The Aussie Next Door Read online

  She’d been able to tell the second she stepped into his office that this place was different. Instead of the usual muted neutrals, there was a comfy blue sofa that wouldn’t look out of place in someone’s home. And instead of the usual polite but remote receptionist, the lady at this desk had a beaming smile and called Angie “love.”

  Australians liked that word, she’d discovered since moving to Australia from her hometown in Southern California almost two years ago.

  “He’ll be out to see you in a minute, love.” The receptionist, Dorothy, had curly blond hair and earrings made from seashells. “I’m sorry again that Mr. Westerly wasn’t here to see you himself. He really hates to miss work.”

  Angie had been worried when she’d turned up and the kindly Arthur Westerly wasn’t in. Apparently he’d been involved in an accident while rescuing a neighbor’s cat, resulting in a badly sprained ankle. Which meant Angie had to see Paul Westerly…Arthur’s grandson. The guy gave her the heebie-jeebies. Well, some guys gave her the heebie-jeebies, but Paul’s heebie-jeebies had heebie-jeebies of their own!

  “It’s fine,” Angie said, hoping she sounded like she meant it. Because she didn’t, really. Today was a big, scary day, and Arthur had been holding her hand through this whole disaster so far. She needed him.

  Angie shifted on the spot, tugging down the hem of her pencil skirt. Why had she bothered dressing up? It wasn’t like the immigration gods were going to smile down on her because she’d put on a blouse and heels. But it had been a last-ditch effort to feel like she had some control over the situation, when she most definitely did not. If this meeting didn’t go well, then all her hopes and dreams for the perfect home in this tiny seaside town would be shattered.

  You will not go back to America. No matter what they say, you’ll figure this out.

  Only that reassurance had about as much substance as cotton candy. Or what did they call it here? Fairy floss.

  Angie watched the view outside. The office looked over the main strip in Patterson’s Bluff—a small town on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria. The street was quieter today, and there hadn’t been a wait at her favorite coffee spot. The summer tourism season was slowly drawing to a close. Angie wasn’t sure she liked it, because the quiet allowed her time to think…and she didn’t want to do that right now.

  “Angie?” Paul Westerly stuck his head out of his office. “You can come in now.”

  He was wearing khakis rolled at the ankle, a collared T-shirt, and a pair of boat shoes. Back home, even the court-appointed lawyers had worn suits. But everything in Patterson’s Bluff ran at a different speed. People were relaxed. They made time for trips to the beach and took a moment to chat with people on the street. It was one of the many things she enjoyed about living here.

  Angie smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt and took a seat in one of the chairs facing Paul’s desk. Well, technically it was Arthur’s desk, since this was the biggest office and it was neat as a pin. That’s how Angie had known she could trust him.

  But Paul, on the other hand…not so much. Paul was around twenty-seven, had a penchant for wearing too much product in his hair and dousing himself in cologne. No doubt it was expensive cologne, but anything of such volume triggered her gag reflex. He was a lawyer, which was something, but mostly he filed paperwork for his grandfather and took on some of the smaller legal matters that concerned the townsfolk of Patterson’s Bluff. Oh, and he had a tendency to hit on the female clients.

  Angie did her best to avoid him, but she simply couldn’t spend another day not knowing what her future held.

  “You’re looking lovely today. Going somewhere special?” His gaze slid over her in a way that made her want to shrink back into her chair.

  “I was supposed to be meeting with my lawyer,” she said, cringing at the sting in her voice. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault he’d had an accident, and she certainly couldn’t blame him. But damn, she wished it was him instead of Paul right now.

  “Seems a shame to be all dressed up without somewhere to go. You know, there’s a nice place down in Sorrento where I could take you. I’ve got the Porsche parked out back.”

  Angie wanted to scream at him to stop with the cheesy pickup line and get on with announcing her fate. But she held herself in check, in case there was some tiny sliver of a chance that karma might reward her. “Thank you, but I have another meeting after this one. So maybe we should, um…get down to business?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not great news,” Paul said. He leaned back in his chair, as if enjoying the dramatic pause.

  Her stomach sank. “Really?”

  “I understand my grandfather warned you this was the likely outcome.” He looked at her with a kind of expression that verged on pity.

  She curled her hands, digging her nails into the heels of her palms. The pressure calmed her. No matter what she felt, it could not show on her face. She wouldn’t do anything to encourage his pity or anybody else’s. “What did they say?”

  “That the request to extend the expiry date of the work and holiday visa subclass 462 has been denied. For the second-year extension, the applicant must have already completed three months or combined eighty-eight days of specified subclass work during the first 462 visa period.” He pushed the letter across the desk. “Given your visa expires in two months and you can’t complete that three-months’ worth of agricultural work before the end date…there’s no option to extend.”

  For a moment, Angie wasn’t sure she’d be able to speak. It felt like her insides had been flash frozen.

  “But the other lawyer said I could complete that work in the second year.” Angie’s voice didn’t even sound like her own. She wanted to find the lawyer she’d seen before Arthur and shake him. “He told me people had done it before.”

