Page 89 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“Yes, Tommy?” she asked, pressing the button to activate the speaker to the doorman’s desk.

“There’s a flower arrangement here for you from the Kerrie Anderson Gallery, Ms. Carmichael,” the doorman answered. “A rather large vase of what I believe are Australian eucalyptus flowers. Would you like me to have Franklin bring it up?”

Behind her, Dylan laughed.

Monet pressed the button again. “You can keep it for the day, Tommy. Dylan and I are just about to head out.”

“Very good, Ms. Sullivan.”

She turned back to Dylan, her heart still doing its damndest to beat its way out of her chest, and froze when she noticed two very significant things.

One, Dylan’s hat was nowhere to be seen.

And two, he was looking at her with open, undeniable lust.

“Are…are you ready to go?” she stammered.

He shook his head. “Not yet.” His accent played with her senses. “There’s something I need to do first.”

* * *

It took them at least an hour to leave the apartment. Dylan blamed it on Monet’s jeans. They were so snug they showed off her sexy arse to perfection. It was all he could do not to strip them from her the second she’d finished talking to her doorman. As it was, he’d pressed her to the door, pinned her wrists beside her head and kissed her until she could barely stand. Then he’d worshipped her breasts, unadorned by bra or shirt, sucking on her dark, hard nipples, refusing to stop until she came, her cries of release as powerful as the aching throb in his cock.

Here he was, four hours later, the chilly autumn wind playing through his hair, the sounds of New York filling the air like a mad cacophony, Central Park a green oasis in a sea of gray around him, and his cock still ached.

He’d gently removed Monet’s hands from his belt buckle when she’d finished climaxing, shaking his head with a small smile on his lips. “Later,” was all he’d said.

She’d given him a curious look, almost a cautious one, but he hadn’t relented. He couldn’t. He knew then, just as he knew now, if he’d let Monet unzip his fly and withdraw his hard-on from his jeans they’d still be in her apartment making love. And while that was the only thing he wanted to do—make love to her, worship her, give her pleasure over and over again as she gave him pleasure in return—he couldn’t let himself.

Not until he figured out what he was going to do next.

Not until he knew where he was going to be tomorrow. The next day. And the day after that.

Here in New York? Or back home?

Back at Farpoint Creek.

Dylan’s gut clenched at the thought. He’d never been so bloody conflicted. Had he thought he was messed up a day ago? When he was under the impression Annie was meant to be his future? Fuck, that was nothing to how he was feeling now. Now it wasn’t a woman messing with his head, it was a whole bloody country. Two of them.

No matter how hard he tried, every time he imagined himself somewhere apart from Farpoint, he failed. But every time he tried to imagine a life without Monet, he failed that too. If he didn’t have an ego the size of Ayres Rock he’d be worried about his sense of self-esteem. But it wasn’t his self-esteem taking a pounding from his current situation, it was his sanity.

Now he had to do something about it.

That something was to be outside, be in the city. Exist in the city. Try to picture himself there for a long time.

And he thought dragging snakes out of the main billabong back home was tricky.

“This is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Monet’s question drew his gaze to her face and he found her smiling at the sights around them. After breakfast in a crowded restaurant, where the staff seemed determined his coffee mug never come close to emptying, they’d wandered the SoHo district, Monet buying supplies for their picnic, pointing out quirky little facts about the area only a local would know.

When the lady behind the counter at one store realized he was Australian, she asked him to say “g’day”. He did, and she laughed and commented how different New York must be from his home. He agreed. It was. Very different.

Chatting about art and movies and Australia and America, they’d finally made their way to the Great Lawn at Central Park, the large expanse of lush grass the perfect place for a picnic. All around them children in scarves and beanies laughed as they flew kites. Lovers necked on blankets, uncaring of those around them. Businessmen in expensive suits and ties scarfed down street-vendor hotdogs as they consulted tablet computers and talked the mobile phones plastered to their ears.

It was, as far as Dylan could work out from his mother’s addiction to Woody Allen movies, the quintessential New York scene. And yet the movies never conveyed just how loud the traffic was, rising over the park’s serenity. Nor how dank the air was, nor how gray the skyline. At least to Dylan’s senses.

There wasn’t a moment of quiet peace, even in an area of parkland roughly the size of Farpoint Creek’s main homestead yard. Hell, he was even finding it hard to hear the leaves rustling in the wind. Leaves no longer green but copper-red and brown from the chilly weather. With this much breeze at home, the leaves would be singing their soft song and he’d be able to hear it. He’d be able to hear the magpies call to each other on the wind instead of dueling car horns trying to out-blast each other in the nearby streets.