Page 77 of Where the Wattles Bloom

‘Yeah.’ He loaded a bright red plastic picnic plate with one of the six double sandwiches Reggie had packed—in case they ran into an army, perhaps?—and placed it in her lap before plating his own. ‘I used to camp out here when I was a teenager.’

‘By yourself?’

Lachlan shook his head. ‘No. With mates from school. They all came from properties too, and we’d drive out Friday afternoon with a carton of beer, a supply of food and a loaded boom box, and just eat and drink and swim and lie about how many girls we’d kissed.’

She laughed. ‘Oh yeah?’ Meeting his gaze, she quirked an eyebrow. ‘And what was your tally?’

He grinned. ‘That depended on how many beers I’d had.’

She laughed again. ‘Did you bring any girls out here?’

Lachlan feigned a look of moral outrage, enjoying their light, easy conversation. ‘I’ll have you know, I wasn’t that kind of guy.’

Holding his gaze, she said, ‘They all said no, huh?’

He sighed. ‘Yep.’

‘And if one had said yes? What would you have done?’

‘You mean after I’d picked my jaw up off the ground and changed my pants?’

More laughter. ‘Yes.’

‘I’d have broken the land speed record getting her out here.’

‘Right?’ She looked out over the vista. ‘It’s a perfect place for a seduction. Pretty and secluded. Very private. Stargazing at night, skinny dipping during—’

She cut off abruptly, as if she’d remembered who she was with and their history together. ‘I mean.’ She glanced at him, clearly alarmed that he might have taken it the wrong way. ‘I didn’t mean … That wasn’t a—’

‘Ro,’ he cut in, chuckling at the mild expression of panic on her face, while trying not to be insulted by how alarming she found the idea of them getting it on out here. ‘Take a breath. It’s all good. I know what you meant.’

‘Oh god, I’m sorry. I guess I just got swept up in the … romantic ambience.’

‘It’s fine,’ he assured.

She bit into her sandwich, leaving him to contemplate the ambience. It was romantic, he supposed, but not in the way a claw-foot tub and twinkle lights were. That was manufactured.

This was pure, unadorned and wild.

‘I’ve never brought a girl out here, actually.’

Caught mid-chew, Rowena glanced sideways at him, her scrutiny hot on his face. She swallowed then asked, her voice tentative, ‘Not even Gabby?’

‘Nope.’ Lachlan shook his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the other side of the billabong. ‘She didn’t like being bounced about in the ute. And it was high summer when she was here—she didn’t like being out in the heat. She wasn’t a fan of sweat. Hers or mine.’

‘That’s a … bit of an occupational hazard for you.’

‘Yup.’

Gabby had always squirmed away whenever he’d gone in for a hello kiss after a long sweaty day, demanding he shower first. Not because he’d stunk—he’d always kept deodorant in his glove box—but because sweat was so biological and that kind of thing grossed her out.

Also, to be fair to her, she’d married a cop. Who investigated traffic accidents. Which could be hot, hard work out on a road somewhere or at a worksite during the initial investigative process, but mostly involved desk work in air-conditioned offices.

He’d rarely sweated.

Sweat hadn’t been part of their city life, and it wasn’t Gabby’s fault that he’d—literally—changed the landscape on her. She could have refused to come to Blairgowrie full stop. But she hadn’t. She had tried to make their marriage work.

They lapsed into silence as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon. The soft afternoon light evaporated like ether from between the tree trunks, replaced with the first breath of cool night air.