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CHAPTER
10
Joey Miles stood on the hillside below his farm and watched the procession of flashing lights and vehicles inch their way up Shannon Gully Road. Gus was on a tight leash beside him.
That was his future inching its way towards him, his way out of the hole he’d dug for himself. Buying three derelict cottages was a mad plan—maybe even a desperate plan—but he’d analysed the bejeezus out of every nail and plank he’d need and his plan was going to pay off.
It had to.
‘What freaking nutjob told you an oversize flatbed truck could get up this dicky little farm track?’ said Pete O’Connor.
Joey strapped on the poker face he’d used in his old life as a stockbroker before he lost all (well, most) of his dough. ‘It’s fine. I’ve measured everything out.’
‘You’vemeasured? Don’t make me laugh. Did you even pass maths at school?’
He snorted. ‘Mate, I’m pretty sure the only reason you passed maths at school was because you had the hots for Pauline Browlee, and she liked smart guys.’
‘Oh yeah, that could be true. She liked me a lot in Year Twelve. Pity kissing wasn’t on the external exam because I’d have aced it.’
‘Is that right?’ Joey said drily.
Pete grabbed his arm suddenly. ‘Sorry, that was a bit thoughtless of me.’
‘Mate, you and all the other Clarence locals need to stop tiptoeing around my doomed high-school romance.’
Pete snorted. ‘Don’t lump me in with the gossip squad, Joey. I know how to keep my nose out of your business.’
Well, that was a start. Besides, next time romance came Joey’s way he was going to be doing it right: with a plan. Goals. Pie charts.
Maybe he’d work up a spreadsheet for the ideal wife, same way he had for the farmstay, only instead of listing things likeBuy 46 metres of G-profile skirting board, he’d have useful things listed:Won’t shack up with my best mate. He could thank Kim for that one.Won’t make me promise not to love her.Natalie, of course … but she’d had her reasons.
Has her own toolkitwould make a handy prerequisite. So wouldHair the colour of hay balesandFond of watermelon pink underwear.
He scratched at the jawline he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning and pushed those thoughts and the image of the woman he’d found nosing around in his shed to the back of his mind. He gave Pete a light punch in the arm. ‘Don’t let my cousin hear you boasting about kissing Pauline Browlee. Word in the family is he’s got the moochy eyes for her something bad.’
‘Which cousin?’
‘Eric.’
‘Oh yes. Bushranger beard, journalist, runner-up at last year’s muster.’
Joey snorted. ‘Bloody bush poetry. It’s all I hear about these days.’
‘Well, what do you expect, your mother runs it, doesn’t she? My uncle’s up to his neck on the committee this year, as per usual.’
He grinned. ‘How is Merv?’
‘Still plump as a stuffed turkey. Still rescuing cats.’
Pete’s uncle, the drama teacher at the local high school, was one of the more colourful Clarence locals, and as unlike his taciturn nephew as it was possible for a guy to be. ‘He still wearing a bow tie to school? And shorts with long socks?’
Pete narrowed his eyes at him. ‘You’d be able to see for yourself what Merv’s wearing if you ever came into town.’
‘I’ve got a lot to do here.’
‘Seriously? You still clinging to that lame excuse?’
‘I don’t like to leave Gus alone.’ Okay, that sounded totally pathetic.
