Chapter 8: Factory Floor Claiming
The factory air, thick with the scent of warm paper and sharp ink, crackled as Zara walked in. Her denim shorts were sinfully short, the frayed hem brushing her thighs, and her grey tank top dipped low, showcasing soft curves the dim fluorescent lights seemed eager to highlight. She spotted Liam by a silent Heidelberg press, his back to her, and a slow grin spread across her face.
“Hey, baby,” she called out, her voice cutting through the mechanical hum.
He turned, and before he could speak, she closed the distance and kissed him deeply. Her hands slid into his hair, pulling him close, and for a moment the entire factory floor seemed to hold its breath. A low whistle pierced the air, followed by a chorus of approving chuckles.
Liam pulled back, his ears flushed pink, but his hands stayed firm on her hips. “You’re a menace,” he murmured, only for her to hear.
“O’Connell! Didn’t get the memo it was ‘Bring Your Hot Girlfriend to Work’ day,” boomed Mark from the bindery station, wiping his hands on a rag. Zara turned, her arm looping possessively around Liam’s waist, and gave Mark a bright, unflinching smile.
“I’m the surprise bonus,” she said, her tone easy and confident. “Improves morale, right?”
“Hell, it improves my view,” Mark laughed, and the other guys nearby joined in. Liam shook his head, but a small, proud smile touched his lips as he looked at Zara. She leaned into him, her body a warm line against his side.
“Don’t get used to it,” Liam said to the room, his voice carrying a new, quiet authority. “She’s a limited-time attraction.”
“Better make the most of it then,” Zara teased, looking up at him, her brown eyes sparkling. The rumble of a starting press drowned out further commentary, and Liam gently steered her towards the relative quiet of the loading bay. His thumb stroked the bare skin just above her shorts, a silent, intimate counterpoint to the very public display.
His thumb stroked the bare skin just above her shorts, a silent, intimate counterpoint to the very public display. The loading bay was quieter, shadowed by tall stacks of palleted paper. She pressed him back against a metal shelving unit, the cold seeping through his thin shirt.
“Baby, are you nervous?” she whispered, her lips already brushing his again, tasting of mint and a faint trace of her morning coffee. Her hands framed his face, holding him there.
He gently broke the kiss, his voice low. “They’re still watching, Zara. We can do this later.”
“No,” she murmured, her mouth finding the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, then his neck. He let out a soft, stifled sound as her teeth grazed his pulse point. She kissed him deeply again, her body arching into his until he forgot where they were.
When she finally pulled back, her breathing was uneven. “I came because I’m going away for a few days,” she said, her forehead resting against his. “I won’t see you.”
He went very still, the noise of the factory fading into a distant hum. “Away?”
She kept her forehead pressed to his, absorbing the sudden stiffness in his shoulders. “My best friend’s getting married,” she said softly. “Back home in Australia. The flight’s this weekend.”
She pulled back just enough to see his eyes, warm brown now clouded with something unreadable. “I wanted to tell you in person,” she continued, her voice a gentle murmur against the factory’s distant thrum. A piece of her hair, damp from the humid air, stuck to his shirt. “You can come if you want, baby,” she asks, the invitation hanging in the air between them like a held breath.
He stared at her, the ink-dark press they were leaning against humming as the earlier possessiveness curdled into a different kind of tension. "Come to the wedding?"
"It's only a three-hour flight, from Auckland to Brisbane," she pressed, her fingers tightening slightly on his waist, sensing the recoil even before he spoke. "I booked it months ago, before... before this," she whispered, her gesture indicating the space around them, the loaded air, the whole fragile, seismic shift of 'boyfriend.'
"I can’t just get on a plane, Zara." His words came out flat, a reflex.
"You absolutely can," she laughed, but the sound was sharp, laced with a sudden, vulnerable edge. "I'm asking."
His mind spun through the logistics, a dull roar of work schedules and airport queues and unfamiliar people in a hot, distant city. "It's your friend's wedding," he said, his voice hollow in the cavernous bay. "I'd be a ghost there."
"You'd be my date," she corrected, her expression hardening. "You are my boyfriend. Or did that evaporate somewhere between the sofa and your press?"
"You know it didn’t." He reached for her hand, but she shifted back, just a centimeter, a chasm.
"Is this about the cost? Or just pure Liam O'Connell stubbornness?" The question wasn't light-hearted anymore; it was a needle, probing a deep-seated bruise she could feel but not see.
"It's about walking into a room full of your whole past," he said finally, the admission raw, "and everyone knowing I'm the old guy you picked up from a printing factory." The words tasted bitter, like over-steeped tea and fear.
