CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CALLIE wasn’t proud of what she’d done.

      She should have told Archer the truth last night. And she shouldn’t have snuck away in the early hours. Or made Tom complicit in her deceit.

      She had to give him credit for not spilling her secret. She’d half expected Archer to confront her about her plan to abscond once she’d asked Tom for a favour at the wedding.

      But Archer hadn’t suspected a thing.

      She’d had her chance to say goodbye and she’d taken it. Several times during the night, with each erotic encounter surpassing the last.

      It had been subliminal, knowing it would be their last time together. She’d imprinted every whispered word, savoured every caress, treasured every touch.

      If Archer had been surprised by her wild enthusiasm he hadn’t shown it. He’d responded in kind, taking her to heights she’d only ever read about in novels.

      And then she’d left, creeping out at 5:00 a.m.

      Thankfully Izzy had been asleep in the back of the car, and after a few less than subtle questions Tom had given up interrogating her.

      The Fletts were a loyal bunch, for not once had Tom discredited his brother, apart from saying he was a nong for letting her get away again.

      She’d had to give him something to shut him up, so she’d settled for a semi-truth. They’d already said their goodbyes last night. They were happy to resume their respective lives, and she had to get back to her mum on Christmas Day.

      All perfectly respectable, perfectly legitimate reasons...for running out like a chicken.

      The truth was she couldn’t face the long car ride back to Melbourne with Archer—couldn’t face the awkwardness of another goodbye.

      This way they could resume their old relationship—e-mailing for business—and avoid any mess.

      He was flying out today, so he wouldn’t have time to worry about her early departure anyway. He had things to do, places to be.

      Things and places that didn’t include her.

      That was why she’d given him the porpoises. She’d lied about that too, telling him she’d forgotten about them.

      As if. She might have banished her memories of their time in Capri, but every now and then, when her mum had a particularly bad day and Callie felt lonely, she’d take them out of their recycled cardboard box, cradle them in her hand and remember...

      Remember that special time in Capri, wishing she could have one ounce of it again.

      Well, now she had, and where had it left her? Worse than before. Seriously in love with a guy who had no clue.

      To his credit, his reaction to her gift had blown her away. She hadn’t expected to see him emotional, and for a few tense moments beforehand had half expected him not to remember that day in Capri at all. But he had. And it had made her wish things could be different all the more.

      Instead she’d go back to working on his lucrative campaigns—with the bonus of having Nora’s medical bills taken care of—and he’d hit the surf on some exotic island far removed from Melbourne and the memories they’d built.

      Memories that would have to last a lifetime.

      For now, it has time to get on with her life, starting with a quick visit to Rivera’s to wish Artie a Merry Christmas and then spending the day with her mum.

      The Spanish bar was jumping when she arrived, with revellers in Santa hats and flashing reindeer noses spilling out onto the street. Many locals came straight from mass to get a taste of Artie’s special virgin sangria on Christmas morning, before heading off to their respective hot roast lunches with family.

      It had become a Johnston Street tradition, and one she enjoyed, because it gave her an all too brief taste of what a normal Christmas should be.

      Not like the understated days she’d had growing up, where she’d wait for her dad to show up with the pony he’d promised only to be disappointed yet again.

      Or the recent Christmases spent with Nora, forcing cheer when all she’d felt like doing was holding her mum fiercely and banishing the disease slowly sapping her life.

      She slipped through the crowd and entered the main door, her despondency lifting when she glimpsed Artie taking pride of place behind the bar, his costume this year more outlandish than the last.

      He’d gone for monstrous reindeer antlers that threatened to take a person’s eye out when he turned, a big red nose made from a dyed tennis ball, and a fake white beard that reached to his belly.

      It made her happy to see him enjoying life, a far cry from the devastated man he’d been following his wife’s death.

      He caught sight of her and waved, calling her over.

      Determined to put on a brave face, she wound her way towards the bar, where he swept her into a bear hug.

      ‘Hola, querida. Merry Christmas.’

      ‘Same to you.’ When he released her she tweaked his nose. ‘How can you breathe with that thing?’

      ‘I can’t,’ he said, in a fake nasally voice, and she laughed. ‘Come. Have some sangria.’

      For a moment she wished it was the alcoholic version, despite the hour.

      ‘Tell me about this new business.’

      Great. Just what she felt like. Talking about her week in Torquay. Not.

      He poured her a drink, garnished it with a strawberry, slid it across the bar and winked. ‘And tell me more about this old amor.’

      She remembered contradicting Artie a week ago. I don’t love him.

      This time she didn’t have the energy to lie.

      ‘The business is exciting. I’ve developed an online marketing campaign for his new surf school, including online forums and interactive sessions on his webpage, and a social networking