morning; on a good day it could look like rolling hills of the countryside and on the bad days like the Sydney Opera House.
April defensively patted her hair and frowned. âIâm sorry I didnât do my hair before coming to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get a glass of water. Iâll do better next time.â
âOr shave it like mine. Number three. Then you donât have to worry.â
âIâm sure your choice of style would look just wonderful on me.â April glanced down, tapping her right fluffy-polka-dot-socked foot on the floor. âWhy are we on the phone anyway?â
âBecause I called you.â
âClearly. But what do you want to talk about? Need insomnia cures?â
âIf I needed them Iâd be Googling and not asking advice from someone suffering the same problem.â
âWhat makes you think Iâm an insomnia sufferer? I could be having a one-off waking episode. Which is actually whatâs happened.â No need to tell him about the bizarre dream. âI should get back to sleep. Have to be up for work in four hours.â
âDo you love your job?â
âHuh? Yes.â
âWhatâs your passion?â
âMy passion? Candles, of course. Why?â
âBut what is it about them? Why candles?â
She frowned again. âBecause, um ⦠I like them?â
âI like them too. But that doesnât mean I want to run a candle store. So why do you?â
âWell, some of us actually have to do things to make a living, so candles is what I chose to, you know, allow me to have electricity, buy food and clothingâwhich, clearlyâyouâve forgotten to do.â
âItâs because they give you hope, isnât it.â
Bam. It was like he had pried open her heart and soul and read her like a book. How did he know that? âItâs because, well, they smell nice, and look nice, and people like them and buy them and I get income from it. Thatâs why.â She ran her hand across her bed hair and had the vague sense sheâd messed it up worse than before.
âBring one back for me,â he said. âAny candle. You choose. And Iâll pay you for it.â
She stood closer to the window and leaned one hand on the sink. âWhy donât you come into the store and choose your own?â
âBecause I want to see which one you pick for me.â
âIs this some kind of personality quiz or something? Are you a psychologist who analyses people based on their purchasing tendencies?â How did you know why I love candles? What is that tattoo on your shoulder? Why are your pecs so damn beautiful?
âIâm just a man. I need a candle for my house. I want you to choose.â He shrugged. âIâll see you and the candle at the end of the day.â He ended the call and put his phone down, switched off the light, and walked his naked self out of the kitchen. Aprilâs phone was still attached to her ear, her hand unable to move. This Zac guy was the weirdest person sheâd ever met. But somehow, his weirdness drew her to him. She wanted to discover more. She wanted to stay on the phone and talk at three am. She even wanted to peer over and ⦠No, April. No men. No thinking about men, no flirting with men. No men.
She flicked off the light and returned to bed. Lying on her back, she became aware of a cool film of sweat that had pooled at her lower back. She rubbed it away. It was also on her chest. She rubbed it dry against her pyjamas, but her hand lingered between her breasts, and she thought of Zacâs hand. She quickly removed it and rolled over. Maybe it was time to see what the real estate market was like in town. She didnât know how she could handle living here, next to him. And it had only been a few days. And he didnât look like he was planning on going anywhere else anytime soon.
* * *
If he hadnât ended the call when