And now he did let his gaze drop. The t-shirt was nearly as short as he’d imagined, but he was almost disappointed to realise she wore a tiny pair of dance shorts beneath.
Jemma glanced back and for a second he was tempted to pretend he hadn’t been checking out her legs. Then he caught himself—he wasn’t the kind to be shy or embarrassed. Even if sometimes the persona had to be dredged up from the bottom of a service pit to meet the occasion, he was known for being unfailingly cocky. Now wasn’t the time to change.
‘Running’s paying off, then,’ he said.
Jemma held his eye for a long second. ‘I find any sort of commitment usually reaps reward. But then, I guess that’s not your style.’
‘Ouch. I thought a lawyer would know better than to take hearsay onboard.’
Again, that silent observation. Then a small smile tickled the corner of Jemma’s lips. ‘Actually, I was referring to your philosophy that life is too short for commitment. But thanks for the intel—or am I to consider it a warning?’
‘No!’ he said, too vehemently. He was relieved to hear a car crossing the flats behind the Wattle Seed Inn. ‘Guess that’s Sam now.’
‘I’d better finish getting dressed, then.’
Jemma probably heard his jaw hit the floor as she sauntered from the room, her frank acknowledgement of her state of undress one of the most suggestive things he’d ever heard.
‘Hamish,’ Pierce said, clambering from the car seconds later. ‘What brings you around so early on a Sunday?’
‘Never early for a farmer, and no such thing as a weekend. You should know that by now.’
‘Slowly learning,’ Pierce said. ‘And I know for a fact that it’s down season, so early mornings are … not so necessary?’
‘Got me there. Actually, I wanted to have a chat with your better half.’ Hamish tipped his head toward Sam as she placed a picnic basket alongside plates stacked on the bench separating the kitchen from the dining area.
‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ Jemma’s voice was muffled as she re-entered the room, pulling a jumper over her head. ‘He heard breakfast is worth hanging around for.’
Pierce’s dark gaze darted between them, then moved to Sam with a questioning frown.
‘You’re early, Hamish, or we’re too early for you?’ Sam said with a chuckle.
For once, Hamish could have done without her frankness; any kind of denial he trotted out was going to look like guilt.
And Jemma was loving it. She grinned as she pulled out a chair. ‘Never too early for decent coffee, is it?’
Okay, if she wanted to play it like that, he could give as good as he got. ‘Not when you’ve worked up an appetite.’
She paused, her eyes narrowed. ‘More a case of it being a long night.’
‘Well, then,’ Sam said, unpacking catering trays from the basket. ‘Looks like we’ve timed it right.’
He wasn’t too worried about what Sam thought of him, after all, she’d known him forever, so nothing would shock her. Pierce, though, was another matter. Although Jemma was an adult—most definitely, he thought as his mind flashed back to the long, naked legs—she was Pierce’s only daughter. And, working onPelicanet, he’d heard Pierce go off when he got mad. Even for a joke, it wasn’t worth getting on the wrong side of the bloke.
‘Ethan was down last night, so I’m feeling kind of seedy this morning. I probably shouldn’t even have driven out here.’
‘Chicken,’ Jemma murmured.
‘Sensible,’ Sam corrected. ‘Though I thought Ethan doesn’t drink.’ The quick curve of her lip gave away the fact that she couldn’t resist teasing him for his poorly constructed alibi. ‘Sit down, Pierce,’ she urged, when it seemed that Jemma’sdad hadn’t quite made up his mind whether to thump Hamish or drink with him. ‘The omelettes are going cold.’
‘Omelette? That’s a bit different,’ Jemma said, moving aside salt and pepper shakers to make room as Sam placed deep blue plates in front of each of them. Despite taking only seconds to unpack her picnic basket, Sam had managed to fancy up the plates with a stem of parsley alongside a slice of crusty bread and a decorative swirl of tomato relish.
‘We’d call it frittata,’ Pierce said. ‘But Sam reckons there are lines that can’t be crossed. Right, Hamish?’
‘What?’ Shit, he thought he’d cleared the air, but Pierce was obviously still on his case.
Sam passed him a knife and fork, using the motion as cover to quickly pat the back of his hand. ‘Pierce means are you an omelette or frittata guy?’
‘Oh. Right. Guess they were always just scrambled eggs in our house. Mum used to do them with parsley and onion, though,’ he added, feeling a need to talk her up as Pierce placed a thick golden wedge of omelette—or frittata—in front of him. The vibrant yellow eggs would have been fresh from a backyard, where the chickens enjoyed plenty of scraps, instead of commercial pellets.
