All They Need - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,28
in one hand. He’d set the chopping board on top of an old crate he’d found in the kitchen and he crouched there now and cut the brie into bite-size wedges.
“You should know I have victuals as well as wine,” he said, sliding the chopping board toward her. “This is a quality establishment.”
“I can’t eat your dinner.”
“Trust me. There’s plenty. My eyes are bigger than my belly. Always have been.”
He started peeling lids off deli containers until the peppers, olives and ham were arrayed in front of her. He added the bread, crackers and cashew nuts then reached for his wineglass. Holding it high, he offered a toast.
“To Summerlea, and camping out, and finger food.” He leaned forward to clink his glass against hers.
She frowned, but didn’t say anything. He waited until she’d taken a mouthful before nudging the cheese toward her.
“Eat something. I dare you.”
Her gaze shot to his face, startled, and he raised his eyebrows. After a few seconds she grabbed an olive, popped it into her mouth and bit down almost defiantly.
He felt a ridiculous surge of triumph. She was staying. For now.
He tried to think of something to say that would put her at ease. His gaze fell on the lanterns. “So did you do much camping when you were younger?”
“Yes. Every summer, pretty much. It was the only way we could afford a family vacation.”
“Where did you go?”
“Dad likes to fish, so we always had to be near water of some kind. Lake Eildon, Eden, Merimbula, Wilson’s Promontory.”
“Did you like it?”
She thought about it for a moment. “You know, mostly I did. At the time I thought I didn’t. But in hindsight, those holidays were some of the best times we ever had as a family.”
“Did you sit around the campfire holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’?”
“Why? Are you about to break into song?”
He laughed. “Hardly.” He tore off a hunk of bread and passed it to her before tearing a second hunk for himself. “I always wanted to go camping when I was a kid but Mom hates sleeping rough. Which is pretty funny, given how much she loves gardening. She always says that if there’s no hot and cold running water, she’s not interested.”
“Mostly, I agree with her. But I’m prepared to make an exception every now and then. There are some parts of the world you can’t see without roughing it.”
She was starting to lose the tense, wary look around her eyes. Flynn settled against the rolled-up sleeping bag. The fire was really throwing out some heat now. Or maybe it was the wine warming his belly. Either way, he could feel the week’s worries slipping away.
“Tell me, have you ever had to deal with a blackberry thicket?” he asked.
“Yep. Got the scars to prove it, too.”
“I’ve got a huge one on the western boundary. About five meters long by two meters thick.”
She whistled. “Impressive.”
“I know received wisdom is to poison them, but I’m not a fan of using chemicals in the garden if I can avoid it.”
“You’re thinking of digging it out?”
“I guess I am, since that’s the only alternative.”
She grimaced. “Horrible job. I did it once. It’s not just a matter of cutting it back, you have to dig the roots out—and you have to dig deep, too. Anything you miss will sprout again in spring. Took me months to get on top of mine.”
“Yeah, I’m anticipating a battle. I’m trying to work out whether I should tackle it first or prune the orchard.”
“Blackberries, definitely. Those bad boys will take over if you let them go. I tell you what, I’ll drop my brush-cutter off for you tomorrow. That’ll break the back of it above ground for you, at the very least.”
“That’d be great, thanks. But only if it won’t be leaving you high and dry.”
She waved a hand to indicate she wasn’t fussed, then helped herself to some ham. She resettled with her legs stretched out to the side, her tumbler of wine within easy reach. The firelight struck auburn notes in her dark hair, and the heat had put a bloom in her cheeks. Of its own accord, his gaze slid below her neck to where her fuzzy blue sweater covered her full, round breasts.
He dragged his gaze away. He hadn’t asked her in for a drink so he could stare at her breasts—even if they were very, very nice.
“So, have you got any ideas for how you’re going to renovate the house yet?” she asked.
“Not a single one.”
She