‘If that’s what you need to tell yourself to make the rejection okay …’ she said, secretly impressed by how quickly he’d caught on.
Hamish observed her with lazy amusement for a long moment. Then he pushed himself away from the counter and turned to Tracey. ‘Anyway, we’d better get Jemma cleaned up,’ he said. ‘In case she changes her mind and decides that she fancies getting dirty with me.’
7
Hamish
Tracey’s bangles clacked as she shook her wooden spoon at him, oblivious to the chocolate sauce splattering everywhere. ‘You behave yourself, Hamish MacKenzie. No wonder you’ve got a reputation.’
‘Hey!’ He pretended the accusation hadn’t hit its mark. ‘I only meant Jemma might want to come help with the cleanup in your backyard.’ He suspected he might be playing with fire, teasing the uptight lawyer—but her abrasive attitude made the temptation too hard to resist. ‘Why does no one believe I’m a reformed man?’
‘Tigers and spots, love,’ Tracey retorted. ‘Or is that lions?’
‘Leopards.’ Tracey was a classic. And Jemma still hadn’t spoken, just stared at him, coldly furious. He’d probably pushed it a bit too far, considering he’d only met her a day ago. He relented a little. ‘Paper towel, Tracey?’
‘Hasn’t Lucie Tamberlani spoken to you about that? The trees, you know. We can’t use paper towel anymore. Here.’ Tracey pulled a hand towel from a drawer. The top had aknitted border added, so that it could be hung from a hook near the sink. Similar towels on the weekly CWA stalls had provided a fabric calendar throughout his childhood, the changing patterns heralding each season and event: spring flowers with bright yellow trim; Easter rabbits with pink and blue edging; Christmas trees and snowmen with festive red and green borders.
‘Oh, I can’t use that,’ Jemma protested.
‘Sure you can,’ he said, taking the towel from Tracey, and moving in as though he intended to swipe the dirt from Jemma’s pants. Along with her sneer, too, hopefully. Pierce was a decent bloke, yet his daughter was like an overstrained fence wire, ready to snap at any moment.
Chances were, she would sue him if he followed through with the joke, so he held the towel out to her instead.
Jemma snatched it, but then smiled at Tracey. Her entire face changed when she wasn’t glaring at him. ‘This is too cute to ruin,’ she said, spreading out the garish cartoon print. ‘The crocheted edging is gorgeous. So much work.’
‘Get away with you, love.’ Tracey sounded chuffed, as though she hadn’t made and sold hundreds of similar items to raise funds for the CWA. She turned to rummage in a drawer. ‘Here, use this older one, and take that one with you, if you like it.’
Jemma looked taken aback. At a guess, he’d say she’d probably never done any menial work like drying the dishes. Or perhaps she was trying to work out how neon-blue carrots would fit her décor?
Bear struggled arthritically to his feet, uttering a low ‘oof’ as though he’d only just noticed the company. ‘You coming out in the sun, fella?’ Hamish said, dragging his gaze from Jemma’s attempt to rub the mud from her ridiculous dog-repelling pants. He was pretty sure Tracey had noticed his focus; not much escaped the old duck.
He and the dog headed down the hall, moving out of earshot of Jemma’s over-effusive thanks to Tracey. ‘Hot and cold, that one,’ he muttered to Bear. ‘And no doubt frigid as all get-out.’ The judgement slightly eased the sting of the woman’s patent dislike. Ethan was right: Hamish wasn’t accustomed to being rejected. It was a bit of a shock to realise that the looks and charm he’d coasted by on for well over a decade might have an expiry date.
He surveyed the work crew from the back verandah. Already there didn’t seem a great deal left to do in the large backyard. He wasn’t a gardener, but, thanks to the large team, it looked like everything had been pruned, weeded, hedged and shovelled to within an inch of its life. The path leading to the Hill’s hoist was a little uneven, though, and could be a trip hazard. He reached for a spade leaning against the wall. He’d lift the pavers, get a new load of crusher dust down and re-lay the bricks. Tracey wouldn’t take well to being laid up in hospital if she fell, particularly not after all the time she’d spent in there with her partner, Marian, a few years back.
‘Don’t break a nail.’
He forced himself to turn to face Jemma’s sarcasm. To his surprise, she twisted her lips wryly.
‘I mean, it’d be a shame, because your guitar playing last night was pretty good.’
‘Jeez, don’t bury me under your adulation.’
She shrugged. ‘And I get your nail polish now. The Turkish flag, right?’
Even in the midst of what he was choosing to consider a semi-apology, the lawyer needed to win? ‘Nope.’
Jemma frowned. ‘So the story is … ?’
‘Why does there have to be a story?’
‘Because a guy painting his nails random colours isn’t normal. There has to be a reason for the action.’
‘Normal, huh?’ There was a judgement guaranteed to get his back right up. Not so much for himself, but because of the detrimental effect being labelled had had on Lachlan. ‘Maybe I just do it because I don’t like to be pigeonholed.’
‘Then that in itselfisa reason,’ Jemma crowed.
Hell, she’d be a pain in the arse in the courtroom, chalking up the wins in her verbal battles.