"The 'guy I picked up'?" she echoed, stepping back. Her tank top felt cheap now, the entire visit a miscalculation. "You really think that's all this is to them?To me?"
He didn't answer. He watched her process the rejection, the excited light in her brown eyes guttering out. She pulled her arm from around his waist, the physical severance a small, painful punctuation.
"Of course you don't want to come," she said, more to herself than him.
The silence stretched, filled only by the factory’s tired mechanical sigh. "Just text me while you’re gone, then," he said, the sentence landing like a shrugged apology. She looked at him then, a real look that took in his ink-stained hands, the guarded set of his shoulders.
All the heat from their earlier kiss had solidified into a cold, hard lump in her stomach. This was the same wall from the rainy night on her steps, just repainted for a brighter setting.
"Okay," she said, her voice flat and devoid of its earlier melody. A loose thread on her shorts suddenly seemed fascinating. She turned on the heel of her sneaker, the rubber squeaking faintly against the concrete floor. "I'll see you later."
She didn’t kiss him. She didn’t touch him. She just walked out, the sway of her hips now a quiet dismissal, not an invitation. Liam watched the empty space where she'd been, the lingering scent of her perfume now clashing with the sharp chemical ink.
"You two have a lover's tiff, son?" Mark’s voice was closer now, deliberately casual as he walked over, adjusting a pallet jack. Another pressman, Dave, a man in his fifties with a faded tattoo on his forearm, leaned against a stack of paper, watching.
Liam ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath that was mostly shaky frustration. "Something like that," he muttered, grabbing a shipping manifest just to have something to hold.
"What'd you do?" Dave asked, not unkindly, his gaze flicking to the door Zara had vanished through.
"She asked me to go to a wedding in Australia." Liam stared at the printed grid of numbers on the page, not seeing them. "Her best friend's."
Mark whistled low, a sound of genuine sympathy. "Big ask. Lot of pressure on a new thing." He paused. "But the way that girl kissed you… That wasn't nothing, mate."
Liam finally looked up from the useless paper. "I told her I couldn't. Wouldn't." He winced at his own words now, hearing them in the open air of the factory floor. They felt small, cowardly.
Dave pushed off the paper stack. “Can’t or wouldn’t? There’s a difference.” The question hung in the chemically-scented air. Mark nodded slowly, his earlier teasing replaced by a pragmatic look.
“Look, my Cheryl’s sister got married in Christchurch last year,” Mark said, folding his arms. “Two-hour drive. I complained the whole bloody way.” He paused, watching Liam’s face. “But I went. Because you show up. That’s what it is.”
“She asked in person,” Dave noted quietly, his eyes sharp. “Wore that tiny outfit, marched right in here." He let that observation settle between them. "That’s a statement, not just an invitation.”
Liam stared at the grease-stained concrete, hearing the truth in their plain words. They weren’t teasing him now; they were reading the situation with a clarity he’d avoided. “I’m twenty years older than her,” he said, the old fear laid bare before these men who knew his daily life.
“So?” Mark shrugged, a single, dismissive gesture. “She clearly doesn’t care. The only one making it a problem is you, mate.” The rumble of a starting press vibrated up through their boots. Dave clapped a heavy hand on Liam’s shoulder, the grip firm.
“Don’t be the ghost she said you’d be,” Dave said, echoing Zara’s painful phrase from minutes before. He gave Liam’s shoulder a slight shake. “Be the guy she kissed like that for.” The men exchanged a look and turned back to their machines, leaving him alone with the echo.
The cold metal of the shelving unit seeped through his shirt as he slumped against it. He pulled his phone from his pocket, its screen smudged with factory grit. His thumb hovered, then he opened his search browser, the bright screen alien in the gloomy bay.
He typed in the flight details she’d mentioned. Auckland to Brisbane. The departure times loaded, a grid of cold possibilities. His pulse, a slow, heavy drum in his ears, quickened just looking at them.
His pulse, a slow, heavy drum in his ears, quickened just looking at them. The reality of the flights, the times, the prices made the idea abruptly solid. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, its facts a hot secret against his thigh, and finished his shift in a strange, buzzing silence.
Later, on his couch surrounded by that familiar quiet, he picked up the phone. The line rang four times.
“You’re calling.” Her voice was flat, guarded.
“Can you come over?” he asked, the words coming out in a rush. “I want to talk in person.”
She arrived wearing his old grey fleece now, draped over her, and soft-looking sweatpants, her hair in a messy bun. He pulled her inside, his hands gripping the worn fabric at her shoulders. “Okay,” he breathed, closing the door.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said, the words rough against the quiet of the hallway. The grey fleeze smelled of her laundry powder and his apartment, a comforting amalgamation.
