Chapter 16
Hamish
Hamish hadn’t expected it to be Jemma who answered his knock on the door of the riverfront cottage. Disconcerted, he glanced behind him across the expansive green lawn toward the Wattle Seed Inn, as though checking he was in the right place.
Jemma didn’t speak, merely raised an eyebrow, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was wearing nothing but a t-shirt that he was fairly certain only skimmed the top of her thighs. But he wasn’t stupid enough to let his gaze travel that low.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were back in Settlers,’ he eventually managed.
Loose, Jemma’s dark hair was longer than he’d realised.
She looked different, less uptight, her cheeks flushed as though she’d been working out.
Though anyone would look relaxed in nothing but a tee, he thought, still fighting the urge to look down.
And perhaps it was the lack of makeup that made her seem more natural, less a daunting force of nature.
‘You’re sorry you didn’t realise?’ Her voice held a hint of banter, and his shoulders eased. ‘You know, if you want to find out my residential status, you only have to ask.’
His eyes narrowed. She was rephrasing their interaction from the restaurant, weeks earlier?
More importantly, she remembered their conversation?
‘Consider this me wanting to know, then.’ He couldn’t resist loading the words with innuendo, but only because flirting was his go-to.
Not at all because he’d spent some time thinking about her, and this was the first occasion she’d seemed anything like approachable.
In fact, considering the music emanating from the cottage, her tousled hair and flushed cheeks, he suspected she’d been dancing.
It wasn’t helpful that his imagination insisted on supplying an immediate mental image.
‘I’m staying here for a while,’ Jemma said, her voice suddenly lower. But then she perked up, shooting him a teasing glance. ‘But I’m guessing it’s not me you came to see?’
‘I was trying to catch Sam, but I’ll count this an unexpected bonus.’ After making excuses not to do a damn thing about Tara—basically by telling himself he’d be interfering—he’d decided to lay the issue at Sam’s door. She was close to Tara’s brother, Wheaty, too, and had employed Tara in her cafe.
‘Nicely timed. Come on in. Sam just called to give me a heads-up that she and Pierce are leaving Pelicanet now—and they never arrive empty-handed.’ Jemma had turned as she spoke, leading him into the cottage.
A pile of folders and a laptop lay on a seat in the window nook overlooking the river and she went over to tap her phone and turn down the music.
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 on Pelicanet, 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’s dad 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.
‘She’s over it now, though?’ Jemma teased. ‘You demanded one too many hangover cures?’
‘We lost her a couple of years back.’
‘Oh.’ Jemma’s face became blank. ‘I’m sorry.’ As the mischievous lilt disappeared from her voice, even her posture altered and she became straight and tense.
‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’ Sam asked him, changing the subject.
She’d never been known for her tact, but that open honesty was one of the things that made her so approachable …
In wild contrast to Jemma, who now had her arms folded across her chest and her lips tightly compressed.
Like she had a stick up her butt, Dad would say.
He rifled a hand through his hair, disconnectedly registering the fact that it needed a cut. ‘Ethan’s concerned the skatepark might be attracting trouble.’
‘Oh, no.’ Sam put down the coffee pot. ‘That’s awful! Though potentially more awful that we’ll have to admit Dave Jaensch was right.’
‘Yeah, that’s what’s got Ethan stewing. But it might have been a one-off, hoons from out of town just cruising by. Problem is, the kids at the park don’t know who they were, and Tara can’t remember.’
‘Tara?’ Sam hadn’t touched her food, although Jemma and Pierce were making inroads on their eggs. ‘I doubt she’s been to the skatepark since the opening.’
He took a deep draught of coffee while unpicking where to start. ‘The other week, when she left the pub with me? She was already off her face when she got there.’
Sam sliced her eggs with the side of her fork.
Clicked her tongue. ‘With Charity’s sisters and friends coming up from the city to hang around with you, she’s desperate to look a bit more cultured.
Lately she’s been trying to persuade everyone that she’s into cocktails.
I guess she doesn’t realise they have more of a kick than Moscato. ’
Even Sam saw Tara’s behaviour as somehow his fault. Jemma smirked at what seemed to be a gentle reprimand aimed at his availability.
‘She didn’t have a drink at the Settler’s, and Lynn wouldn’t have let her get smashed like that at the Overland,’ he said heavily.
‘True,’ Sam agreed.
‘It’s not like cocktails are hard to make at home, though?’ Jemma waggled her ever-present phone at him, probably indicating that the recipes were available on the internet.