Page 92 of Outback Secrets

Henri waved at them then hissed into his ear, ‘This is ridiculous. I could have used my crutches down here at least. You can’t carry me around all night.’

‘Just watch me. And try to enjoy yourself in the process.’

And honestly, it was hard not to while her arms were looped around his neck and his face so damn close that all she could think about was kissing him.

Somehow she resisted, as he bundled her into the Hilux. Less than two minutes later, they turned into the car park down by the beach.

‘Geez,’ he breathed, his eyes scanning for a parking spot. ‘I’ve never seen it so packed down here. People weren’t kidding when they said this was the Bay’s biggest event of the year. I didn’t even know this many people lived in here.’

Henri laughed. ‘There’ll be some tourists as well, but haven’t you ever been to the Christmas Tree before?’

He shook his head. ‘Haven’t had any reason to until now.’

They found a spot not too far from the main event and Henri waited for Liam to come around to her side to help her out. He paused to grab a backpack from the tray and slip it over his shoulders, then he lifted Henri out, so they could join the hordes of people flocking over the dunes towards the sound of Christmas carols already being played by the only band in town.

‘How’s the ankle?’ asked Frankie as she and Logan came up beside them.

‘Getting a lot better,’ Henri replied.

Frankie winked. ‘At least you’ve got your knight in shining armour to take care of you.’

‘Yeah, I’m pretty lucky,’ Henri agreed as she met Liam’s gaze.

‘I reckon I’m the lucky one,’ he said, and she didn’t know whether he was just saying that for the benefit of their audience or whether he meant it. It was getting harder and harder to tell what was real and what was fake.

‘Are you taking photos for the paper?’ she asked Logan, nodding towards the camera hanging around his neck.

‘Yep.’

‘That’s great.’ Henri was surprised he was able to with his deteriorating eyesight. Then again, Frankie said he wanted to do as much as he could while it was still possible.

He lowered his voice slightly. ‘It got me out of playing Santa Claus at least.’

‘Who’s SC this year?’ When she was little, the role had always been played by Bob Emerald, a local farmer, but when he died about four years ago, others had started taking turns.

‘Ryan,’ Logan replied.

Henri raised an eyebrow—not only was he about five decades too young for the role, he didn’t have an ounce of padding anywhere on his body.

Frankie smirked. ‘I think the last few years Santa has sent his hot grandsons to Bunyip Bay rather than come himself, but I’m not complaining.’

‘Who would?’ Henri said as they crested the dunes and looked down on the already crowded beach.

‘Where do you wanna sit?’ Liam asked as Frankie and Logan headed over to the small marquee to find Ruby, who was in charge of organising the evening’s proceedings.

Henri scanned the sea of people, picnic blankets, fold-up chairs and hundreds of blue eskies for a familiar face.

Before she could reply, her mother’s voice pierced the air. ‘Yoohoo, over here!’

‘Sorry, but Mum will kill us if we don’t sit with them,’ Henri said, nodding towards where she stood about ten metres away, waving her hands in the air like a lunatic. The rest of her family were either sitting on the sand surrounding their matriarch or playing not too far away.

Liam started towards them. ‘It’s fine. I like your family.’

‘They’re okay in small doses.’

He chuckled as he lowered her into a fold-up chair that Tilley vacated as they arrived. Greetings were exchanged—all Henri’s nieces and nephews came up to say hello before scattering again to join their friends—and then Liam tugged the bag off his back. She watched as he pulled out a picnic rug, spread it across the sand, and then proceeded to conjure even more, as if he’d borrowed Mary Poppins’s magic bag for the occasion. In addition to the rug there was an array of delicious-looking snacks.

‘Wow,’ Henri exclaimed as he held up a bottle of beer and popped the top. ‘You’ve really thought of everything.’