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Would consider kissing!
‘I said are you ready?’
His voice pierced the tumble of confusion in her head.
But it didn’t clear the mess enough for her to speak.
She made do with a nod—bang onto his helmet—and closed her eyes because she knew he’d be laughing at her.
‘Lifting now,’ she heard Mark say, and kept her eyes closed because she really didn’t like to look down—or even up—and for this lift she didn’t have to, as Marty was in charge.
They reached the skids and Mark and Marty helped her in. Her head cleared and she hoped she wasn’t blushing at the thoughts she’d had. Marty hadn’t chosen her to lift, but was simply getting all the crew back on board. The winch wire and harness were already going back down for Dave, and peering out cautiously Emma realised Shane was back in his vehicle, bouncing his way across the fields towards the homestead.
Yet some wilful thread of disappointment wound its way into Emma’s brain—Marty hadn’t chosen her.
And why should he have?
No answer, any more than there was to the even more personal question of whether he’d felt what she’d felt, clipped so close their bodies had been touching.
Had the sudden warmth of her body transmitted itself to his?
Or had it been his that had warmed hers…?
* * *
Had he chosen Emma to lift for personal reasons?
Definitely not, he told himself as he settled back into his seat, quite happy for Matt to fly them home, as he really needed to think.
It had been a mistake, of course. He’d known that the instant he’d tightened the strop around her. Given their situations, and the weird sensations he was experiencing in her vicinity, clipping her up against his body was the last thing he’d needed. It was feeling her softness despite all the harnesses and flying suits. It was catching the woman-scent of her, and seeing the clear, pale skin on her cheeks colouring slightly—with embarrassment?—and the dark, slightly curling lashes that framed her eyes.
He knew women, by some mysterious process, did curl their lashes, but he rather doubted, with the boys to be got up and fed before she’d left for the exercise, she’d have had time to curl her lashes this morning.
If she ever did.
Somehow he thought of Emma as a ‘take me as you see me’ kind of woman, rather than the eyelash-curling type—
But what did he know?
She was as much a mystery to him as she had been when he’d first met her.
Oh, he knew bits of her story, knew she was a loving mother to her boys, knew how much she relied on her father. Apart from that, he suspected she felt guilty about her reliance on her father, and would like to free him up in some way.
But would her father move on—and out—and leave her to cope on her own?
He doubted it.
‘We’re home, flyboy!’ Dave said. ‘Can’t take the early morning start, eh?’
The rest of the crew were already climbing out, Emma in the lead and almost at the equipment shed.
He smiled to himself.
She’d want to get out of the flying suit as quickly as possible, given how much it embarrassed her. Another little insight into this woman who, for some reason, was occupying far too much of his thinking time.
And would be occupying even more of it over lunch…
‘I’ll see you at Carrie’s,’ he said, as she left the shed he was entering.
She gave him such a startled look he had to add, ‘You are coming, aren’t you? Carrie was furious when I told her about the winch practice and I had to promise her I’d have you back in time for lunch.’
She frowned at him.
‘You’re going to Carrie’s for lunch too?’ she demanded, sounding so put out he had to smile.
‘Well, she is my sister,’ he reminded her, causing the frown to turn into a scowl as she hurried away from him.
* * *
He was right, of course. Carrie was his sister, and he possibly had lunch with her every Sunday, but right now she wished he wasn’t going. Or, failing that, that she could somehow cry off.
But she could hardly not go—it would be rude. When he turned up Carrie would know the exercise was over. Besides which, she really wanted to go, mainly so she could play with the boys and let her father catch up with his old friend.
She drove home in a daze, her mind once again such a mish-mash of thoughts it was impossible to untangle them.
Her father, the boys, a ball-kicking man, Marty—no, Marty definitely didn’t fit into the slot—Carrie and her father, and what to wear to lunch, though why she was worrying about that minor detail when the rest of her life was so unsettled she had no idea.
Jeans and a top—there, that was one worry gone. She had that nice blue top she’d bought before leaving Sydney—perhaps not with jeans but her white slacks. White slacks when she’d be out with the boys? No, definitely jeans—
