we head out for shopping and lunch.
“First stop, a shoe store,” I tell him as we climb onto his Ducati. I’ve almost worn through the paper slippers.
It’s a short ride to an area filled with funky shops and cute restaurants. The first shoe store has fun casual wear, not what I’d normally choose at home, but this isn’t the time to be picky so I buy a flirty pair of green flip-flops.
Hand in hand, Mick and I wander down the block. I enjoy the sunshine, peer in windows. After a couple of bumps from other pedestrians, I realize Aussies walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk. They’re also doing a lot of staring at me, and nudging each other.
“What’s up with all the wink-wink, nudge-nudge?” I ask Mick.
“Looking like that, they figure you just rolled out of my bed,” he says smugly.
“Really?” If I was walking Georgia Street in Vancouver, among businesspeople and shoppers, I’d be too embarrassed for words. Here, where no one knows me, where I’m strolling with the hottest guy in all of Cairns, I feel pretty darned smug myself.
I bump my hip against his. “Perceptive, aren’t they?”
He bumps me back. “What next? Food or clothes? Or wanna go to my place and roll back into bed?”
I bump him a little harder. “Food.” A minute ago, my female vanity would have voted for clothes. But now I’m reveling in this people-know-we-just-had-sex feeling. Besides, I’m starving and all these neighborhood restaurants are sending out delicious aromas. “Something quick. I still have so much to do.”
He points kitty-corner across the street. “That pub has good basic food, and it’s fast.”
Although I’m tempted by Thai, Indian and Italian, fast basic food fits today’s bill. “Sold.”
Inside, it’s dark after the sun. The place has an English pub feel with heavy wood and a dartboard. The menu’s on a blackboard behind the bar, and we step up to order. Mick opts for a burger and fries and I, aiming for healthy, say, “A tuna sandwich on multigrain, with salad.”
He orders draft beer, I choose a glass of Australian sauvignon blanc and we settle at a window table to wait for our meals. Across the table, he takes my hand, and I feel a quick zip of sexual energy. But right now, my list is more important.
I give his hand a squeeze then pull out my list. He gives a resigned sigh and raises his beer.
“Tomorrow I’ll have to cancel my other charge cards, arrange a new passport. Driver’s license—God knows how I deal with that. Find a hotel for Nana and me. Talk to the lawyer about the prospects of selling, now that the house…” I shake my head sadly. “It was a pretty house, Mick. Auntie Bet had a great garden, and a bunch of knickknacks she obviously loved.”
“Prime location, right across from the beach. Your nana selling?”
“I hope so.” Surely she would now. The fire had to be a bad omen, a message there was nothing here for her.
“So, Tash.” He sprawls back in his chair, one hand on his beer glass. “You got all this stuff to deal with, but what else you have planned for this holiday?”
“It’s not a holiday. Just doing what we need to do, then going back home.”
“Wonder when your nana’s going to be up to traveling?”
“Oh, damn, I hadn’t thought of that.” Even if I can persuade her to come back where she belongs, she may not be able to travel. I bury my face in my hands.
“No worries.” He reaches over to touch my forearm. “Things’ll sort out.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Our meals arrive and I salivate at the sight of his French fries before noticing I didn’t get my salad. “I ordered a sandwich with salad,” I tell the young server.
“Yeah?” she says, seeming not to see a problem.
Mick gives a quick laugh. He lifts off the top of my sandwich and I see lettuce, tomato and beet. Sliced beets? Odd.
“Salad,” he says. “It means veggies in a sandwich. Did you want a separate salad?”
I shake my head. “Forget it, I don’t care.” Suddenly it’s all too much. Salad doesn’t mean salad? And beets, in a tuna sandwich?
“’Ere,” Mick says, shoving my wine glass toward me. “Bottoms up, then have another. And let’s talk about your holiday.”
“It’s not—”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. But you can’t come all this way and not see Oz. Look, I’m off for three days, I can rearrange some things, free myself up. We can go sailing, snorkeling, hot air ballooning—”
“Ballooning?” Despite my better judgment—what keeps those balloons in the air anyhow?—I’m intrigued. “They do hot air ballooning here?”
His grin’s a bit sly but all he says is, “Sure do.”
God, he’s tempting. A gorgeous, sexy man volunteering to tour me around. And from the sparkle in his eye, tour guide isn’t the only service he’s offering. My blood heats in response.
Reluctantly I shake my head. I have responsibilities. “I doubt I’ll have time for tourist stuff.” I flush, embarrassed. “Um, sex is great, though. I hope we can, uh, see each other sometimes.”
He chuckles. “Figure we can work that out. And some holiday stuff too. Now eat your lunch, drink your wine, we’ll start getting things sorted.”
Despite his easygoing ways, he’s surprisingly efficient. After I make another call to confirm Nana’s all right, he guides me around the shops. I buy a couple of brightly colored tank tops, a light cardigan, shorts, a broomstick skirt in blues and greens, a turquoise bikini that for now serves as undies. My choices are brighter and more casual than what I typically wear at home, where I have that lawyer reputation to maintain, but they suit the sun and the extravagant tropical flowers.
Mick’s persuading me into a holiday mood, as he pulls clothes off the racks for me to try, teases me about my choices, drapes an arm over my shoulder while I study shop windows. Each glance, each touch, sends a little zing through me, making me think of and crave sex with him.
I try to keep my focus. Next on my list, clothes for Nana. Easy here, because she’s always enjoyed vivid colors. Then I say, “Now I need a suit and proper shoes, to see the lawyer.”
“Don’t need to be stuffy, to get business done.”
Hmm. Maybe I don’t, in the village of Clifton Beach. Can I actually go in the broomstick skirt and green flip-flops? I laugh, loud and free. “Why not?”
He pulls me close for a kiss that has me tingling from head to toe. And mostly in between.
“What’s that for?”
“Felt like it. You’re so pretty, so sexy, such a good sport about all this crap that’s been happening to you. Just makes me want to kiss you. And by the way, when I kiss you…” He presses his groin against me suggestively.
My body heats and I ease away. “Me too. And you’re the good sport. Spending your day off helping me get my life back in order.”
He laughs. “Yeah, major hardship, spending time with you.”
God, but he’s sweet.
“You’re saying you actually enjoy shopping with a woman?”
He shrugs. “Maybe wouldn’t be my first pick. But a person can turn anything into fun, right?”
Well, Mick sure can.
Next on the list is a drugstore, which he calls a chemist’s. He waits outside for that one, but when I stop at a lingerie store he’s through the door ahead of