Salep and Ginger

A Prologue… Of Sorts

I had never really been in love, or even in a serious relationship, for that matter. Still, I remained a hopeless romantic, spending hours daydreaming about the moment when I would finally meet my one true love.

The leading lady of my very own romantic comedies, me and my dream man would both reach for the last pair of pyjamas, or maybe I would break the heel of my Gucci shoe while sauntering down a Manhattan street. All the packages I was holding would fly into the air as my arms flailed and I teetered to the side on my way to slamming into the concrete below, but then strong arms would catch me. Our skin would meet as his grip tightened around my waist and an electric pulse would race through my body even before I looked up into his aqua-blue eyes.

In my fantasies, all senses were heightened. Smells were sweet and potent, sound was laced with a tinkling of crystal, and sight... oh, sight... I would drink in every glittering drop of his sparkling eyes and luscious blonde hair and my breath would hitch as I stared at his pillowy, pink lips. The corner of his mouth would turn up, deepening the dimple in his cheek as he smiled a crooked smile down at me. Then, he would open his mouth. “Hello.” That’s all it took for my pulse to beat wildly and adrenaline to rush through my veins releasing satisfying endorphins into my blood stream.

Inevitably, the phone would ring or a horn outside would blare, or something equally jarring would rip me from my rom-com leading man. Cold emptiness would replace the space he had filled only moments before and the fantasy would be over. Until next time...

In reality, I didn’t actually own a pair of Gucci’s, and had honestly never sauntered down any street, let alone in Manhattan. I didn’t care though because my daydreams always produced the perfect meet-cute, and they were… electric.

By the time I reached my late 20’s my idea of finding true love had become somewhat jaded. I mean, it really should have happened by now, shouldn’t it? I dated. A lot. Some nice guys, and a few not so nice, but sadly, none turned out to be the one. And then, when I had just about given up, I finally got to have my very own meet-cute moment, and to quote a rather famous rom-com, he “had me at hello.” Until he didn’t.

Let me explain.

Chapter One

Cue Dramatic Flashback

It was New Year’s Eve, and all I wanted to do was order a pizza and curl up on the sofa with a glass of wine, well, alright, let’s call it what it is, a bottle of wine (pfft who was I kidding really), and see in the new year with Mr. Hugh John Mungo Grant tripping awkwardly across my television screen.

And before we go any further, don’t think me some kind of dolt for my love of the romantic comedy genre. After a long day, I don’t want to come home and watch Bruce Willis beat the bollocks out of someone and Oh my God have you switched on the news lately? No, thank you.

I want to lie on my sofa and watch a foppish Englishman fumble his way around London in the pursuit of love, or maybe a slick sports agent begin his life again and learn how to love with the help of a cute kid and Bridget Jones (before she was Bridget Jones, that is). I want to see a light-hearted romance all neatly packaged into ninety minutes and know that when the credits roll at the end of the film there is a happily ever after.

But getting back to the story at hand.

New Year’s Eve is that one night that always seemed to end up being a total disaster, full of vomit, tears, and regret — and that was just me! So, no thank you! I’d much prefer to stay home with my dapper Englishman and a pizza.

My best friend, Tash, knew full well my aversion to any New Year’s Eve shenanigans and usually left me alone, but that particular New Year’s Eve she had other things in mind.

She had spent an hour trying to convince me that all my disappointments of that past year, or should I say, the past twenty-seven years up to that point, as well as all my embarrassing moments, dead plants, burnt dinners, and regrettable encounters, could be cast aside, and I would go forth into a fabulous new phase of my life, if I only attended this one party. According to her, if I made an appearance, all my worries would be over, and at the stroke of midnight, I would magically be transformed into a new me, lose ten kilograms, win the lottery, and meet my dream guy. All in one fantastic evening!

Of course Tash would have this new and bright outlook on life. After telling me how wonderful my life “could” be if I just did this or that, she dropped the best friend bomb. She had met the Man Of Her Dreams — in capitals no less — and said “MOHD” was having a party. Message received. She needed her BFF (sorry for all the acronyms!) by her side for support because supposedly, all his friends were pretentious wankers. She made me promise to come. And I did love her to death. So yeah, I was going to that party whether I wanted to or not. Tash knew she’d owe me big time for this one!

I looked down at my rumpled cotton shirt and sweatpants. My Fairy Godmother was going to need one hell of a powerful wand to spruce me up so I could ring in the New Year right. Ugh! I dragged myself off the sofa to get to work.

