them, ever hopeful of getting some of the fish that nestled next to crisp and golden chips. She tore off a strip of white paper, wrapping it around the steaming-hot battered fish.
‘I didn’t know you were going to be an uncle.’ Deep down inside her the hope that one day she’d be a mother flared, as it always did at the mention of a baby. ‘London means you’ll miss the birth of your first nephew or niece.’
‘It’s no biggie. Caleb will take his uncle duties seriously enough for both of us.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll post the kid a Paddington Bear from London.’
And there it was—the reason they were best friends and not lovers. They both wanted vastly different things out of life. A vague sadness stirred—one that always moved inside her whenever she thought about the fact he didn’t want a family. Not that she thought everyone should have kids; she didn’t. She accepted people’s life choices, but Hamish had so much to give and he was really good with young patients.
Despite their close friendship and years of working together, and despite having tried a hundred different questions to try and find out why he was so adamant about staying single and not having children, she was no closer to knowing. She didn’t understand his stance at all.
But adamant he was. There was a certain universal irony that a man so easy on the eyes, so genetically perfect that women stopped and stared while their subconscious said, Good genes for baby making, wasn’t interested in becoming a father. Over the years, she’d watched as women had unwittingly flocked to him, investing too much of themselves too fast until it was too late. When Hamish dated a woman he was hers exclusively until the day he ended it, and ‘ending it’ happened frequently.
Perhaps because of his lack of commitment and the fact she wasn’t interested in short-term relationships, there’d always been this unspoken rule between them that nothing would ever jeopardise their friendship.
That and chemistry. Or to be precise, a lack of it on Hamish’s side, with the exception of one drunk moment that had stopped almost before it had started. He’d only ever treated her like a buddy and over the years she’d realised why. Every girlfriend he’d ever had was a certain body type—tall, willowy and perfect.
With her short waist, solid legs and wide hips, she was so far removed from willowy it was a joke. Although initially she may have hoped for more than friendship from him, she’d soon realised friendship was what they did best and she treasured it.
They were mates, at ease with each other and very well aware of each other’s foibles.
Munching in companionable silence, their hungry mouths devoured the wickedly wonderful salt- and fat-laden feast until all that was left was greasy paper.
Hamish wiped his mouth and asked, ‘What about you, Georgie? You and Jonas going to open a family practice with a white picket fence and have a team of rug rats?’
Her bruised and battered heart limped in her chest and she delayed her answer momentarily by taking a slug of her drink. ‘About me and Jonas …’
Hamish’s gaze scanned her face, his eyes full of worry. ‘What?’
This time she shrugged and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Not happening.’
His hand shot out and pressed hers. ‘Hell, since when?’
‘Since last week. He’s going to Sydney to do orthopaedics and his change of plans includes changing girlfriends.’
His eyes darkened. ‘I never liked the bastard.’
She hiccoughed, appreciating his support. ‘You say that every time I get dumped.’
He squeezed her hand and let it go. ‘Yeah, well, that’s what friends are for and remember, there’ve been times when you’ve done the dumping.’
‘True, only this time I thought he was the one.’
He shook his head so hard that salt water sprayed her. ‘For God’s sake, Georgie, why do you always do this? You’re only twenty-six and you’ve got loads of time to land the guy who wants nothing more than to make babies with you.’
Only she wasn’t so sure. Unlike Hamish, she didn’t have prospective partners lining up around the block and she knew from experience she didn’t attract men from the first signal. She was more of a ‘personality’ girl than one with stunning good looks.
She thought about how he often talked about his brothers and their enthusiasm for settling down. ‘Ben and Caleb sound perfect. It’s a shame you don’t have another brother for me.’ She ate more chips. ‘Got any cousins?’
He shot her his cheeky trademark grin. ‘Only Richard, and he’s less likely to settle down than me.’
‘Wow, that’s really saying something,’ she teased.
‘Poor George. You met the wrong Pettigrew.’ His grin slowly transformed into something more serious. ‘Stop worrying about settling down and just get out there and live your life. If you’re still single at thirty-five then you’ve got something to stress about.’
An image from a movie she’d seen recently flipped into her head. She grinned. ‘Is this where we make a pact to marry each other at thirty-five if we’re both still single?’
‘God, no.’ A horrified expression ripped across his face, leaving her in no doubt about his feelings. ‘You know I don’t want any of that stuff. I want adventure, excitement, fun and good times. And surfing with you.’
She gave him a wry smile and stomped on the crazy sort of sadness that was still lingering from when he’d blithely thought nothing of missing the birth of his niece or nephew. ‘Surfing with me is going to be a bit tricky from London.’
Saying it made it real, and tears built behind her eyes. Her best friend, the one person who always championed her, was leaving to cross the world. ‘What am I going to do without you around the corner to whinge and moan to after a crappy day, laugh with, surf with and generally fail to solve the world’s problems with over wine?’
He leaned forward, his blue eyes filled with sincerity. ‘No matter where I am, if you need me, I’m only a phone call away.’
She took in a big, deep, breath and mustered a smile because, no matter how much she would miss him, she wanted him happy and she knew this adventure was what he wanted. ‘Same back atcha, mate. Go slay England.’
He gave her a wink. ‘That’s what I’m planning.’
One year ago
‘Okay, girl, here goes,’ Georgie muttered to herself as she stood on the veranda of Hamish’s beautifully restored California bungalow. The hot afternoon December sun beat in, heating the earthy brown and yellow mosaic tiles, which warmed the soles of her feet through thin sandals. Raising her index finger, she firmly pressed the recessed copper doorbell while her stomach sprang cartwheels. As the brisk ring faded away, her ears strained for familiar firm footsteps.
You should have texted him first.
She turned away from the door, wanting to run back to her car and take off at top speed.
Stop it. Surprising each other is what we do. Stick to
