Still, she was probably only fixating on the cost because it was far better than fixating on their situation.

She had tried to distract herself during the ride, her eyes scouring one tree after another in search of the elusive koalas. Matt had told her how lucky they were on the peninsula, escaping the unprecedented bushfires that had ravaged the country the summer before. She couldn’t even imagine all that beautiful land, scarred and blackened.

Koala hunting was not enough to keep her worries at bay, however. As she and Matt sat in silence, she mulled over question after question—none of which she could answer. Eventually, she landed on just one, a question that gnawed away at her as the cab wound its way along deserted tree-lined roads.

What was she doing hanging out in rural Australia with a guy she barely knew?

She’d come for Christmas, to hang out, to get some beach time and sunshine—not to get caught up with a guy who may or may not already be “caught up” with someone else. Who the hell is this Kirsten, anyway?

Jules needed her girls. Maybe she’d try to call Chloe later. Or Lucy, if she’d even come to the phone. God, she’d created a mess. She wasn’t usually the one in the thick of drama; that was more Chloe’s department.

When she stepped out of the cab and onto Matt’s gravel driveway, she could hear Dexter’s excited yaps at their arrival and her inner turmoil receded into the background. Dexter made a beeline for them as soon a Matt unlatched the gate, darting excitedly between them, clearly overjoyed that his pack was back together. He sniffed at Matt’s bandage and gave it a lick, then looked up at his master. Matt reassured him with a vigorous rubbing of his head and ears. Jules was next, receiving a paw on her leg, a plea for more petting. She laughed freely, kneeling to comply.

Jules had forgotten how much she missed having a dog around. She’d grown up with dogs—a Labrador that Will, aged five, had (for some reason) been allowed to name Dorito, then a kelpie named Bash. Bash had been a crazy dog who barked at practically anything and earned his name by bashing his paws against the front door when the doorbell rang. His behaviour got so bad that they couldn’t turn on the washing machine unless he was in the backyard—kind of hard when there was five feet of snow on the ground. Laundry days during winter were fun—not.

Jules had missed the little guy when he died of old age, though. They’d never got another dog, and then Jules had left for college, followed by Will.

As she fawned over Dexter, Jules realised that there was something special about how she felt around dogs—that distinctive doggy smell, the wet nose landing in her lap while she had her morning coffee, the feeling of a furry being leaning against her leg, the bright intelligent eyes looking at her as though she was the most important person in the world. Well, with Dexter, the second-most important.