“Hi, baby,” she answered, her voice muffled against his chest as she leaned into him. They stood like that for a long moment, the factory’s energy replaced by a fragile, shared stillness.
“You hungry?” He finally pulled back, his hands finding her jawline, his thumbs brushing the soft skin beneath her tired eyes. The rehearsed explanation for her visit dissolved.
She shook her head, her curls brushing his fingers. “Not really.”
Her gaze was searching, wary. “You said you wanted to talk.”
She remained standing, arms crossed over the fleece, anchoring herself. “Okay,” she breathed. “Talk.”
He saw the shimmer in her eyes, the expectation of another gentle letdown, and it shattered something inside him. “I don’t want to be the ghost, Zara.” Her name broke softly in the space between them. “I want to be your date.”
A tear escaped, tracing a hot line down her cheek which she swiped at angrily. “You don’t have to say that just because I freaked out and stormed off.”
“I looked up the flights on my phone when you left.” The admission hung there, stark and simple. He took a steadying breath. “If you still want me to, I’ll come. My passport’s current.” He watched her expression fracture into cautious, disbelieving hope. “Do you know your flight number, baby? The exact time? I can try to get on the same plane.”
She stared, her lips parted slightly, as if tasting the promise for any hint of a lie. “Qantas 124,” she finally whispered. “It leaves Saturday at 1:15 in the afternoon.”
He nodded, committing it to memory as if it were a vital coordinate. “Tell me about your friend who’s getting married,” he said, moving closer. “Her name.”
“Chloe,” Zara said, her voice gaining strength. “You’ll meet her, and Issy, and Bea.” A nervous flicker passed through her expressive eyes. “Are you ready for that? Meeting all my friends at once?”
His hands found the fleece’s pockets, his fingers brushing her hips through the fabric. “They must think I’m some abstract concept,” he murmured.
“No.” Her smile returned, wobbly but genuine. “They know I go over to my boyfriend’s.” She leaned her forehead against his collarbone. “But meeting you… it makes it real.”He lifted her chin with a gentle knuckle. “So they know you’re dating the old bloke from the printing factory?” The humor in his voice was soft, self-deprecating, but it held an edge of worry.
She just smiled, a slow, private thing, and tugged his hand toward the couch. “Come here.” He sat, the old springs groaning, and she settled into his lap, her weight familiar and warm. She brushed a curl from his forehead, her fingers tracing the lines at the corners of his eyes.
“You are very handsome,” she said, her voice low and certain.
He met her gaze, holding it in the quiet room. "Looked it up while Dave was telling me not to be a ghost." A faint, genuine smile touched his lips for the first time since she'd walked out of the factory. "He said to be the guy you kissed like that for."
Her fingers stilled on his face. "He's not wrong." She leaned in, her lips finding his in a slow, deliberate kiss that tasted of reconciliation and mint.
She pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth. "I want to feel hot in a dress with my hot boyfriend at this wedding."
“Hot’s guaranteed,” he said, his voice low and just for her, his hands tightening where they rested. A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant ticking of a kitchen clock. She traced the ink stain on his thumb, a faint blue-black constellation earned at the press. The scheduled shuttle arrived in a gust of diesel exhaust outside her building on Saturday morning, merging them into the impersonal flow of airport bodies. He folded his long frame into the seat beside her, a carry-on backpack at his feet looking almost comically small for the journey ahead. The stark florescent lights of the departure terminal felt strangely exposing, washing over the new, careful intimacy they’d packed between socks and phone chargers. Zara handed the check-in agent two passports, and Liam watched her do it, the simple act making his stomach lurch with a wild, giddy gravity. The flight was a blur of packaged snacks and cloud-banked views, her head eventually finding his shoulder. He didn’t sleep, but the weight of her there anchored him against a rising tide of unfamiliar sounds and projected scenarios. A collective cheer erupted from a huddle of faces just beyond the baggage claim in Brisbane, and Zara’s entire posture shifted. “Z!” shrieked a woman with auburn curls and a wide, brilliant smile, and suddenly Zara was swallowed in a fierce, laughing hug. Two other women closed in, their chatter overlapping in a warm, impenetrable wall of shared history and nicknames and sudden tears. Liam stood a pace back, holding both their bags, feeling like a single, stark tree in a forest that had grown together for decades. He absorbed the detailed map of their friendship—Chloe, the bride-to-be, still clutching Zara; Issy, with sharp, intelligent eyes that flicked to him with curious assessment; Bea, whose gentle smile felt like the first offered handhold. “And you must be Liam,” Chloe finally said, releasing Zara and turning that brilliant, slightly damp smile on him. The words, ordinary and kind, felt like a verdict he was desperate to pass. He managed a nod. “I am. Congratulations.” The welcome felt physical, like stepping into a warm room after the plane’s sterile chill. They were herded towards a people-mover parked illegally, Issy expertly navigating the chaos while Bea asked about the flight. “We’re all crashing at Mum and Dad’s place in Toowong,” Chloe announced, cramming into the backseat beside Zara, their legs overlapping easily. “Full house, sorry in advance.” Zara glanced back at Liam, who was folding himself into the very last seat. “You should know,” she said, her voice dropping into a private, apologetic register meant just for him though everyone could hear, “Chloe’s parents are a bit traditional.” She reached back to squeeze his knee. “They’ve said we can’t share a room. We’ll be in different rooms for the weekend.” The vehicle pulled into the flow of alien traffic. He absorbed this new, concrete parameter, a wall erected in a stranger’s house based on a principle he understood but felt viscerally frustrated by. “Okay,” he said, his voice even, his hand covering hers on his knee for a brief second before letting go.
