Jemma recalled that Sam’s ex-husband had a drinking problem that contributed to the end of their marriage. Actually, Dad hadn’t put it quite that nicely.
‘Coping mechanism?’ Sam suggested.
‘More an occupational hazard. Habit. Expectation. Networking.’ Jemma took the hot drink and leaned back in her chair. ‘How isPelicanetworking out?’
Sam sat opposite her. ‘Pelicanetis perfect, because she’s just for us, Pierce and me. But this’—she waved a hand to indicate the restaurant—‘despite changing name twice in the first couple of months, is doing well. As well as we want it to, anyway. We’ve restricted bookings to two weekends a month, to keep it an exclusive “have to book six months ahead” destination. And to make sure we don’t lose our passion.’ She grinned, evidently having come to terms with Jemma’s earlier teasing. ‘Plus, your dad’s busy at the inn with Gabby, and I’m helping Christine in the diner, now that Chloe and Tara are both studying at TAFE.’
There was a bunch of information in there that Jemma didn’t need to know, about people in whom she had nointerest—although Tara was possibly the same girl who’d spent far too much time ogling Hamish this morning. Jemma liked Sam—though not as much as her father did—but it was clear the woman was already returning to her small-town roots, going back to work in the reincarnation of the cafe she’d so recently sold. Jemma sipped her drink, mulling it over: Dad had sunk serious money into this venture and she couldn’t fathom why. His cafe in the city was successful and he could have contested Dante for control of the family trattoria, given he’d managed it forever. Dad wasn’t even twenty years older than her, yet he’d already dialled everything back, running away to the country to chase a dream.
Sam gasped as a vibration ran through the boat. ‘Sorry. Starting up the engines never gets old. After watchingPelicanetslowly dying for years, I can never quite believe that Pierce managed to bring her back to life like this.’
The ting of a bell drew Jemma’s glance to the panelled wall on the opposite side of the room.
‘Dumb waiter,’ Sam explained.
‘High tech. Pierce mentioned the renos all had to be heritage sympathetic, but I guess he snuck that one through?’
‘Actually, it’s an original feature,’ Sam said. ‘When you see how precarious the stairs from the galley are, you’ll understand why they needed it back in the day.’
‘Stay there,’ Dad directed, entering the saloon as Sam started to rise. ‘I’ll get it.’
He opened a wooden hatch and withdrew a silver tray.
Jemma greedily inhaled the sweet aroma of quiche and hot bread. ‘You were right, Pierce, a few irritating locals aside, this weekend was a brilliant idea. I can literally feel my stress levels dropping. And my stomach growling.’
‘Stress? What— Ah, Captain.’ Dad nodded at thedoorway behind Jemma. ‘Grab a seat and have a feed while the engines warm up.’
Eager to get the introductions over so they could devour the food, Jemma adopted her best social networking smile and swivelled toward the newcomer.
‘Hamish!’
9
Jemma
Her gaze swung accusingly to her father, who was doing a lousy job of hiding his grin. ‘I thought you said you had a qualified captain, Pierce?’
‘At your service.’ Hamish seized a nearby chair and dragged it closer. ‘Are you going to drop the line about us having to stop meeting like this, Jem, or shall I?’
‘Jemma,’ she corrected. ‘And I don’t think either of us needs to articulate what would obviously be a vastly preferable situation.’ Yet the odd truth was that she felt a flash of excitement at the thought of continuing their verbal sparring.
‘Couldn’t get the handprint off your bum, then?’ Hamish nodded toward the jeans she’d changed into, teaming them with white Converse and a white Country Road sweater.
‘Here, get into this before it goes cold,’ her father interrupted, taking the last plate from the tray and sliding it onto the table. ‘Hamish, pull me up a chair too. I’ll get rid of this tray.’
As she didn’t have time to analyse her reaction to him,Jemma ignored Hamish and kept up a deliberately bright conversation throughout the meal. Years of pretending an interest in people while covertly assessing them made it easy to feign enthusiasm for the affairs of the small town—and Sam had an endless repertoire of local stories, in which Dad was bizarrely invested.
‘Thanks, that was excellent, as always,’ Hamish said after only a few minutes. ‘Though you’re never going to be off the hook for closing down Ploughs and Pies, Sam.’
Sam waved her fork at him. ‘Nice try, but I see you in Christine’s Diner often enough to know you’re not languishing for my cafe.’
‘Do you always bolt your food?’ Jemma said.
Hamish’s grin came slowly, as though he was giving her time to review her words. Ridiculous: she was accustomed to a world where words were carefully selected blades, swift and incisive, and her accusation had been perfectly deliberate. Yet the farmer’s—no, mechanic’s, captain’s, whatever’s—habit of laconically assessing her was more unnerving than facing an adversary across the courtroom.
‘It’s nice of you to care,’ he eventually responded.
‘I meant that it fails to respect the time and effort Sam and Pierce have put in.’ She tapped the remains of the cornetto that followed Sam’s quiche. The handmade Italian pastry, similar to a croissant, had been a pleasant surprise; it was ages since she’d had Dad’s baked goods.
