I’m swimming in a sea of dreams when a kiss pulls me into wakefulness. Xander’s face is an inch from mine, his blue eyes sparkling, sorry-not-sorry for waking me. He’s drawn the blankets over our heads against the cold of early spring, and we’re cocooned in dewy light. How blissful it is to wake and not be
alone.

‘Morning, beautiful,’ he says, kissing me again.

‘What time is it?’

Xander laughs. ‘Very romantic reply, Eve.’

‘I don’t want to be late, that’s all. Today’s the big day, and I’m terrible at first impressions. I’m sick with nerves.’

‘We don’t need to hurry.’ Xander runs his fingers down my spine. ‘I know just the thing to help you relax.’

Xander and I arrived in Sydney yesterday, after sailing down from Fiji, completing the last leg of our six-month Pacific Ocean crossing. As soon as we cleared customs, we taxied to Xander’s apartment, tumbled into bed and fell instantly asleep.

I love that he brought me to his home. I want every day to start this way. I want to wake up in Xander’s arms every morning for the rest of my life. Xander nuzzles my neck, his hands roaming over my body.

‘You’re so gorgeous.’

I refrain from replying that nobody else has ever said so. I haven’t shaken the nagging fear that maybe Xander and I got together during our voyage purely because I was the only woman within hundreds of miles. I’m skinny, with light-green eyes and a complexion so pale that six months sailing across the Pacific haven’t left me with a tan. My one attractive feature is my hair—I’m a redhead, and my hair is unusually dark, almost the colour of mahogany.

I roll on top of Xander, and my gaze lands on a framed photo on the bedside table. In the picture, Xander embraces a smiling, tanned blonde—his ex-girlfriend, Charlotte. I guess neither of us noticed the photo last night. Charlotte and Xander broke up before I met him, but I still feel awkward romping in bed with a guy before the photo of his previous girlfriend has been cleared away.

Xander follows my gaze. ‘My bad.’ He shoves the photo in a drawer and turns back to me, taking me in his arms again. ‘This is our place now, Eve.’

A shrill ringing cuts through the air. The landline.

‘Ignore it,’ says Xander.

The answerphone kicks in. It’s right beside the bed, and the woman’s voice, cool and clipped, kills our vibe in two seconds flat.

‘Alexander, it’s Mother. I’ve made a reservation for lunch at Skipper Jack’s at noon. Your father had our driver drop the Lexus at your apartment last night. You’ll find it in the usual spot downstairs. Wear some smart pants and that white linen shirt I gave you for Christmas, and for heaven’s sake don’t be late. I’ve booked a table for six. Charlotte is coming. She tells me her father is hiring. I think this is your last chance with that lovely girl, son. Get a wriggle on, and make sure you iron that shirt.’

She hangs up.

Xander and I stare at each other, frozen. My first instinct is to laugh. Who in the last hundred years, other than the Queen of England, refers to herself as Mother?

My next thought is anything but funny. Xander’s mum has invited his ex-girlfriend to his welcome-home lunch—the ex-girlfriend whose father owns a law firm where Xander’s parents hope he’ll land his first real job.

‘I wish you’d told them about us,’ I say.

‘Let’s talk about them later—’

The phone rings again. Maybe Mother forgot to mention which shoes would look best with that shirt.

This time, Xander doesn’t wait for the answerphone. He leans over, grabs the cord and yanks it out of the wall.