in messy disarray, framing her flushed cheeks.
‘Excellent,’ James repeated, his voice sounding heavy and languid in the hot air. Was the air hot? The air-conditioning was on but it sure felt hot.
The room went quiet as the two of them ran out of things to say. James searched for a conversation topic but he could find nothing. His mind was too full with the warring tangle of magnetism and self-reproach for daring to go there in the first place.
‘So, is the tow-truck on its way?’ Siena asked, setting the glass on the sink with such care he wondered if she had read his mind. She tugged on her ear. ‘You were on the phone a minute ago.’
‘It’s on its way.’
Siena felt awash with relief at the news. She didn’t want to have to call Rufus, Max’s complimentary driver, charming, chatty and playful as he was. Not. But it was time to go.
Mostly because after accidentally reading James’s blog she now knew why those cool grey flecks shrouded his once happy eyes. And, rather than making her feel further estranged from his situation, she felt … moved. Moved enough to stay cooped up in his suburban kitchen trading wisecracks when she should have been busy getting on with her day. The truth was she itched to see what would happen if that half-smile of his morphed into the real thing.
But that didn’t matter, because in two days she would be on a plane back to Melbourne—either to bury herself in the employment section of the newspaper or, if she was able to convince Max of it, packing her bags for a move to Rome—the furthest place from Cairns she could imagine.
It suddenly occurred to her that she was mirroring James’s stance exactly, or he was mirroring hers, casually leaning against the kitchen bench, hands leaning inches apart along the sink’s edge, knees pointed to one another. Yep, it was way past time for her to go.
‘Excellent,’ she said again, clapping her hands together nice and loud to break through the loaded silence. ‘I’ll wait outside. Must make sure they take the car where I want it to go lest my brother kill me.’
She backed away towards the front door, thinking that might be goodbye, but James followed, watching her with those dark, sombre, but really quite lovely eyes of his. She again felt the atypical thread of longing and attraction tugging her through the midriff.
Uh-uh. Nope. No way …
She skipped over to the piano, grabbed her tipped-over handbag and then made a beeline for the front door.
In her haste she tripped backwards over a rug at the front door. James reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her upright until they stood nose to nose.
While her balance steadied her breathing pace rocketed away. James’s workman’s grip was strong. Her wrist burned from his touch. She caught a waft of wood shavings and cedar oil. The guy smelled of tradition and family and home.
A flash of memory caught her off-guard. Her dad used to insist the dining table remain polished to a high shine. She’d always had the feeling her mother had liked it that way and he had continued the tradition after she was gone. It had been one chore she hadn’t minded, the smell of cedar so delicious, the act of running oil over a smooth surface calming, productive, helpful, always eliciting a pat on the head from her dad when the deed was done.
The memory, the scent, the house, him—it was all so heady she felt herself swaying.
James’s grip tightened, his other hand reaching around to rest lightly at her waist. But, rather than adding to her confusion, his gallantry only honed her focus. She didn’t need some guy to save her when she fell. She had picked herself up enough times to know she could do it fine on her own.
‘Thanks,’ she said, her voice a giveaway throaty whisper.
She twisted her hand from his grasp, spun about on now sturdy legs and bounded out the door, grabbing her shoes as she shot past but not stopping to put them on.
As the green monster came into view her footsteps slowed as she saw how badly she had messed up. The whole bonnet was crushed and twisted. The smell of burnt oil scorched the air. Surely it was a write-off.
Insurance was the least of her problems. With the money from the sale of the house she could afford to fix it, or buy ten new ones. The problem