The girl from the grocery store is dominating my every thought. I can’t get her out of my head.
Who is she? She’s not a local. A tourist? Peak tourist season has passed, but who knows. If she is a tourist, she’s not camping. As part of the weekly safety monitoring, Hartley Ridge brigade gets a list of how many people are staying in the Ridge’s two camping grounds, along with contact details. This week, there are four parties—two backpackers from France, an elderly couple from Western Australia, a young family from New Zealand in a Winnebago, and a corporate team-building groupfrom Sydney consisting of six men who have already got the ire of the village up after one of them thought it was funny to do the zipline course on the outskirts of town starkers.
So she’s not camping.
Why are you so interested? Do you really think a gorgeous young woman like her would even think about spending any time with you?
“What do you reckon, Gibbo?”
Jerking myself back to the table, I nod. “Sure. Sure.”
Opposite me, Jared Shaw laughs. “You have no clue what Riggs just said, do you?”
I frown at Damon Riggs, the youngest member of the team. He’s a good firefighter. Still a little green, but no fear, and always cheery. “Err.”
Riggs grins, waiting. Letting me dangle.
“Alright,” I concede with a grunt. “No clue at all.”
Shaw laughs again.
“I’m thinking,” Riggs says, “of taking another look at the burn patterns at the last callout.”
“The school fire?” Last week, a fire at the primary school threatened the demountable classroom used as the art room. Thankfully, we contained the fire before it could destroy anything except a couple of garbage bins and the student garden located behind the demountable. Unfortunately, the wooden totems made by the year six class were on display in the garden. All lost. The tears of the little kids had torn me apart.
Riggs nods. “There’s something wrong about it. It’s not sitting well in my gut.”
“What’s…” I trailed off as my ears picked up a voice already branded in my soul.
Heart thumping, I twist in my seat and scan the busy pub.
A flash of wavy dark hair near the side exit, almost hidden by the crowd, sends a shard of tight heat straight to my core, and I jolt to my feet, my chair toppling backward to the floor.
The crowd falls silent, curious glances directed my way.
Except forherand the guy blocking her access to the door: one of the corporate bros from the team-building group.
A steel knot twists in my gut. I stare at them, aware on a distant level the pub crowd is back to its typical rowdiness, although the rest of the team is still watching me.
“Everything okay, Gibbo?” Riggs asks.
The corporate guy lifts his hand, brushing the back of his finger up the length of her arm.
She flinches and half turns away, her eyes darting from person to person around her.
She’s scared.
Corporate Douche snakes his hand over her shoulder, and I’m moving.
Moving toward them in long, steady strides.
The crowd melts away from my path like I’m parting a sea of people. When I’m barely a few feet away, her eyes find me.
Those incredible green eyes.
“Honey, you made it,” she exclaims, shrugging his hand away, her smile wide. But I can see the truth in her lips, in the unblinking stare she’s locked on me. Panic. Discomfort. “I was wondering where you were.”
Corporate Douche pivots to see who she’s talking to, taking a step back to look up at me. Skepticism curls his lip. And something else.