  Paul shrugged. “They’ve really cracked down on visa extensions in the last couple of years and, unfortunately, their word is final.”

  He said it like it was nothing, like the walls weren’t crumbling down around her.

  “There’s nothing I can do?”

  There was that damn pitying look again. “I wish I could fix this for you, but as it stands, you’ll need to exit the country in sixty days. You can reapply for a tourist visa if you want to come back for a short-term visit.”

  The bottom had dropped out of her world. If only she’d gotten the right advice, she could have had an extra twelve months to figure things out. She’s been sure the heartfelt letter and proof of why she couldn’t return home might tug at the heartstrings of someone in the Department of Home Affairs. Why would anyone want to return to what was waiting for her in America?

  There had to be a solution. Maybe she could convince the Department of Home Affairs to give her a job. Angie Donovan, adviser to the Australian people! Or what if she could convince a family to adopt her? Was that even a thing as an adult? Or maybe it would be easier to find a kangaroo costume and practice hopping around so she could blend in with the wildlife and stay here forever.

  Think, Angie. A creative panic spiral won’t help you now.

  She snapped her fingers. “What about getting a company to sponsor me? I’ve heard people do that so they can stay longer.”

  “Some companies do sponsor people,” Paul said with a nod. “But you’re an unskilled worker with incomplete tertiary education. Generally, companies sponsor people in specialized fields.”

  He was right. Angie was twenty-six years old with three-quarters of a college education, a string of short-term, low-paying jobs on her résumé, and a bunch of employers who’d “let her go” because they didn’t want the media scrutiny that followed her everywhere. She couldn’t even bear the thought of studying again—not after going to every class and having people stare at her. She couldn’t handle crowds anymore, and setting foot onto a university or college campus gave her panic attacks. Hence why her degree had never been co
mpleted.

  Since coming to Patterson’s Bluff, she’d felt like she could live a normal life for the first time ever…and it was glorious. She couldn’t lose it now.

  Angie felt the tightness building in the back of her throat. The idea of going back to America was enough to give her a panic attack. The thought of those flashing cameras and intrusive questions and microphones being shoved into her face, everyone asking her how it felt to be the poster child for a shitty childhood…no, she couldn’t do it. This was where she was supposed to be. This was supposed to be her new home.

  Her perfect home.

  “Is there really no other option?” Her voice was steady from years of practice, but inside she was falling apart. “I don’t want to leave. This place is…my dream.”

  “I wish I had better news.” For a moment, Paul looked like he truly meant it. Slimy as he was, there still seemed to be a hint of his grandfather’s goodness in him. “You know, you could always find a bloke to marry. I wouldn’t be totally opposed to the idea. We could get you a spousal visa, allow you to stay in the country. I’m sure we could find some arrangement that benefitted us both.”

  Ew. Okay, so maybe that hint of his grandfather’s goodness wasn’t there after all.

  “Are you seriously trying to cash in on my misery?” she asked, her fists balling. What kind of son of a bitch—

  “Oh no, it’s nothing to do with money. I mean, I could give you some options…” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the edge of the desk and smiling like a hungry wolf. “We could help each other. People might take me more seriously if I had a wife.”

  I would literally rather marry a bag of dicks.

  “I don’t think a fake marriage would work for either of us.” Angie clutched the letter to her chest, wanting to cry and scream and pound her fist into a wall.

  But if there was one skill she’d learned as a kid, it was to pack her emotions down and swallow them like the bitter little pill they were. Life might have stolen her childhood and her happiness, but it would never take her dignity. And that meant she would never let herself get cornered into being with a man like Paul Westerly.

  Angie squared her shoulders and stood. “I appreciate your grandfather writing on my behalf.”

  Without waiting for his response, she strode out of the office and into the reception area. Dorothy stepped out from behind the desk, tears glimmering in her big blue eyes and her arms stretched wide.

  Oh no, not hugs.

  Hugs were the worst at times like this. They always made it harder to keep a handle on her emotions, to keep control of the situation. When Dorothy wrapped her up, the scent of her perfume—roses and lilies—enveloped Angie in a sympathetic pink cloud.

  “I’m so sorry it didn’t work out,” Dorothy whispered. “Make sure you come by before you leave. I know the folks here will miss you, and Arthur would want to say goodbye.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Tell you what, I’ll bring some of my heavy-duty rum balls. Give a couple to Arthur and he’ll be feeling better in no time.” She winked. If only she felt as good on the inside as she knew she could look on the outside.

  After settling her account, she headed out onto the street. Her Australian dream was done. Finished. Over.

  Finito.

  Her bright-blue bike was sitting in the rack, the chain and lock dangling over the handle. Nobody here bothered to lock up their bikes, because everybody knew everybody else. There was a trust that came inherently to such a tight-knit community…the kind of trust Angie had never experienced before.

  Her eyes watered as she looked over the chip in the chain stay and the scratch on the handlebar. It had been a little banged up when she’d bought it for twenty bucks from a guy down the road, but she’d worked hard to give it some love. A new set of tires and a new seat made it a great ride, and the little basket with a bright-yellow sunflower that hung on the front had been a steal from the local charity shop.