And that’s how I found myself, along with tens of thousands of others, all making our way harbourside to watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks. Sydney was famous for its fireworks, but I would still have preferred to watch them from the comfort of my sofa, rather than dealing with the crowds converging on Sydney Harbour.

I finally found MOHD’s building and rolled my eyes at the throbbing music that was blasting topside. I was tempted, so very tempted, to hail a taxi right then and disappear into the night, but I didn't, mainly because it would be impossible to find a taxi, but also because I had made a promise to Tash. I would do just about anything for her, including drag my ass across Sydney on New Year’s Eve.

In the polished metal of the lift doors before me, I took the time to take a little inventory while it slowly made its way to ground level. Even though I threw my look together at the last minute, I looked pretty damn good, despite the swishy bits around my middle.

I channelled a young Jennifer Lopez in skin-tight jeans, a black cami and some chunky jewellery, and I was so very proud of myself for not tripping once, yet, in my new pair of fabulous spiked heels. The cami did the job it was designed for, and drew attention to my best assets, my boobs. Definitely more than a handful, my girls always got their fair share of attention when they were out for the night; meanwhile the jeans gave my butt the lift that it desperately needed. Bonus my corkscrew curls and olive skin, courtesy of my Sicilian grandmother, had actually played nice tonight. No humidified frizz to my usually unruly hair and not a pimple to be found. I checked my teeth, pushed a stray curl back behind my ear, and fixed a smile at my reflection. Go, Ginger, go!

When the lift doors finally opened, a perfectly-proportioned couple appeared before me, wrapped amorously in each other's arms. Only the woman pulled away to check and see who the new addition was to their joy ride. She gave me a quick once-over, smirked and returned to swapping spit with her man, no doubt miffed that they had to share their next precious minutes travelling to the top floor with some nobody like me. Next to them I suddenly felt distinctly frumpy in my jeans and cami. I tried not to look like I cared as much as I did.

And that’s why I should have stayed home with Hugh! Seriously! I would’ve rather thrown myself into a shark-infested ocean than have stepped into the lift with those two, but I did, because, well, Tash needed me.

I went to press the floor number and realised the couple had pressed every single button! All thirty-four freaking floors!

“Really? You couldn’t just get a room, you have to use the public lift as your sexcapade venue?”

The guy lifted his eyes to mine while he kept right on snogging his date and didn’t even flinch when I made a gagging sound. Disgusting. But was it, or was I jealous? They were both supermodel gorgeous. I guess I’d bang in a lift too if I looked like either of them.

We began to ascend to the penthouse, his hand snaked down over her ass and disappeared under her impossibly form-fitting minidress. He hitched her leg up around his hip and while he spun them, I caught a glimpse of his raging hard-on. Not even his skin-tight leather pants could conceal it. Floor after floor, the supermodels panted and moaned as they dry-humped beside me. I did my best to pretend I was fixing my hair in the refliction of the polished meatal wall, unaffected by them, when really I was fifty-percent mortified and fifty-percent, shall I admit it, turned on.

Ugh — awkward situations. Somehow, I always found myself in awkward situations.

In my head, I did multiplication tables (you know, 1 x 1, 1 x 2) to take my mind off the live sex show happening beside me. By the time we reached the penthouse, I was at 6 x 4 and had unwittingly experienced my first threesome, even though officially I wasn’t part of the “some.”

Finally, the doors opened to reveal MOHD’s penthouse apartment in all its ostentatious glory. My threesome buddies stepped out into the vacuous entry and were immediately welcomed by more beautiful people, while I stepped out — and was promptly ignored, this time by an entire room of people. Invisible. That was me. Too common and too normal to even be noticed, except for when I was having a bad hair day, but then I was noticed for the wroooong reason.

I scanned the crowded room for my bestie who was nowhere to be seen. Bugger! Spotting the nearest waiter I grabbed a glass of Prosecco and chugged half of its contents in one mouthful. Liquid courage.

Handing back my glass I wandered out onto the terrace. Wow! The view was pretty spectacular. From the Opera House and Botanical Gardens to the Sydney Harbour Bridge and North Shore beyond, most of the city was lit up and ready to celebrate the new year. There were hundreds of boats on the water, and tens of thousands of Sydney-siders on the foreshore, all jostling for the best vantage point of the fireworks at midnight.

Around me the terrace was jam-packed with groups of people dancing, including my threesome buddies whom, despite still having the slight blush of afterglow about them, had resumed dry-humping against each other, but now they were doing it in time with the deafening music. I still hadn’t found Tash, and it was at that moment that I realised I had no idea what MOHD looked like or even his name for that matter, so I found a seat and pretended to check all my critically essential messages on my mobile. Of which, I had none. Naturally.

