Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(25)

Falk turned back to the stage. Gemma was currently bathed in an absurdly flattering golden light, giving her the effect of a warm, glowing aura.

Oh, for God’s sake. Falk watched with a touch of amusement. That hardly seemed fair.

She signaled something back to the technician, then turned, her gaze running out over the crowd. Falk suddenly felt acutely conscious that he was staring and dropped his eyes to the ground.

Jesus Christ. He almost laughed, embarrassed on his own behalf. He wasn’t sixteen.

Stay.

He leveled his gaze. Gemma’s attention had returned to the stage.

And it was ridiculous, Falk told himself. Because it was dark, and there was a bit of distance between them, and his face was one in a hundred, and there was maybe—probably, to be honest—some serious wishful thinking at play on his part. But still. He looked at Gemma standing in the wings.

What was different? A tiny change in her expression, or a shift in her posture? Maybe? Basically nothing. But at the same time, Falk’s skin was tingling like there was a faint new charge in the air. It felt, as the golden light on stage lifted to a crisp, clean white, just close enough to something. And he wondered if, a moment earlier, she’d been looking at him, too.





9


The Southbank bar had transformed from standing-room-only to space-to-breathe in a matter of minutes as the footy crowd moved on to catch the start of the game. Gemma pounced with targeted precision on an empty table—a good one, looking out on the city lights reflected in the Yarra—and the bartender found it in his heart to forgive their earlier time-wasting and serve them. As they settled in their seats, Gemma made a passing reference to a TV series that Falk had also been watching, and the work of dissecting the book versus the adaptation propelled them well into a second drink. Falk went to the bar, and when he came back, she’d taken her hair down. He’d proposed dinner before his glass was even empty.

She’d smiled. “Sounds good.”

The rain obliged by holding off as they walked side by side across the bridge over the Yarra and into the heart of the city. Falk suggested a restaurant he’d heard good things about, and they left the main street cross sections and wandered instead down the side lanes until they reached a small place with a sign outside. A serious young guy with an apron and complicated facial hair checked a handwritten ledger near the door, then without a word led them through the tight knot of chairs and place settings to a tiny table squeezed into a corner. The room was toasty after the damp night air, and they shrugged off their coats, seated elbow to elbow with an infatuated couple at the table next to them. Falk and Gemma grinned at each other over their menus, and when he shifted in his chair, his knees brushed hers.

“What’s it like running the festival?” Falk asked after they’d ordered.

“Interesting.” She sat back, apologizing as she elbowed her neighbor, who had reached out to clasp his lover’s hand. He barely noticed. “It’s fun and the community’s behind it, so that helps. A lot of us out there grew up with it, so there’s this huge nostalgia factor. But then the festival’s got bigger over the years, which means different considerations have to come into play, and Marralee’s still essentially a small town, so—” She shrugged.

“A lot of diplomacy required?”

“Yes. So much. Great, thank you—” she said as he poured the wine they were sharing. She took a sip. “Mmm, nice. Have you ever been?”

“To the Marralee Valley? No.” Falk tried the wine himself. She was right, it was nice. “But I grew up in a small town. Where Greg Raco works now, actually.”

“Okay, yes, so you know what it’s like.” Gemma smiled over her glass. “Balancing all the politics. Although, really, it’s only because people care. There’s a definite sense of local ownership. And it’s an exciting feeling, seeing it come together every year.”

Her enthusiasm was refreshing. Most people Falk knew vaguely loathed the way in which they made a living.

“Have you always—?” Falk stopped as their waiter edged his way over to them, balancing plates in both hands. Noticing that the small candle in the center of their table was unlit, he tutted, put the plates down, and whipped a box of matches from his pocket.

“No, it’s fi—” started Falk, who was not keen on open flames in any context.

“No trouble.” The waiter misinterpreted his hesitation as politeness—or possibly, it occurred to Falk, romantic nerves—and with a reassuring smile and a flourish that seemed a little unnecessary, he struck a match and lit the wick.

“There.” He positioned the candle carefully between them. “Much better.”

It wasn’t. But it would be okay, Falk told himself. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. He could cope with this.

Gemma was watching him across the tiny flame as the waiter squeezed away. Falk wasn’t sure if she’d noticed the burn scars on his left hand or, knowing Raco, put two and two together, but as soon as the waiter was out of reach, she pointed to the offending candle, flickering innocently.

“Sorry, would you mind if I blew this out?” She circled her finger to indicate the room. “It’s just this place has a kind of snug, flammable vibe, and I’m flying back to Adelaide first thing so, you know…” She smiled. “I’d really rather not get stuck because I’ve knocked it over and caused an incident.”