Chapter 9

As Roy made final preparations the next morning for the weekend in Methven with Sonia, his mind spun with the whirlwind of the past fortnight. A fortnight? It felt like a lifetime.

The scheme—his mother’s and Anne’s scheme, if he was honest—to advertise for a wife. The twenty-seven women who’d actually shown up. The confrontation with Sonia Street and her ChTV camera crew. The unexpected alliance with that same reporter to take on the boy racer menace. The media storm that followed, painting him as some sort of local hero. And now, this—packing a bag for a weekend away with her.

“Before this all started,” he muttered, stuffing socks into the side pocket of his suitcase, “if you’d asked me to write a script for what might happen in the next month—I couldn’t have imagined this in my wildest dreams.”

He paused, staring at the shirt in his hands. “Will this weekend bring any clarity?” He shrugged and zipped the case. Whatever the weekend held, he hoped it would bring a little peace. Maybe even a glimpse of what came next.

Celia accompanied Sonia to the front door with a cautious smile and her best hostess air, but her eyes betrayed her unease.

“You’re off then?”

“Yes,” said Sonia, adjusting the strap of her overnight bag. “Just the weekend. We’re going to take things slowly.”

Celia gave a small, unreadable nod. “It’s a lovely time of year to be up there. Not too cold, not too crowded.”

Sonia smiled politely, but Celia wasn’t finished. “Just ... be kind to him, would you? He’s not always quick to show what’s going on in that head of his. But he’s got a good heart.”

“I know,” Sonia said quietly.

That gave Celia pause. In truth, she still didn’t know what to make of Sonia. The woman had rubbed her the wrong way from the moment she stormed into Roy’s life with cameras and a soundbite. Celia had seen her as brash, calculating, determined to get her own way no matter the cost. But over the past week, as they’d shared a roof, something softer had come through—moments when Sonia had dropped the persona and become surprisingly attentive, even self-deprecating. Celia wasn’t entirely sure she trusted it yet, but she’d begun to suspect that the TV armour didn’t tell the full story.

And now, this trip. Was it a romantic getaway? Was it journalistic curiosity? Or something else altogether?

Truth was, Celia had quietly hoped Roy might one day realise what a treasure he had in Anne. That calm competence, that steady loyalty. And yet, if Anne had feelings for him, she’d hidden them well. For his part, Roy had always kept things strictly professional, despite his deep reliance on her.

At least he’d had the good sense to take Anne’s advice seriously of late. That boded well for the business—and maybe, just maybe, for keeping Anne on board.

Outside, Roy honked the horn. Sonia gave Celia a small wave and slipped down the path to the car.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He offered her the keys. “You want to drive?”

Sonia raised an eyebrow. “What, are you too famous now to get behind the wheel?”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind a chance to unwind and watch the scenery go by.”

She took the keys with a half-smile. “Your chariot awaits.”

They drove southwest out of Christchurch, the roads growing quieter as the city gave way to the flat plains of mid-Canterbury. Autumn had painted the landscape in soft golds and greens, the paddocks dotted with sheep and the occasional curious cow. Before long, the foothills of the Southern Alps began to rise gently ahead of them. The conversation was companionable but light, skipping over recent events without probing too deeply.

“So what exactly was going through your head when you stood in front of that boy racer’s bonnet?” Sonia asked at one point, stealing a glance at him.

Roy grinned faintly. “I was thinking, ‘If I get through this without getting flattened, I’m going to have words with my mother.’”

She laughed. “Your mum’s got a lot to answer for.”

“She usually does.”

They reached Methven just before noon. The town was quiet—sleepy even—nestled beneath the shadow of Mt Hutt, its snow-dusted peak climbing abruptly from the plains. Having done some online research, Roy suggested Café Primo e Secundo for lunch. Known for its quirky style, Café Primo looked like a garage sale that had discovered it was also a café. Every chair was different. The tables had once lived other lives—as workbenches, sewing tables, school desks. Everything, from the paintings on the wall to the sugar bowl, had a price tag.

“I love this,” Sonia said, looking around. “It’s like someone opened a junk shop and decided it needed coffee.”

“And here I was worried you’d turn your nose up at anything below four stars.”

She shot him a look. “Do I seem that shallow?”

Roy held up both hands. “No, no. Just ... polished.”

“Well,” she said, lifting a menu, “prepare to be dazzled by my love of quirky eggs benedict.”

After lunch, they drove a short distance out of town to Awa Awa Rata Reserve. Though the famous rhododendrons were still a season away from bloom, the rolling lawns and forest margins offered peaceful trails and quiet conversation. Without either of them quite noticing, their hands found each other’s. Not tightly. Just enough.