Dreaming Of... Australia. Annie West

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      Her laugh graduated to a full chuckle. ‘Then buy it for yourself, by all means. You are not buying your wife a spoondelabra for her thirtieth birthday.’

      She’d taken to calling Melissa your wife as a defence mechanism. Not only did it serve as a healthy reminder to her not to get too entangled with Sam, but it helped to depersonalise Melissa, too. As long as she didn’t have a name, Aimee felt slightly less guilty about tiptoeing around with someone else’s husband on secret business.

      Slightly.

      A purple-haired woman dressed almost completely in hemp squeezed past them with a small goat trotting happily behind her on a leash. Sam’s free hand slipped protectively around behind Aimee as she pressed in closer to him to let the goat pass. She felt his heat and got a whiff of something divine under the wool of his jacket. Definitely not goat. Her eyes drifted shut.

       Focus …

      ‘Fine.’ He handed the artwork back to its creator with a reluctant smile. The man shrugged and gave it a quick polish before replacing it on the table.

      They moved off again through the thick crowds. ‘Seriously, Sam. We’re not going to get very far today if you buy every little thing that takes your fancy.’

      Sam stayed close to her as they walked, shielding her with his body from the worst of the crowd and lowering his head to be heard. ‘Who says? Could work well … If she doesn’t like one gift I can whip out another.’

      She laughed. ‘Right. She’ll never notice that.’

      ‘Well, what do you like, then? Since my ideas apparently suck the big bazoo.’

      ‘It’s her thirtieth, Sam. She’s not going to want a novelty anything. She’ll want something lovely. Something unique. Something that says you know her.’

      His lips thinned. ‘I do know her and I’m still at a loss.’

      Yeah? Why was that? She slid her hand around his forearm and squeezed. ‘Don’t worry, we have a couple of hours yet. We’ll find something this morning.’

      But his eyes didn’t lighten. ‘Pretty sure I’m not supposed to need this kind of support team just to buy my wife a gift,’ he muttered.

      Aimee was feeling sorry enough for herself without him adding his self-pity to the mix. She braced her fists on her hips. ‘Well, you can pout about it or you can get on with it. And you’ve dragged me out of a warm bed on our morning off, so if you’re going to pout I might just wander off and do my own thing.’

      He stopped and stared as she was towed ahead of him by the crowd. She turned back against the tide and tipped her head in enquiry.

      ‘You reminded me of my mother just then,’ he said as he caught up with her.

      ‘Flattering.’

      ‘In a good way. She’s very no-nonsense like that. She wouldn’t tolerate self-pity either. I’m not used to that outside of my family.’

      Aimee smiled as they set off again, feeling unaccountably light. ‘She and I would probably get on well, then.’

      ‘I know you would.’

      She detoured physically—and conversationally—stopping in front of a stall with handcrafted silk scarves blowing like medieval banners in the breeze. ‘What about one of these? They’re beautiful.’ The soft fabric blazed rich colour in the mid-morning light.

      Sam frowned. ‘What will she do with a scarf?’

      Aimee blinked. ‘Wear it?’

      ‘On her head? Isn’t that a bit … nanna-ish?’

      She dismissed the concern with a wave. ‘Think less nanna and more catwalk.’ She loosened one carefully from its tie point and caressed the cool, soft silk as it slipped through her fingers. ‘She can wear it like this …’ She looped it quickly around her throat in a fifties kind of knot.

      ‘Or like this …’

      She twisted it into different styles to show Sam the many ways Melissa—his wife, she corrected herself—could enjoy a beautiful scarf without it being old-fashioned.

      ‘Or if she’s really keen she can wear it like this.’ She tipped her head forward and twisted the scarf into a hippy headband, pushing it up the line of her shaggy hair. Then she struck an exaggerated catwalk pose and threw Sam a two-fingered peace sign, smiling wide and free.

      Blue eyes locked onto hers, entertained and glittering, and Aimee’s breath caught at the fire kindling deep in them. The fire she hadn’t seen since the careless, unmasked moment after she’d kissed him on the mountainside. Time froze as they looked at each other. But as she watched his smile dissolved, the flames flickered and extinguished, and two tiny lines appeared between his brows.

      Her confidence faltered and she let her peace sign drop limply to her side.

      ‘Very Woodstock,’ Sam finally said, carefully neutral, but stopped her as she went to slide the scarf off, curling his warm fingers around hers. ‘Leave it. Freedom suits you.’

      They stood like that—silently, breathless, his fingers coiled around hers—for dangerous moments.

      Freedom did suit her. The year since taking charge of her own life had been the best of her whole life. And the hours she spent with Sam the best of those.

      ‘I’ll have to buy it,’ she murmured.

      ‘Let me.’ His wallet was open and the stall holder’s hand was outstretched before she could do more than squeak in protest. He finished the transaction: efficient, no-nonsense. Very Sam.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, too unsettled by the gesture to protest. ‘Now we really need to get Melissa something.’ He slid a curious glance her way. She couldn’t help her fingers touching the scarf where it curled under her hair. ‘It’s going to be really dodgy if the only person you buy a gift for today is another woman.’ She laughed weakly.

      He took his receipt and turned to face her, eyes serious. ‘You’re not another woman, Aimee. You’re you. This is to show my appreciation. For your help today.’

      You’re you. What did that mean? Not worthy of ‘other woman’ status, or somehow outside of the definition? Genderless again. ‘We already had a deal. I help you with your gift and you help me with the interview. Quid pro quo.’

      ‘Today deserves extra credit.’

      A rare, uncomfortable silence fell between them as they stared at each other but then Sam’s eyes drifted over her shoulder, flared, and his face filled with animation.

      ‘What about a kite?’ he exclaimed, and was off.

      ‘Men really are just little boys in big bodies, aren’t they?’

      They sat at a weathered timber table beneath a canopy of fragrant flowering jasmine which defied gravity on the pergola over their heads, tucking into an early lunch of cheese, bread, СКАЧАТЬ