I guzzled down the rest of my drink and messaged Tash. I told her I had come, then left, and I crossed my fingers that I would find a taxi or even a bus, in the hope that I would make it home before midnight.

Then I saw him.

Any thoughts of leaving the party vanished. He was stunning. Of course he was stunning. He was a Chris Hemsworth clone, all blonde hair and chiselled jawline. Yep, this was one gorgeous specimen of a man, and it wasn't just me who thought so, as half the room was watching him as well. By the amusement in his eyes, and his puffed out chest, he damn well knew it too. For a moment, I wondered if this was Tash’s MOHD. If he was, then Tash was the luckiest fucking girl in the world.

Hot Chris Hemsworth clone sipped on his beer, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to have his lips on me rather than on that lucky, lucky bottle of Heineken. I sat back and watched girls circle around Thor, like lions stalking their prey. He smiled at one or two, but you could tell his focus wasn’t on them at all. His eyes scanned the crowd searching for that elusive someone. I looked around, wondering who it would be, secretly wishing it was me, when suddenly, his piercing, blue eyes locked with my hazel, but sometimes green depending on my mood, eyes. Wait! Me? Why was he looking at me?

My cheeks turned blazing hot, and my heart literally stopped as we stared at each other from across the room. And then, I forced myself to do the most un-Ginger Knox thing imaginable. I smiled at him. He grinned back at me, cocked his head to the side, and raised the beer in his hand. I nodded, so he grabbed another bottle and, still grinning, crossed the room toward me. And the closer he got, the better he looked.

I was instantly the recipient of nasty girl-glares from half the women in the room, but who cared when the corner of his mouth tipped up into a broad grin. A grin meant for me. His white t-shirt clung to his broad shoulders perfectly and his blue jeans sat below his hips at just the right angle, hugging, what was no doubt, a great ass. He moved through the crowd, dodging people who tried in vain to get his attention until he was standing right in front of me. He handed me the beer and our fingers touched. It wasn’t electric, not like in my rom-com styled fantasies, anyway. It was something else. It was as though we were destined to meet each other and, at that moment, I mentally thanked Tash for guilting me into being there, in that room, at that moment.

Neither of us spoke. We just stared at each other, both of us holding onto that bottle of beer, grinning stupidly.

And then, reminiscent of that wretched move (but doing it so much better than Tom Cruise), he bent down and whispered into my ear, his hot breath on my neck sending a shiver down my body.

“Hello.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but before any sound came out, he pulled me out of my seat and crushed his mouth down on mine. Mother of all holiness, Thor was kissing me.

And although I would usually never do anything this bonkers, in public no less, I lifted my arms around his neck just as his tongue met mine. The kiss was demanding and his tongue plundered my mouth. He pulled his mouth away from mine with a loud smack and moved his lips to my neck, then my cheek before finally slipping his tongue in my ear. My lady bits swelled with a hot flush, and I wondered whether I might get to see Thor’s hammer before the night was over.

This doesn’t ever actually happen in real life, does it?

“I was looking for you.” His whisper tickled the hairs on my neck.

I sighed. “Kiss me again, Guy I Don’t Know.”

Could this be my very own meet-cute of my very own romantic comedy?

He pulled away to look down at me but didn’t release me from his arms. “Maybe I should introduce myself then. Hi. I’m Henry, Henry Hennessy.”

My brain chose that moment to shut down, and all I could do was stare up at Henry / Thor / Chris Hemsworth clone, and wait for it to re-boot. You see, I’m not the girl who would typically ever kiss a complete stranger. In fact, I’m usually so awkward around the opposite sex that I have been known to stumble into walls and trip over air when trying to make my escape. I’m also uncomfortable around new people, which often impedes my brain from turning thoughts into actual words, like right now.

He stared down at me with the strangest look on his face. I mean, he was still stunning, but he also looked a little apprehensive, undoubtedly wondering if he had chosen a bunny boiler.

Reboot completed, I cleared my throat and found my voice. “I’m Ginger.”

“Nice to meet you, Ginger. I’m going to kiss you again, now.”

And he did. And it was amazing.

Henry swept me off my feet. Literally. He wrapped me in his arms and whisked me out of the party. We spent that first night together wandering around Sydney Harbour, talking about anything and everything, laughing at the drunken antics of New Year’s Eve revellers around us. By dawn, I was well on the way to being head over heels in love with my Nordic god.

And whoever said that they hated New Year’s Eve (aka me), well, they just didn’t know what the hell they were talking about because it’s actually the best night of the whole freaking year!