Jack swivelled on the stool alongside to face him, lifting one eyebrow. ‘Seriously?’
Hamish grinned at the laconic irony. Although Jack’s stammer didn’t surface too often these days, his friend had been teased the whole way through school for his trouble getting a sentence out. ‘No, I mean what the hell am I supposed to say to Wheaty? “Hey, mate, your sis is getting a bit of a reputation”? Can’t imagine that going down too well.’
‘To be fair, she isn’t, though, is she?’
‘She will. Like, maybe you’ve been spared because you’re with Lucie, but the rest of us single guys are fair game. She makes it pretty damn obvious who she’s set her sights on.’
‘Yeah, but remember when that was all you could think about?’ Jack took a long sip of his beer, chased it with a slow grin. ‘Oh, wait, forgot who I was talking to. Nothing’s changed for you, right?’
There was that bloody reputation again. ‘You know it’s different. Guys and girls.’
‘Shouldn’t be.’
‘Yeah. That’s pretty much where I went originally, but then Pierce’s daughter set me straight.’ The more he’d thought on it, the more it had become obvious that Jemma was dead right.
‘She’s a pretty cool chick.’ Jack raised his voice to be heard over a swell of noise as one of the shearers pocketed the black amid a round of cheers and backslapping.
‘Tara?’
‘Jemma.’
He snorted. ‘Funny how everyone seems to have a different opinion on that to me.’
Jack chuckled. ‘Reckon that’s because she gave you what for, mate. Be a novelty not to have one swooning at your feet, wouldn’t it?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of panty-dropping,’ he said absently. But was Jack right? Although he’d frequently complained about the lack of women in the area, over the last twelve months, the same theme, a vague sense of dissatisfaction, seemed to keep resurfacing. ‘Though I guess sometimes it gets a bit boring,’ he admitted. ‘Anyway, it’s Tara we’re talking about. What do we do?’ A problem shared was a problem halved. He hoped.
‘Well, speaking of the devil …’ Jack lifted his schooner as the door to the street opened, ushering in a blast of frigid air.
Hamish shook his head in disbelief as he turned. ‘I know we didn’t feel the cold when we were younger, but …’
The wolf-whistling shearers were obviously aware Tara was no longer a kid, even if Hamish was having trouble getting it through his skull. He was half out of his chair when Jack settled a heavy hand on his shoulder.
‘Give it a minute, mate.’
‘Yeah, but—’ He gestured toward the young woman framed in the open doorway. She wore a flippy skirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a hacked-off shirt that revealed the lower band of a lacy bra. There was something intensely disquieting about seeing his friend’s sister like that. ‘That’s not right, mate.’
Jack increased the pressure on his shoulder, returning him to the bar stool. ‘I’d say it’s pretty natural, though. I mean, don’t you remember those days when your every thought was basically about how to pick up, and you were a bit terrified that maybe you never would?’
‘Already forgot who you’re talking to?’
‘Well, I’m not such a dick. I remember. Tara’s just restless. She’ll chill out.’
‘That lot had better chill out,’ Hamish growled, rising again as Tara made a beeline toward the leering pool-players. She stumbled, her hip hitting one of the low tables. The occupants snatched their beers, sending up a loud outcry, but the girl didn’t seem to notice.
Hamish frowned. Tara hadn’t noticed them—hadn’t noticedhim. He squinted across the room. ‘Mate, does she look a bit … off?’
‘That lot sure don’t think so,’ Jack replied lazily, flicking a finger toward the pool players. ‘Sit down, Ham, have your beer. I’ve gotta head soon. Dinner at Lucie’s mum’s tonight.’
‘Condolences,’ he said absently. Jack’s mother-in-law, Monica, was a piece of work. ‘You reckon Tara’s eyes look kind of glazed?’
Jack drained his beer and set the glass down. ‘Mate, go over and talk to her if you’re so worried.’ He stood, clapping Hamish on the shoulder. ‘But don’t blame me when she starts following you around like a lovesick cow.’
‘Cheers, mate. Catch you next week,’ he said, eyes still on Tara. The pool players had parted, allowing her into their group. One of the guys handed her a cue and a couple of others stood behind her as she bent over the green baize table.
Hamish shoved aside his stool and strode across the room. One of the guys was pressed up behind Tara, leaning over her to correct her grip on the cue.
‘I know how to do it,’ she protested, although she seemed unable to line the cue up with the ball.