This pivot was confirmed by the arched look on Issy’s face in the rear-view mirror, a silent, sympathetic good luck. The people-mover wound through Brisbane's verdant suburbs before turning onto a shaded drive.
A neat, two-story brick home with a sprawling fern-filled veranda materialized behind a wrought-iron gate.
Chloe’s parents were already on the porch, her mother a slender woman in a neat linen shift, her father a tall, bald man with watchful eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. “You made it!” her mother called, the warmth in her voice carefully measured as she appraised the group disgorging from the vehicle. Introductions were a polite blur of handshakes, her mother’s grip brisk, her father’s lingering a beat too long on Liam as he processed the age gap writ large in the daylight. “Liam, we’ve put you in the study,” her father said, his tone leaving no room for discussion. "The sofa bed’s made up. Zara, you’re upstairs with the girls in the old sleepout." He offered a tight, perfunctory smile. "House rules."
The air on the porch turned thick and honey-slow. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Reynolds," Liam said, the words formal and strange in his mouth. Zara’s fingers brushed his, a clandestine spark.
Zara’s fingers brushed his, a clandestine spark.
She appeared at the door of the study the next morning while he was still half-awake on the creaking sofa bed. He blinked, the grey morning light framing her. She was wearing a deep emerald dress made of some impossibly soft-looking material that plunged in a dramatic V, the fabric clinging to her hips before falling in a loose cascade. Her dark curls were piled in an artful mess, and her brown eyes were bright with a hint of nervous mischief.
“Well,” she breathed, performing a slow, purposeful turn that made the dress flutter against her thighs. “Will I do?”
He stared, the morning light catching in the intricate waves of her piled-up hair. “You’re very beautiful,” he said, the words leaving him in a soft, stunned rush. He reached out, his fingers barely skimming the emerald silk at her waist, as if touching something sacred.
“How are you doing?” she asked, her voice dropping. Her playful smile faded into something more searching, more real.
He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since they’d arrived. “Honestly? I didn’t sleep much.” His thumb stroked the fabric. “Kept thinking about you being down the hall.”
A softness warmed her eyes. “Me too.” She stepped closer, her perfume cutting through the stale study air. “But we’re here now.” She straightened his collar, her touch deliberate. “Your suit’s on the chair. I already checked it for you.”
He dressed slowly in the quiet room, the wool blend of the suit foreign against his skin. She watched from the doorway, a living portrait in green. “You clean up good, O’Connell,” she whispered, her gaze appreciative and sharp.
“Feel like an imposter,” he muttered, adjusting the unfamiliar cufflinks she’d brought him.
“You’re not.” She crossed the room and fixed his tie, her fingers sure. “You’re my date.” Her knuckles brushed his throat, a secret promise. “Now come on. Chloe’s dad is doing a prayer circle in ten minutes, and we need coffee first.”
The ceremony was held in a sun-drenched botanical garden, the air thick with jasmine and murmured vows. He held her hand throughout, her fingers threading tightly with his as the celebrant spoke. Afterwards, under a canopy of twisting vines strung with lights, she introduced him to aunts and uni friends, her grip never faltering.
“This is Liam,” she’d say, and he’d nod, the word boyfriend hanging unspoken but felt in the press of her side against his. He fetched her drinks, nodded at stories about a university prank involving a kangaroo, and felt the rigid fear in his chest slowly, throughout the afternoon, begin to thaw.