Seb said. ‘I was always going to buy it for the right price—which I had no problem negotiating.’
There it was—a glimpse of the ruthless businessman Mila remembered. Just this time without the suit.
‘The question was whether I’d let you know I’d bought it.’
Mila looked again at the building plan. In the corner was the company logo and its name: Heliotrope Construction.
‘Steph...’ Mila breathed.
‘It’s not that original,’ Seb said. ‘But if Steph could call her fashion label Violet, I figured...’
Shades of purple—Steph’s favourite colour.
‘I like it,’ Mila said.
But Seb was moving the conversation along. ‘I did consider not being hands-on with this place, to reduce the chances that we’d bump into each other. But that would have been pretty gutless. I’ve been back in Perth a few months now. I couldn’t avoid you for ever.’
Months? Seb’s email had been six months ago, and she’d dealt with his rejection then. Even so, it stung to realise he’d been back home for so long. Somehow rejection had hurt less when he was a million miles away.
‘I thought about calling. I knew I couldn’t email you.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘But I had to apologise in person. Buying this place just forced me into action. I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘For waiting this long. Since Steph...everything’s been messed up. I’ve been messed up...’
‘I know,’ Mila said. She got it. Or at least some of it. She did.
They were both silent for a while. Mila didn’t quite know what to think—she’d mentally classified Seb as part of her past. And now here he was—so different—in her present.
‘I hope I’m not too late,’ Seb said.
‘For what?’ Mila asked, confused.
‘To fix things.’ He was watching her steadily, his gaze exploring her face. ‘To fix us. I’d hoped—’
Maybe he’d seen something in her expression, because for once Seb looked less than completely assured.
‘You and Steph were my closest friends. Steph’s gone for ever, but we still have each other. I want you in my life again, Mila. If you’ll let me.’
Part of Mila wanted to smile and laugh, tell Seb Of course! And in so many ways that was the obvious answer.
She’d told him she’d forgiven him for his behaviour amidst his grief. But it had still hurt. A lot. Because she’d certainly had enough rejection in her life—her ex-fiancé being the latest purveyor of rejection. And part of her—the pragmatic side—just wondered what the point actually was.
Had too much time passed? Was it better that their friendship remained a fond memory? Limited only to the occasional catch-up message on social media?
Remembering how she’d felt when he’d held her hand before—the warmth and strength of his fingers and the echoing, unwanted warmth in her belly—Mila thought she definitely knew the answer.
Seb had just lost his wife. And he’d been Steph’s husband. She had no place considering the breadth of his shoulders or the strength of his hands.
She should keep her distance. Be his friend, but acknowledge that things could never be as they had been. They could never have the connection of their childhood again. It was too complicated. The emotions too intense.
And yet—here he was. Right in front of her. This strange, compelling mix of the cute boy next door and this handsome almost-stranger next door.
Seb must have seen the conflict in her gaze.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe I am too late.’
He was looking straight at her, but his eyes now gave nothing away. Gone was all that emotion, shuttered away.
He really wanted this, Mila realised. This was more than an extended apology or an attempt to make amends. And what was she worried about, anyway? Really?
So what if Seb still had the smile that had made her teenage self weak at the knees? She’d dealt with all that years ago. All that messy unrequited love and the whole heap of angst that came with your best friend marrying the first boy you’d fallen in love with. The first boy you’d kissed.
That had been for ever ago.
Today the butterflies in her tummy meant nothing. She was being silly. Right now Seb didn’t need her pushing him away for no apparent reason. And—frankly—she didn’t really want to push him away. She’d missed him.
‘So, do you honestly want a tour of my pottery studio?’ she asked.
Seb grinned triumphantly. ‘Lead on, Ms Molyneux!’
And of course Mila found herself smiling back.
‘KNOCK, KNOCK!’
The familiar female voice floated through to Mila’s shop and was promptly followed by an impatient rattling of the workshop’s back door.
‘Mila!’ Ivy called out. ‘Could you hurry, please? I really need to pee.’
Mila grinned as she hurried to greet her sister. Her nephew, Nate, was fast asleep in his pram on the other side of the fly screen, looking exactly as angelic as Ivy said he was not.
‘Mila? I mean it. I have about fifteen seconds.’
Mila dragged her gaze away from Nate to glance at her sister.
‘Maybe ten,’ Ivy clarified.
Quickly Mila flicked open the lock, and Ivy sprinted past her to the small powder room in the corner of the workshop used by Mila’s students.
‘You’ll understand one day,’ Ivy said as she slammed the toilet door, muttering something about eight-and-a-half-pound babies.
Mila stepped outside, then squatted in front of Nate’s pram. There wasn’t much space behind Mila’s shop—enough for Mila’s car, her bins, and a large collection of enthusiastically growing pot plants—all planted in an eclectic mix of pots and vessels that Mila had decided unfit for sale after firing.
Nate held Mila’s mail in his chubby fist, collected by Ivy from the letterbox beside the rear courtyard gate. Nate loved junk mail, and he was happily gazing at the lurid colours of a discount store brochure with intent.
She wasn’t exactly sure how old Nate was—nine months, maybe? He’d just started crawling, anyway, and talking in musical meaningless tones. He was so beautiful, with long eyelashes that brushed his cheeks and thick, curly blond hair. Both from his father, apparently—although Mila couldn’t yet see even a hint of Ivy’s hulking SAS soldier husband in delicate,
