Page 8 of The Flirty Vet

"This morning."

"From New York?"

"Yep. Via Auckland."

"That's a fucking long flight."

"It is."

"You must be jet-lagged."

He shoots me a look. "I am."

"Jeez. Now imagine if some self-centred prick was roaming the streets, half-naked, singing at the top of his lungs. Why, it wouldn't matter how good his voice was or how killer a bod he had, that'd be fucking annoying, wouldn't it?"

"It's literally the worst thing in the world."

"Worse than that scummy shit that gathers at the bottom of the kitchen sink that you have to scoop up and chuck out?"

"Worse than that."

"Worse than visiting relatives and clogging up their toilet right after you've dropped a massive dump?"

He ponders it for a moment. "Okay, not as bad as that."

I let out a laugh. "Excellent. I'm one notch above a shit-blocked dunny bowl. Good to know."

It doesn't take long to reach our destination. Predictably, on a Friday night, the Opera Bar is packed. We do a lap, and I'm hoping I've earned enough karmic brownie points that someone chooses that very moment to leave so that it opens up a table for us…but, no such luck.

We find a less crowded spot outside at the end of a row of tables. The Opera Bar is tucked in just under the Opera House, overlooking the bridge, and on the other side of the water from The Rocks, the oldest neighbourhood in Australia. It's one of those places that's touristy as fuck, but actually worth checking out.

I pull out my phone. "What'll you have?"

"A vodka soda, thanks. Extra ice."

With a few taps, the drinks are ordered. "There, done."

"Remember when you used to have to get up and order drinks at the bar?" he asks.

"Primitive times, my friend. Primitive times."

Col lets out a soft laugh, and for the first time since I crashed my way into his night, I can feel a tiny bit of his guard lowering.

Our drinks arrive. I lift my glass. "Cheers to a bloody good holiday."

"Thank you. But I'm here on business."

We tap glasses, and I watch him as he takes a sip. I s'pose I should ask him what he does for a living, but how fucking predictable is that?

I rest my drink on the high-top table beside me, and turn to face him. "If you were a font, what font would you be?"

"Excuse me?"

I don't say anything. Col arches an eyebrow, aiming those blue-green eyes straight at me. We stare at each other in silence for a few moments.

I break it with, "Oh, sorry, I thought you were doing that thing where you just sayexcuse mewhen you've actually really heard me."

"I only do that because you say things that…"