she managed lightly, adding chunks of ice to her glass and pouring in non-alcoholic punch. They’d kept a table full of non-alcoholic drinks to help Dad along and she’d kept him company. It was the least she could do in the circumstances.

She turned to Solo, sucking on her straw, feeling weird and kind of coy—the same feeling she’d got just after she’d met him, like she’d dance in a field of corn with her hair in bunches, all dressed in gingham if he asked her.

He smiled down at her, shook his head and an arrow stabbed repeatedly into her heart.

A muscle at the corner of his jaw tightened. Just one side. Oh, the blissful asymmetry of his face. She’d never get bored looking at it. Her fingers itched to reach up and trace around his jaw, feel that muscle tighten and twitch, lose herself in the way his mouth softened, his eyes darkened, just before he kissed her.

“I haven’t, um, had a chance to properly thank you,” she managed to croak, breaking the spell because it hurt, really hurt to want to kiss someone this badly.

“You don’t need to thank me. I would have done it a thousand times over if you’d asked me.”

“Shit!”

“What?”

“Why do you have to say something like that?”

He looked momentarily bewildered. “Sorry, I—”

She laughed shakily. “I mean, why do you have to be so… so fucking nice to me?”

Relief flooded his face, his jaw relaxed. “What would you prefer—I put you over my knee and spanked you?”

Now this was the language she understood. It chased away the stupidity that had sent her brain soft there for a moment. They were good together in bed. Short term. Forget all the soppy shit.

Brain funk sorted.

She chinked her glass against his and let the familiar energy zap down her spine and run sweet between her legs.

“That’s more what I’m used to.”

He bent his head close and murmured, “Okay, give me a time and a place and I’ll be there.”

His mouth nuzzled against her ear and she let herself sway into him. Then he whispered, “Want to dance?”

Chris Isaac’s “Wicked Game” had just started up. Like, seriously, what was she supposed to do?

Polly gulped hard. “Sure.”

He took her hand in his, and when his thumb-pad stroked her wrist as he pulled her close, she suddenly had an image of herself as one of those self-saucing puddings. Like Solo had just plunged a dessert spoon straight into her middle.

She sank against him as his arms bound her close. And God, why did he have to hold her in that old-fashioned way? Her arm sandwiched against his chest, fingers intertwined, his chin resting on her curls. She could feel the beating of his heart against her breasts, and her nipples jumped to attention.

She didn’t dare look up. She’d disintegrate.

The words crooned across the dance floor.

How did Chris Isaac know that she, Polly Fletcher, would be right here trying to resist that very thing? Clearly the universe and all that crap about a butterfly’s wings starting an earthquake in Tokyo was absolutely, one hundred per cent true. Because right now, it felt like that earthquake was right here, that her world was going to collapse into Solo’s arms and never find its way back to normal.

And then his lips moved softly down her neck, and the swell of her belly registered the hard ridge of his desire. And it was all. Just. Too. Much.

Polly pulled back. Gasped out, “Sorry, I’ve got to go—um—yeah, I forgot—I’m in charge of the cake.”

Black lashes blinked over luminous silver, then the light extinguished and her sinking heart knew she’d blown something truly magical.

Blindly, she dashed through the crowded dance floor. Someone said, “You all right Poll?” and she realised it was Joe, dancing with Kate.

“Fine. Just forgot, I have to get the cake,” she said and fled towards the house.

In the kitchen, Mim and her friend Mira were putting the finishing touches on the cake: a tractor and seven large candles—one for each decade—plus a big 70 sign and a little plastic farmer.

Smoothing down her dress with palms that trembled, she asked, “Need some help?”

“I think we’ve got it pretty much under control.” Mim looked so happy. She’d finally been rewarded with the man she’d always hoped for after all these years. Wasn’t that what love was about? Sticking in there, warts and all, good times and bad times, ups and downs.

Polly had no faith she could do that. No trust that she had it in her.

And then it hit like a lightning bolt, nearly blowing her back out the door she’d just entered.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust herself. She just didn’t believe anyone could love her the way Mim loved Dad. That anyone would ever stick around that long.

* * *

What the hell just happened?

One minute they were wrapped around each other and everything was perfect, and then she’d ducked and run with some lame excuse.

Solo stood at the side of the dance floor, squeezing his beer glass until it threatened to smash. What had he done? Just nuzzled her neck, held her close… nothing compared to their other wild pursuits. Was it that they were in view of her family? That she didn’t want them to think—

Jesus. He ruffled a hand through the short spikes of his hair and let out an exasperated breath.

Bloody Polly Fletcher, constant mixed messages like a bag of mixed lollies. It made him remember a story Pop had told him when he was a kid. Pop and his friends had been nicking lollies, so one day the old guy at the corner shop had emptied out the fondant centres and filled them up with hot English mustard.

