I couldn’t read her face, but I figured she was digesting what I’d just said. I kept chewing on my lip. You’re going to wear it away at this rate, Sarah.

“Look, I get it,” she said, and I sighed, relieved. “Do you want to know what I’d do?”

Uh, yes, duh. I signalled for her to get on with it.

“Text him back to say you’re having a great time with me, because you are, and that you want to make the most of the time with your sister, but you miss him too, and you can’t wait to FaceTime when you get back to Sydney next week.” She paused, probably for effect—she was quite dramatic sometimes. “How’s that?”

That was genius. And that is exactly what I did.

Except, as I held hands with James and thought about my reply to Josh, my stomach twanged—and not the good kind of twang, but an angsty one full of guilt.

Please don’t see that guy, James.

Chapter 8

James parked the car out front of his house, and I looked at him quizzically.

“I’m not saying anything to spoil the surprise,” he said, which made me even more intrigued. “I’ll get your bag.”

I let myself out of the car, climbed the steps, and waited for James at his front door. When he joined me, reaching past me to unlock the door, I got a waft of his cologne—god, he smelled delicious. I hoped his surprise included lots of canoodling. “Go on in, but wait just inside,” he said, snapping me from my less-than-pure thoughts. “I’ll put your bag upstairs. Oh, is there anything you need?” He held up the leather tote. “We’ll be outside.”

“Uh, let me just grab one thing,” I said, unzipping it and pulling out Cat’s pashmina.

“All good?”

I nodded, and James took the stairs two at a time. He was back on the main level of the house before I knew it. “Come with me,” he said, taking my hand.

He led me downstairs into the kitchen, out the back door, and into a small courtyard bordered by potted plants. In the centre, sat a small café table and two chairs. I moved towards one of the chairs, but James tugged gently at my hand.

“Not here. This way.” He led me to the corner of the house where a wrought-iron spiral staircase rose to the roof. I smiled. This was becoming quite the adventure.

“After you. Or shall I go first?”

“You go,” I said. “I’ll follow.”

It was too steep and narrow to keep holding hands, but I followed closely behind James with one hand gripping the railing. When I emerged onto the rooftop, he was smiling down at me mischievously.

Then he stepped aside.

I gasped, my fingertips to my mouth, then I took in every heavenly detail of the rooftop terrace.

Strings of fairy lights ran along the high walls, creating a sparkling rectangle of light and at each corner, potted topiary trees stood proud, dense with twinkling lights. Dotted about were dozens of tealight candles forming tiny tableaux of soft light, and in the centre of the terrace was a large blanket covered with plump cushions. On one corner of the blanket sat an enormous picnic basket—an actual wicker basket with two flip-up lids either side of the handle—and next to it was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket with two flutes at the ready.