‘Prada handbag?’
It took her a moment, but then she grinned, though she was still staring through the windscreen. ‘The Devil Wears Prada? Props on your somewhat outdated pop culturereference. But no, not Kain. That’s my colleague over there. Rohan.’ She flicked a finger from the steering wheel toward a couple who had emerged from the kiosk and made their way along the esplanade, huddled beneath a clear umbrella.
Hamish made a surprised noise in the back of his throat. ‘The one who’s doing you wrong? What are the chances?’
‘High, I guess. It is Adelaide, after all. He mentioned something a while back about beachfront real estate.’ She tended to filter and dismiss anything frivolous or useless, so had only a vague recollection of the conversation. ‘I did think he was permanently single, though.’
Hamish leaned forward with her, pretending to be equally interested. ‘Having coffee means you’re in a relationship?’
Was that a throwaway line or was their dynamic shifting? ‘I’m sure it does in some cultures,’ she said, her voice light. ‘And now that I’ve made good on that promise, we’d better head back.’
‘Yep. I’ve got some jobs that need taking care of.’
She clenched her teeth. Again she’d imagined the innuendo in his words because shewantedit to be there.
‘I may be able to unearth some out-of-date pancake mix,’ she said, as they walked to the entry of the cafe twenty minutes later. They’d managed to cover art, music and vintage cars on the drive back to the city, and one thing was clear: Hamish was far from the uneducated farmhand she’d judged him to be.
‘Hard to pass up, but I do have to make tracks,’ Hamish said. ‘Ethan’s not been answering my calls and I want to find out what was going on with Tara last night. You’re definitely okay here, now?’
The desire to become a damsel in distress almost overwhelmed her. Even stronger was the wave of jealousy at the fact that he was rushing back to Settlers Bridge because he was concerned about another woman.
She forced her standard confident, competent smile. ‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ll be off, then.’ Instead of moving toward his ute, Hamish stepped a little closer. ‘You’ve got my number if you need me, though?’
‘On speed dial,’ she managed to joke.
‘No worries. Bye, then.’ Yet he stepped even closer, so they were toe to toe.
As he met her deliberately unflinching gaze, a shiver ran down Jemma’s back. Hamish was so very wrong … and yet so very right. She held her breath as his fingertips brushed her cheek, as though removing a trace of sand. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his palm firm and callused. As his long fingers buried themselves in her hair, she leaned into his embrace, her chest pressed to his. Their lips met, an explosion of salt, caffeine and above all, hunger. Hamish’s mouth was urgent and demanding, as though kissing her was something he’d wanted to do for hours.
And Jemma realised that this was what she’d wanted for weeks.
But now she was lost.
24
Hamish
He was lost.
Jemma couldn’t be more wrong for him if she’d shown up in sequins and ten-centimetre heels. More importantly, he couldn’t be more wrong for her.
He’d tried his damnedest not to kiss her, knowing he wanted so much more than that, yet aware it could never be. Logic had demanded he take all that she was offering; as always, she’d been forthright, perfectly clear that he should come up to the apartment and spend the rest of a lazy Sunday getting to know one another more intimately.
And he’d refused.
He pounded the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. He’d bloody refused because he had this ridiculous notion in his head that there could be something more to their relationship, something he’d never had before. Yet Jemma had made it clear that her career meant everything and men were nothing but accessories. He didn’t fit in her world and she had no interest in fitting into his.
Although the drizzle had truly set in as he navigated out of the city, once he’d crossed the ranges and hit the plains outside of Settlers Bridge, he was well into the rain shadow and the ground was disappointingly dry. Despite the chill, he wound down the windows, letting the familiar smell of earth and plants into the ute. The tight, bright bursts of yellow wattle along the sides of the dirt roads meant that, with the tailing of the lambs finished the previous week, it was time to get the sprayer out and cover every inch of the crops. Maybe it would act as the farming equivalent of doing the washing and bring them some decent rain. Fortunately, the hectares they’d recently taken on sharefarming for Roni and Matt Krueger came with some pretty sweet equipment, so he and Lachlan would be able to go at it when the heavens finally burst.
His priority was checking in with Ethan, though. And, more circumspectly, with Tara.
He was surprised to see Ethan’s car in the driveway; his mate hadn’t answered either calls or texts since their brief conversation the previous afternoon.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called, slinging his backpack into the first bedroom as he made his way along the hall. The house was silent, and he realised Ethan must have headed down the street. Not that he’d find much open on a Sunday in Settlers Bridge.
He flicked on the kitchen light and immediately stiffened. ‘Jeez, mate, scared the life half out of me. You trying to turn into a mushroom sitting in the dark, or have Lucie and Jack been on at you about saving the environment?’
