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Tom stood in the doorway to the dining room. I straightened. He looked really good tonight in a navy button down over jeans, and a beanie pulled low over his dark brown hair. How did he make a beanie look good?
He was all grown up. I hadn’t seen much of Ballydoon this year or home or the Turners. He’d bulked up and broadened in the shoulders. His biceps strained the sleeves, the shirt stretching across his chest, hinting at sharp, defined pecs and abs.
And he’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms with the perfect amount of hair, tanned from working outdoors. Even in his jeans, his thighs were tree trunks straining in the denim.
Why was I staring at his thighs?
My eyes flicked back up.
Tom’s mouth was curled into a smile that hadn’t seemed to change over the year. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your self-talk in the mirror, but Mum asked me to fetch the cake server from the sideboard.”
I stepped aside. My cheeks were flushed. Could he tell in this low-lit room?
“Is my make-up okay?” I blurted as Tom came to my side.
He stilled his hand on the sideboard’s cutlery drawer. His gaze travelled over my face, slowly taking in every detail. “Perfect,” he murmured, voice deep and rich. When had that happened?
I’d never looked twice at Tom. He was a friend—a very good friend—neighbour, and my best friend’s little brother.
And now I was heating up from standing so close to him while he got a cake server from the drawer.
Who knew that men’s forearms could look so good getting a silver cake server from a drawer of antique cutlery?
I did not, until this moment.
One man goes and says I’m perfect and I’ve turned into a puddle.
Tom cleared his throat and closed the drawer. “Want some cake?”
Oh boy, did I.
The next morning, I found two DMs from Tom.
Tom: the paper you emailed me is great. Agritourism options could transform the vineyard
Tom: but what about insurance? Won’t that be a killer?
He’d sent his messages two hours ago. Before dawn.
Me: it can be, like in horse riding industries. But think of how many outbuildings you have on the farm and if you could be getting a better return using them for another purpose
Dots appeared and Tom’s reply was instant.
Tom: what, like not use a shed as a shed?
Me: Well, yes. I have seen a working farm in the Southern Highlands transform its 120-year-old shearing shed into a luxury wedding venue. And another property in Tasmania near Launceston does the same.
Me: Also, ran into Flo at the general store. She’s looking at converting old farm buildings into accommodation.
Tom: how is it a working farm if the shearing shed is a wedding venue?
Me: I know how they did it, but why don’t you tell me what you’d do to make it happen?
Dots appeared and disappeared for several minutes.
Tom: First of all, I love how you challenge new ideas and the old ways of doing things. We need new ideas and fast here. I didn’t say anything at dinner and cake last night but … things aren’t looking good with farm finances. Didn’t get as much for our wool for the last five years as we’d hoped and this year, prices don’t look any better. And I love how you asked me to think of a solution or two. So, having said that, I think you’d build a new shearing shed fit for purpose so that the heritage one, or historic one, could be used as an agritourism venue for something, in this case, weddings. And further to that, I think you’d need accommodation.
Wow. Tom was a visionary, open to new ideas. He’d always been so.
