The Firefighter. Susan Lyons

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      He studies my face carefully and I know he’ll see I mean it. Suddenly I remember my grandmother’s and my conversation on the plane, and laugh. “Nana’s going to be thrilled. Seems she’s a great believer in holiday flings.” And I’d thought the notion impractical and foolish, but the fire and Mick have made me a convert. My analytical brain can even rationalize that it’ll be good for me to have great sex, as well as the ego boost of having Mick find me attractive.

      He chuckles. “Your nana sounds like a bonza lady.” He tosses me a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. “See how these go.”

      “Thanks.” Men’s clothes. Better than PJs, but I’m still going to look like a clown.

      For the first time since I woke up, I think about my appearance. Gingerly I touch my hair, then wrinkle up my nose. Bedhead. “You don’t have any hair gel, I suppose?”

      “No way.”

      Nah. Macho guys don’t use that stuff.

      In the bathroom I study my reflection. Hmm. Not as bad as I’d expected. My hair’s kind of spiky, but it’s got body, for once. My eyelashes cry out for mascara, and I add to my mental list. Thank God Mick does have some heavy-duty, guy-type hand lotion, and it’s just what my parched body needs.

      When I put on his clothes, the only good thing is the T-shirt’s so big it hangs down to cover the baggy shorts.

      When I come out of the bathroom he’s wearing a similar outfit, but his T-shirt hugs lean muscles and the shorts reveal gorgeous legs. Not fair. He studies me, lips curving.

      “Yeah, I know,” I say, trying to be a good sport. I’ve always done well at that; it’s part of the reason I’m good best-bud material. “Pretty funny, eh?”

      “You wearin’ anything under that shirt?”

      I pull it up to show him the shorts. “Of course.”

      “Nothing like a sheila in a bloke’s shirt,” he says. “Makes a man think of sex.”

      Well…okay then!

      Before we leave, I borrow paper and a pen and start my list. Then he helps me order a replacement charge card to pick up later, and in the meantime loans me some cash. I call the lawyer and insurer to set up appointments for tomorrow. Hurray, three ticks on my list.

      Then 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, СКАЧАТЬ