That was exactly how it felt with Polly—just as he thought it was safe to sink his teeth into that wonderful softness, she turned it all into something that left a horrible taste in his mouth.

Fuck, she annoyed the hell out of him.

And then he saw her marching out with the cake held up in those luscious arms, a big smile on her bright red lips, and he couldn’t be angry with her. She was beautiful and complex and totally confusing. Could he put up with the mustard centres for a bit longer, in the hope that eventually he’d hit something sweet and wonderful and long-lasting?

The pull of her was so strong, Solo realised he didn’t have a choice.

“Where are you, birthday boy?” Mim’s strident voice bellowed over the microphone. “Come and blow out these candles, you bloody slacker.”

More laughter and Ted was pushed forward. Hands clapped his back as he made his way to the front.

Solo watched Polly, a hundred and one emotions playing out behind that smile. He raised his glass in a salute and realised that finally, he was getting better at reading her.

And then another thought struck—she knew that, didn’t she?Knew he could see behind the games she played to the real Polly. And that, he realised, scared the bejesus out of her.

Later, much later, when the guests had gone and the party had been dissected over cups of tea at the kitchen table and Ted had gone to bed, Solo and Polly were skirting around each other, playing at helping, when finally Mim said, “Off with you both, you’re as useless as tits on a bull. Besides, I like clearing the kitchen on my own. It’s my little pre-bed routine.”

Polly’s gaze met his and then slid away, which was what had been happening since the dance-floor incident. He’d catch her watching him, then when he returned her gaze she’d look away, like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower, refusing to settle even though the nectar was sweet.

Sure, he was pretty damn sweet. On her. He was sure she knew that. His sense it was reciprocated was getting stronger, but hell, this had been an emotional day all round and it wasn’t the right time to pursue it. Plus, he was dead beat. The incident with Ted earlier had taken him right back to Drew’s suicide attempt. Made him jagged and raw inside.

Which was why he carefully kept his distance as they walked down the corridor to their rooms. Not that it did much to stop the pulse in his temples and an answering one in his groin as they faced each other at his bedroom door. He leaned on the doorframe, let his fingers reach for the door handle to show he was ready to turn in.

“Good night, Dr J.”

“Good night.” They both looked at their feet, then up simultaneously and laughed in unison.

Polly the seductress was nowhere in sight. Instead, fatigue smudged shadows under her eyes. With her lipstick all eaten off and the dusting of freckles on her nose, she looked like a teenager returning from her first party.

“I owe you,” she said, and he noticed the way her fingers twisted together in front of her in a gesture he’d never seen her do before. Was this some little throwback from childhood? “You handled Dad amazingly.”

“He’s a great guy. I was happy to help.”

“Yeah, like you go in and wrestle a weapon from someone every week.” She stopped, bit her lip, and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you of…”

“I’ll admit I had a bit of a trip wire happening, when I walked into the barn.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, I just sensed you’d know what to do—and—” She hesitated and he longed to fold her hands in his, stop her torturing those fingers. “I—I just met a brick wall inside myself. I couldn’t go look for him.”

He caved and covered both her hands with his. The finger twisting stopped. Her head was bent but he could tell she was biting her lower lip.

“Hey, it’s okay to not know what to do. To be—” Would she bristle if he said scared? He chose “vulnerable” instead.

Didn’t she know that her vulnerability was leaking out of every one of her pores right now? The desire to put his arms around her became a physical ache. To hold her close and comfort her.

Her head shot up; her smile radiant, incongruent. “Vulnerable. That’s a novel one for me, isn’t it?” And then, gently but firmly, she tugged her hands from his grasp.

He smiled back as his heart plummeted and he said, “Guess I’ll turn in, as my nan used to say.”

‘Sure, me too,” she murmured, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

He returned it, felt her lips respond for a split second. Then she stepped back. “Better not.”

“No. You’re right. Gran might be watching from above.”

“She would definitely not approve of shenanigans in her bed. Goodnight then, Solo-man.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Where’s Dr J gone? I was getting to enjoy that title.”

“Doesn’t do to be predictable.” And then she swivelled on her heels and, with a toss of those dark curls and the words “sweet dreams”, she was gone.

He watched her shimmy off down the dimly lit passage; a part of him, the part that would never get enough of her, almost crying with frustration at the gorgeous tilt of those hips in the silky green dress, moving out of reach.

“Goodnight, Miss Unpredictable,” he called. She held up her hand and wiggled her middle finger, which he guessed was the bird, Polly-style.

Yeah, Miss Unpredictable—the name sure suited her.