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She raised an eyebrow. ‘Weatherandchicken expert.’
‘It’s not an expert thing. It’s a farmer on L plates thing. I’ve spent the last month clearing out the undergrowth and repairing the irrigation to a couple hundred neglected macadamia trees, and now I’m addicted to the weather app. I check the likely chance of rain so often, it’s like we’re officially dating.’
‘You and the weather app. That’s so romantic.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t tell Dobbin. He bites holes in my work shirts when he gets jealous.’
‘You’re a bit of a joker, aren’t you, Farmer Joe?’
He used to be a joker for real. Sometimes. Before he grew up and moved to Sydney and decided he was going to be the most hard-nosed competitive stockbroker in the CBD. Maybe he could be that easygoing person again now that he was back for good.
The bitterness he’d had chasing after him felt mellowed, finally. Whether that was due to the backbreaking work he’d done on the farm or the dark-eyed woman smiling at him now was anyone’s guess.
Shoot. He’d totally forgotten what they’d been talking about. Had he said something? Had she?
A blister of chilly droplets ran down his back and he remembered. ‘Rain’s not quite done with us yet,’ he said. ‘How about that lift?’
She didn’t look convinced.
‘I’m trustworthy, and I had one schooner of beer. Half of which you drank. Totally legal to drive.’
‘It’s not—’ She broke off and the frown between her eyes dissolved into a half-smile. ‘I guess I am your rouseabout, aren’t I? Which makes me your employee now, sort of.’
‘Well … minus the employment contract and WorkCover and actual wages bit. I see it more as a friendly barter betweencolleagues. You’re bartering those DIY skills you boasted about, and I’m bartering a roof over your head.’
‘Boasted? I don’t think so, buddy.’
‘I know my way around a hammer drill and a socket setyou said to me.’ They’d reached the carpark, and his scooter was where he’d left it, manly and aqua under the pandanus.
Kirsty’s footsteps faltered. ‘This is your idea of a ride home?’
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I have a spare helmet in the storage pod.’
‘But … what about my street cred? This is a country town, Joe. Amoped?’
He chuckled. ‘Come on, it’s what, three blocks? We’ll be there in no time.’
‘Okaaay. If you think I’ll fit.’
He took a breath and tried not to think how many times he’d already thought about how well his trespasser-farmhand might fit snugged up against him. He’d thought about it in the shed when she’d climbed down from that wild find of a plane and faced him, half sheepish and half defiant. He’d thought about it when she’d sat on the back step with Gus by her side and the sun glinting off her hair, and again when she’d stood in his front yard grinning with his niece over a runaway chook.
Oh yeah. He was sure she’d fit just fine.
