CHAPTER
12
A couple of days after his cottages arrived, Joey found the good-looking trespasser parked by his farm gate when he trundled the old tractor into the house yard. He killed the ignition and headed her way.
Before he could lift the latch, Gus had limboed his way under the metal bars and leapt up at her, planting two giant muddy paws on her chest.
‘Oof,’ she managed. ‘Well, hello again.’
‘Gus, down! Sorry. He’s dumber than he looks.’
She didn’t seem to mind having her boots sniffed. Or her jeans. Or even the hem of her shirt, which made Joey wonder what her shirt smelled like. Verbena, he decided. Or star jasmine. Or a fresh cut bunch of mock orange.
‘He looks like he fell in a creek.’
‘He just discovered the horse trough. He’s new to country life, and all these treats have him a little overexcited.’
She looked at him, then, instead of at the dog, and that face that had been stuck in his memory curved into a smile. ‘That explains it.’
He cocked his head. ‘Explains what?’
The smile grew. ‘The stiff new stockman’s hat. The dirty boots teamed up with an orange paisley shirt. Gus might not be the only one a little punch-drunk on country life.’
He laughed. Prettyanda smart-arse. He was liking his trespasser more and more. ‘I think these make me a real farmer, don’t you?’ He showed her the blisters, the size of beer caps, across the palms of his hands.
‘Ouch. You have any more animals about to charge me?’
‘Not unless you’re scared of chickens. There are three of them pecking about somewhere. Unnamed at the moment—they only arrived a couple of days ago, and I haven’t gotten to know them yet.’
‘You can’t name a chicken you don’t know?’
He shrugged. Now she said it out loud, it did sound kind of … sentimental. God help him, Pete was right. Maybe he really was having his midlife crisis a decade too early. ‘Dobbin—that’s the miniature horse—is too lazy to chase anyone. He’s on lawnmower duty at the moment, after which he switches to fertilising duty. He’s very good at the second, and the jury’s still out on the first.’
He looked at his watch. He’d been out since dawn and was ready to murder some morning tea. ‘Why don’t you come up on the back verandah and I can get us a drink,’ he said. ‘Hot or cold?’
‘Hot. Tea if you’ve got it.’
By the time he’d rustled up an unchipped mug and found a slab of the fruitcake he’d stress-baked after emailing his realtor, Kirsty was seated on the back steps. Gus had prostrated himself beside her, and his big fluffy head was wedged on her lap.
Perhaps the dog was missing female company. Although, on a first-impression basis, the female currently on his back steps was as different to Gus’s co-owner, his ex-girlfriend Kim, as it was possible to be. The hand currently scratching Gus’s head, sending him into a bliss coma, was short-nailed and ring free; Kim was more of a painted-talon-and-eyelash-extension kind of girl.
His trespasser was something all right. Who’d have thought grease stains, and long hair tumbling over a freckle-studded shoulder, would have had his inner caveman getting all hot and bothered like it had been since he’d spotted her climbing out of that incongruous war machine.
Woah. He had an agenda planned—a spreadsheet—that only had room for farmstay and crops. After that, okay, maybe he’d be free to think about that ideal wife, but rearranging the order now would mess with his risk and reward strategy.
Like he could afford to dothat!
She looked up at him and he let out a long breath. Well … no harm in looking. He could think of it as research: a test run for when hewasready to find the love of his life.
‘Black tea, and fruitcake made from my dad’s recipe. It’s delicious, and there’s enough whiskey in it to fell a bull.’
She took the proffered mug and a slab of cake and sat them down beside her on the step. Gus’s whiskers quivered with interest. ‘So,’ she said.
So. Apparently small talk was over. He took a seat next to her and crossed his booted feet. A few hours on the tractor already today, at least six hours yesterday, and the small of his back was on fire, but all in all, he wouldn’t have described himself as having a bad week. He’d got a lot done, and it had been satisfying, and now he had a nice pair of legs to check out while he drank a cup of tea.
Maybe this was a moment to count the successes rather than the failures. The farming was coming along. The chicken and horse and dog wrangling was a piece of cake and his realtor had talked him into believing another contract to sell his Sydney place was a sure thing.
Farmstay host was next.