Page 92 of The Science of Attraction

I lifted my hand above my head and flipped him off. “Am not.”

I so fucking was.

* * *

In the wee hours of the following Tuesday, I was woken by a text from Jules around one in the morning.

I’m on duty in the woolshed for the rest of the night.Might be a little late for our breakfast *appt*

I snorted. AKA an attempt to break the land speed record for a mutual mauling in my cottage once Connor had been picked up at seven, and before I was due in the big house at eight to prep Paddy for his big reveal—the first full circuit to the woolshed and back all on his own. I pouted at the text because I was mature like that. But damn, with only a few days left in my contract, I begrudged every missed opportunity to be with him.

Connor’s one-week stay had somehow morphed into two, and I wasn’t even sure how it had happened. His endless whining pleas to Bron and me likely had something to do with it, along with the fact that he was following through on his promise to studyandpull his weight around the station in his free time.

Ten was all for the extension. The two had bonded in some strange fashion, with Ten calling Connor Grasshopper. Connor wore the nickname like a badge of honour. Little did he realise it would follow him for decades. According to Jules, nicknames never got old in the Mackenzie.

But there would be no further extensions to either of our stays once this week was done. My contract finished on the Saturday, and Connor’s first exam was the following week. I would be driving us both back to Dunedin on the Sunday, something I was trying very hard not to think about. It gave Jules and me very little time before the bubble we’d built on Lane Station popped like a balloon and things got real.

I slid my phone back on the bedside table and stared at the moonlight and shadows playing peek-a-boo on the ceiling above the bed. Recently, I’d taken to sleeping with the curtains open, something I previously hated—the darker the better had always been my motto. But you never knew when the Mackenzie would shove another gorgeous starlit night in your face, and I’d frozen my arse off more than once in the last week while parked on the deck trying to catch another glimpse of the Southern Lights dancing in an endless sky.

With the countdown on, I didn’t want to miss a thing. Lambing was almost done and the station was heaving with newborns on both sides of the station road, right up to the woolshed. I had no clue how they decided which animals merited which locality, but I spent most of my daily run or yoga grinning at their antics.

Connor’s snoring somehow managed to cross the lounge and pierce two solid oak doors, making me smile. The boy had a problem, or rather his partner down the track was definitely going to have one. I tugged the blanket under my chin and stared out at the night, willing sleep to return.

Fifteen minutes later, I was still staring. Staring and thinking about Jules all alone in the woolshed. A shepherd watching his flock. Good God. The cliché alone should’ve made me cringe, but for some reason, I found the whole notion soothing. It made the world turn a little safer. The same as when he wrapped me in his arms at night. The same as when he kissed me.

I rolled my eyes at my own ridiculousness. Connor would laugh his damn head off. But there was no lying to myself, not anymore. Almost two weeks since our talk by the fire, a month together, and I was in love with Jules Lane. None of that falling-in-love bullshit. I was there. Signed, sealed, stamp me delivered, and leave me at his door.

Love.

So much for dipping my toes in the water of a relationship to see how it went. I’d skipped straight to the drowning part. But Ihadbeen doing some thinking about how Jules and I might float together for a while, and I’d come up with a plan of my own. I’d been waiting on the right time to share my ideas but the damn lambs kept getting in the way.

And just like that, a thought occurred to me.

The lambs.

The woolshed.

Jules on duty.

Alone.

Or hopefully alone.

To hell with it.

I threw the covers aside and shivered my way into some warm clothes, finishing with my thickest socks, a heavy jacket I’d borrowed from Jules, a merino scarf, and a knitted beanie I’d been given from Norma. Then I crept around the kitchen, making a thermos of hot chocolate and rustling up some leftover sponge, courtesy of Gil. I packed everything into my backpack and slid out the back door, easing the latch closed as silently as I could.

For a few seconds I just stood on the porch, the icy breeze licking at my face as I stared in wonder at the moonlit scene. Massive conifers with their tips frosted in silver moondust towered next to the machinery shed. They cast looming shadows over the vegetable garden, and saw-toothed ridges circled the valley like an honour guard of dragons.

Soft bleats broke the quiet. Mothers searching for their babies, babies checking in. The mournful call of a steer in the distance, and a morepork hooting from its nest in the machinery shed.

I clutched my knapsack to my chest, picked my way around the garden to the machinery shed, and then through it to the driveway. The big house lay in darkness, as did the shepherd’s cottages beyond. The only light spilled from the woolshed, a pale glow barely brightening its interior. I headed up the drive toward that siren call, the snuffling and soft shuffle of hooves from the stock gathered in the yards growing louder with every step.

I scaled the new ramp and paused at the woolshed door, listening. Nothing but the sleepy sounds of resting sheep. I eased the door open and slipped inside, cringing at the scrape of wood on the floor and the snick of the latch as it closed behind me. In the quiet darkness, it sounded like a gunshot.

“Jules?” In the dim light, I made my way toward the small room designated as the office, thinking Jules would be inside, only to catch sight of a large shape sprawled across a mound of hay alongside one of the far pens. But it was the guitar lying on the floor at his side that gave Jules away.

He never even opened his eyes as I approached, giving me time to drink him in—sleep-mussed hair, hay sticking out of his woollen jersey, a blanket falling off his shoulders, and his mouth hanging open. I wasn’t sure I’d seen anything more beautiful.

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