Page 78 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

She knows as well. It’s over. It’s time to head back to Kansas, or in your case, Farpoint.

“Thanks, Franklin.” She handed the concierge some folded five-dollar notes—a tip, Dylan realized, a practice he was still trying to get the hang of. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

They rode the lift in silence, except this wasn’t like the relaxed, comfortable quiet of their walk home. It was tense. Heavy. As if the duffel bag hanging on Dylan’s shoulder wasn’t packed with clothing but instead contained his denied wants and desire.

He bit back a sigh. Struth, he’d never been so bloody melodramatic until he came to the States. His days used to be filled with unruly Black Angus, jackaroos, cold beer, good tucker, an argument or two with Hunter about who should be the next captain of the Australian cricket team and, if he was lucky, a shower that didn’t run cold before he finished rinsing off. Now his luggage had somehow become a metaphor for a miserable future without Monet, and the silence between them had become more suffocating than the dust storms that hit Farpoint during the dry seasons.

The silence didn’t abate as they entered Monet’s apartment. He stood at the threshold, watching her walk into her home, so perfectly suited to the eclectic furniture and artwork around her. Here. Not in a farmhouse out whoop whoop, where the only sights outside the windows were the tenacious gum trees too stubborn to admit defeat to the scorching Australian sun. Where the only artwork was the giant termite mounds peppered around the cattle station.

She stopped at the opening to her kitchen, casting him a look over her shoulder. Her gaze held his for a quick moment, and then she turned and continued into the small space. “I’ll get the leg of lamb out of the refrigerator for you,” she said as she moved to the fridge. “Do you want a glass of wine? A beer?”

“Beer will be great,” he answered, his voice far more casual than he felt. “Ta.”

She busied herself in the kitchen, and it was all Dylan could do to tear his stare from the beauty of her form.

He crossed the threshold and walked to the sofa in the studio, dumping his duffel bag beside it before walking to the window. New York was beautiful. He couldn’t deny that. But it wasn’t home. What did he do about that?

What did hewantto do about it?

Behind him, soft music began to play. Michael Bublé, singing about getting a fever.

Dylan let out a soft snort. He knew the feeling all too well. The trouble was, he didn’t know if he would ever recover from his fever. He sure as hell didn’t want to.

Letting out a sigh, he shoved his hand into his pocket, closed his fingers around the cheap cell phone he’d purchased upon arriving in New York and withdrew it.

Maybe Hunter had called? Fuck knows, he really needed to talk to his brother right now, if for no other reason than to ask him what to do about his feelings for Monet.

Dylan smiled. Knowing Hunter, his twin would tell him to pull his bloody finger out and get back home. When it came to hard yakker on Farpoint Creek Station, Hunter much preferred to work up a sweat dealing with the bank managers and buyers, not the cattle and hired hands, and with Dylan being away for so long…

The thought faded away as he stared at the phone’s small LCD display, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. One missed call. From a phone number he knew very well.

Someone from Farpoint Creek Cattle Station had tried to call him four hours ago. He obviously hadn’t heard it over the noise of the parade.

Keying in the buttons required to hear the message, he pressed the phone to his ear, his jaw tight.

“Dylan,” his brother’s voice said. Serious. Strained. “It’s Hunter. Call me. We need to talk.”

Behind Dylan, Bublé began crooning about it being a marvelous night for some sort of dance.

The blood in Dylan’s veins ran hot. He’d been dodging calling home for the last twenty-four hours. It seemed, based on Hunter’s tone, the time had come to stop being a coward.

And what if Hunter tells you Annie is waiting for you to come back? What if your brother tells you she’s expecting…something you can no longer give her? What do you do then?

He ground his teeth, stared hard at the phone in his hand and dialed home.

It connected on the first ring.

“G’day.”

Hunter’s voice was just as serious as it had been when he’d left the message.

Dylan swallowed. “Hunter.”

“Dylan.” His brother’s tone went from serious to…what? Casual? Too casual. Dylan frowned. Something wasn’t right. “How you goin’?”

“I’m doin’ all right.”Ha. All right? Really?“Mum says you’ve been entertaining Annie for me.” He swallowed again, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t budge. “Well done, mate.”

“Are you on your way home?”