  She rode that damn bike everywhere.

  Regretting her decision to wear a pencil skirt, Angie slipped out of her heels and pulled the ballet flats from her bag. Her outfit hadn’t made a lick of difference to the immigration gods, as suspected. As she climbed onto the bike, she spied something in the basket. A little brown bag with a message scrawled on it.

  Hey, Angie, we had leftovers. Thought you might like them. Kel.

  Inside the bag were a couple of savory scones—likely the rocket and Asiago that she loved—from the bakery next door. The owner always slipped her extras whenever she came in. They were a thank-you for the help she gave once a week with the store by picking up treats for the Patterson’s Bluff nursing home.

  By the time Angie made it onto the road, her feet peddling as fast as she could, her breath came in short bursts, and a horrible, tight feeling gripped her chest. She called it “the boulder” because that’s what it felt like—a big fat rock squishing her heart and lungs. And she hadn’t felt the boulder in a while.

  Australia was good for her. Hell, in many ways it had saved her. She could breathe here, could be her own person. Have her own life. Live without the constant pressure of being “Little Angela Donovan.” Victim. Poster child. Famous for all the wrong reasons.

  “I don’t want to leave.” Her voice was eaten up by the wind as she whizzed along the main street.

  After visiting the bigger cities—Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne—she’d settled here more than six months ago and found the home that had always eluded her. People were friendly, welcoming. She’d made connections and slowly come out of her shell. She’d grown. Gotten stronger. Recovered…at least a little bit.

  And now it was all going to be taken away.

  Angie made it back to her temporary home in record time and stashed away her bike. She needed a coffee. And then she needed to think, because Angie wasn’t going to lay down and accept defeat. Over and over and over, she’d been a good girl, followed the rules, and tried not to rock the boat. And what had it gotten her? Diddly-squat.

  Leaving her bag in the main room of the little place she’d started to call home, she wandered over to the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker. She would figure this out…somehow.

  The sound of something clicking against the floorboards startled Angie, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. She wasn’t alone in the house.

  “Hello?”

  A low, rumbling growl sent a tremor through her as a hulking dog blocked the entrance to the kitchen. Its fur was dark as ink and the beast stood almost to her waist. As it bared its teeth, another low growl rumbled from the back of its throat.

  Holy hell, its teeth looked sharp as knives.

  Crap, crap, crap!

  “Easy.” She froze against the kitchen counter. She was fine against anything the Australian landscape could throw at her—bugs, spiders, snakes—but not a dog. Bad memories started to swirl, like dust kicked up from the ground.

  Don’t stand there—do something!

  Her eyes darted around the kitchen, landing on a frying pan hanging from a hook. She really didn’t like the idea of hitting an animal, but if it tried to bite her, she would have to defend herself. She reached out, but the dog took a step forward and gave a sharp warning bark.

  Angie flinched, her heart hammering against her rib cage. How the hell had it gotten inside the house? She was sure she’d closed the front door behind her.

  “Be calm,” she murmured under her breath. “Don’t let it know you’re scared.”

  “Terrified” was more accurate. All she could focus on was the way the dog’s eyes were locked onto her. Like it was hungry and she was a big, tasty bag of bones.

  Think, dammit. What would the Dog Whisperer do?

  Chapter Three

  Jace blinked, wincing as the harsh sunlight blinded his sleep-sensitive eyes. Throwing an arm over his face, he groped for his sunglass
es with his free hand. It took him a moment to find them still perched on his head. He’d only intended to come outside for a short while, long enough to brush the cobwebs from his mind.

  Last night, he hadn’t gotten his requisite eight hours of sleep. Not even close. Truffle had cried until two in the morning—presumably disoriented and missing Eugenie—forcing Jace to break his rule about preserving the sanctity of his bedroom. He kept Tilly in the lounge, where she snored like an old man, and brought the Chihuahua into his room. Despite giving the dog a stern warning, he woke up some hours later with a dog butt in his face.

  Unable to break habit, Jace was still at the Sorrento Back Beach by seven a.m. for his morning surf. And he still had his standard breakfast when he got home. Routine was routine, after all, and a crappy night’s sleep wasn’t going to derail his plans. That was, until he’d come outside to think about the latest strip he was working on and had promptly fallen asleep on a lounge chair.

  Shaking his head, he sat up. Something was missing—one big black furry source and one little white furry source of his sleep deprivation. There was no movement in the yard. Only the barest hint of leaves rustling as a breeze swept through.

  “Tilly?” The dogs were possibly off exploring the huge yard that stretched out behind his house, which thankfully was fenced on all sides. “Truffle!”

  There was plenty for a dog to discover around here—lots of wildlife, like rosellas, frogs, cockatoos, and galahs. Maybe the odd possum, though probably not this early in the afternoon. Hopefully they hadn’t wandered across a snake.

  He couldn’t let anything happen to the dogs—as much as he’d woken up this morning cursing his mother for tricking him, a promise was a promise. No matter how much he was coerced into it.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he got up and strode into the house. “If you come out now, I’ll give you extra food.”

  Nothing.