‘Attacking a jogger being a change to routine, I take it, not the status quo?’ she said, refusing to be seduced by a lolling tongue and comical golden eyebrows above hazel eyes as the dog licked her hand. ‘You might want to teach him some road sense, too.’
A smile quirked Hamish’s lips and he lifted his gaze to the street beyond her, then turned to survey the emptiness in the opposite direction.
Jemma rolled her eyes. She could do without his unspoken humour at this hour. Or any other.
‘Anyway, sorry about your pants,’ he said.
‘It’s fine. They’re Emamaco.’
He looked nonplussed, and Jemma felt like she’d scored a point.
She indicated the leggings. ‘They repel dog hair.’
‘Uh-huh. Don’t reckon they do much for mud, though.’
Jemma twisted to see the back of her thighs. ‘Great. I don’t want this muck all through my car.’
Hamish tilted his head toward the houses. ‘Come over. Tracey might have some paper towel.’
‘You don’t know if yourpartner,’ she stressed the title, determined to remind him hownotinterested in his marital status she was, ‘has paper towel?’
‘Not really my job to oversee her shopping, is it?’
‘Of course not.’ Chauvinism was evidently thriving out in the sticks.
‘You’re a jogger, then?’ Hamish asked. He clicked his fingers and the dog matched his pace across the road.
‘Observant.’
‘Bit of a novelty round here. The only joggers are on the oval in footy training season. You know, pain for the gain.’
‘Playing football is the only viable reason for exercising?’
‘Course not. Netballers need to train, too.’ He smirked, and for a second she wondered whether he was teasing. ‘But if you love it, do it.’
Like she needed his permission? ‘I didn’t say I loved it.’
‘In that case, give it up. Life’s too short.’
That attitude was exactly what she would have expected—if she’d been inclined to waste a thought on him. ‘Sounds like the voice of experience.’ She lengthened her stride, making it clear she had better places to be, even though she didn’t know which of the neat cottages they were making for.
‘I guess most of us around here get enough incidental exercise,’ Hamish drawled.
‘Some of us have a somewhat more intellectualcareerthat doesn’t allow for traipsing paddocks to feed cute farm animals. So we make time to exercise.’
‘You think farm animals are cute?’ he asked, oblivious to her slight. ‘I’ll have to introduce you to some.’
‘No need,’ she said frostily.
‘Guess you’re right, though; it doesn’t take too long to scratch our shearing tallies in the dirt, or send out a few smoke signals to check the grain prices.’ Hamish’s deadpan tone didn’t change, though another slight smile lifted his lips. ‘And it’s not like we need to be on Croptracker to keep an eye on weather patterns, or the AgriSite IPM app to upload photos to get direct feedback from agronomists, so, yeah, I guess we’re not bums on seats all day. Just out strolling those fields, petting the cute livestock.’
He was clearly trying to sell farming as being more intellect-heavy than was realistic but, while she could haveeviscerated him with a few well-chosen words, their verbal sparring was oddly invigorating.
‘Go home, Chance,’ Hamish said, opening a gate to the front garden of one of the cottages. The windows of the stone house were trimmed in dark green to match a picket fence studded with burgundy blooms.
Jemma made to follow the dog, but Hamish placed a hand on her forearm. ‘Tracey’s is next door.’ He bellowed toward the house. ‘Charlee?’
‘Over here,’ came an almost equally loud response. Evidently, Italians weren’t the only ones who conducted their business at volume.
