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A bit random.
Another widow accosted him with small talk as he was eating his steak, and it had taken all of the salad and half the baked potato to recall she had given animal talks at the school when he was a kid, usually with a ringtail possum or two tucked into her cardigan.
‘I couldn’t possibly mind an orphan wallaby at present, Mrs Karan,’ he said. ‘I have this very naughty dog, you see. He doesn’t understand boundaries.’
‘What a coincidence! My niece, Tish, is a dog trainer and she’s ever so lovely. What’s your number, pet? I’ll get her to give you a call.’
He stood up and gathered his cutlery. ‘I’m so sorry. I think Will’s chip fryer might be on fire. Great talk.’
What, did he have a sign on his back sayingSingle Bloke Seeking Wife? He was dumping his plate on the servery counter when the sound of a woman laughing caught his ear. Was that—
Will materialised beside him, a tray of empty glasses in his hands. ‘You’re gawking, mate.’
Long, dark-gold hair. A golden t-shirt that looked like it had been slathered on the way Robbo slathered honey onto homemade bread … and long, long legs. He shoved his brother out of the way to catch a glimpse of her face. Kirsty.
‘Well, hell.’ His new rouseabout dressed upnice.
Joey felt drawn through the pub crowd like he was a man-puppet and someone else was in charge of how he moved his arms and his legs.
The jeans that fit like a second skin were the only part of Kirsty he recognised. Her t-shirt slid from one shoulder revealing the black strap of some nameless female garment that set a fire burning in his brain. Smooth skin, hair rippling loose down her back, and she’d fancied up her face in some vastly alluring way.
He’d known his trespasser was hot, but now? He rubbed his hand across his chest to ease the ache.
Suddenly it didn’t matter thatMeeting the love of his lifehadn’t been written yet on his whiteboard of chores in Dobbin’s stable.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She was taller, her heeled boots placing her eyes almost level with his. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had a smile for him that was one part awkward and three parts friendly.
‘Hey. You drinking that beer, or are you just going to hold it until it gets warm?’
He handed it over. ‘Go for it.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking a sip. ‘The queue at the bar was so long I gave up waiting.’
Now this, he thought, was mingling. Kirsty wasn’t a local; she had zero idea of his past history in this town, and she sure as hellwasn’t pressing a tissue into the corner of her eye or sighing mistily at him.
He felt himself relaxing for the first time that evening. He wasn’t up for love and romance until he was good and ready. Lucky for him, his rouseabout wasn’t a threat to that, because she was leaving.
He was totally safe.
And … banter was fun. So was having a bellyful of rump steak and standing under party lights, and listening to the kids of Clarence run amok in the pub garden. He wanted the conversation to go on and on, but a scattering of rain brought on a collective groan, and the bush poet’s deep voice directed everyone to go find him in the bar if they wanted to hear more about Woolloomooloo, where the cattle were few and the sailors drank tea by the gallon.
People started shifting indoors, or gathering children and draping blankets over strollers and patting their pockets for car keys.
‘Time I headed off, too,’ said Kirsty. ‘I’ve got this totally grumpy boss who makes me start work early.’
He grinned. ‘He’s grumpy, but he cooks a hell of a breakfast. If you smell bacon in the morning, feel free to wander on over and grab a feed.’
‘Thanks. I’ll see what time the chickens wake me with their clucking.’
‘Better than any alarm clock,’ he said. ‘Where are you parked? I could … um … carry your handbag.’ He took a breath. What was he, a schoolboy showing off or something? He’d just offered to carry a bag the size of a guinea pig for a woman who owned tools.
Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice the idiocy of his comment.
‘My car’s parked in town outside the museum. Don’t worry, I can run if this rain turns heavy.’
‘It’ll only last a few minutes.’
