Page 22

Seated cross-legged on the bed in the spare room, with her computer resting on her lap, Romy inspected the previous day’s footage.

Notepaper sat beside her, while sticky notes covered the wall, detailing her many ideas for her documentary.

There were so many ideas, it was a struggle to squash the overwhelming feeling creeping up her spine, tightening across her shoulders.

This was a whole new world for her, a huge leap over the chasm of leaving her comfort zone, it squeezed her lungs with panic just at the idea of doing this project on her own.

Already the burden of carrying so much responsibility was starting to weigh her down.

What if she stuffed it up? Her name would no longer be hidden in the small print in the credits that no one read—except family, and those looking for skilled camera crews.

With no director or producer to hide behind, it was scary stuff going out on her own, especially when it came to working in such a niche world as documentary making.

She’d always planned on leading her own team, one day in the future. But was she ready to do this today ?

In need of a break, she scooted off the bed. It was barely six, but it was daylight already, as the divine aroma of warm roasted coffee greeted her in the hall.

After last night’s debacle of getting covered in hives, she’d scoffed down her steak and practically ran to her room to hide.

Even though she’d claimed tiredness—which was true—it was Stone’s guilty look she’d needed to avoid.

It wasn’t his fault she’d gotten hives. She should have checked what was in the salad, but she hadn’t thought they’d have seafood this far from the ocean.

The house was quiet, with the aquarium’s soft blue light barely illuminating the room. Through the tall wall of glass dawn created a soft glow that spread into the main living area, highlighting its high ceilings. During golden hour, this room would be spectacular.

And so was that coffee aroma.

At the state-of-the-art coffee machine, the pot of drip-filtered coffee stood ready. Along with a note: Help yourself.

Over the rim of her coffee cup, she deeply inhaled the rich aroma, but didn’t see Stone anywhere.

Stepping out to the back deck, the tropical oasis greeted her.

So cool and calming, it was like a holiday resort right at Stone’s back doorstep.

Even the air was sweet like a freshly watered garden, that mingled with the faint spice of blooming gingers and the clean, crisp aroma of the softly glistening pool that rippled as the shark fin broke the surface.

‘Morning, Finley.’ She crouched down to greet the funny little animal that was so happy to see her. ‘Don’t suppose you drink coffee?’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘Stone?’ She turned to find him wiping his face with a towel, while shirtless, with a rippling torso gleaming with sweat. Holy cow!

Stone put the heavy set of weights back on the rack, giving her a magnificent view of his muscular back. ‘How are the hives?’

‘Fine.’ Not that she could hide the marks she’d scratched on her wrists, or her blotchy face, but Romy wasn’t here to win hearts, because no one looked at the girl behind the camera.

Yet, Stone looked her over carefully. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘I did, thanks.’ She winced over her cup, spilling the truth. ‘And I didn’t.’

‘Eh?’ He stepped under an outdoor showerhead, pulled on a tap and water poured over him. It made her gulp her hot coffee so hard to not drool at this guy, all muscular and lean with muscles that corded along his thick thighs, and strong calves. Not to mention those arms.

Wait! Stop! She couldn’t do this with Stone—not when she was technically the help.

Not when she sucked at flirting with the quick-thinking, smug guy who’d effortlessly talked her into babysitting his house pets.

Yeah, that’d go down well, especially since playing the awkward fool wasn’t on her to-do list for today.

And anyway, what kind of man goes for someone red and blotchy, who was two seconds away from asking for a paper bag before going public?

This was nothing but a purely platonic situation. She’d made that clear right from the beginning when she’d begged to get into his ute, promising Stone a purely platonic dinner and two cartons of beer.

She also wasn’t desperate. After all, Romy was a professional, and this wasn’t a holiday. ‘I’ve started working on something.’

‘Good for you, shortcake. You can tell me all about it over breakfast. I did dinner, you can do brekkie. Excuse me, I need to cool off for a bit.’ He dove into the pond and disappeared under the deep shadows cast by the towering assortment of palm trees.

Cool off! She was about to break new heights in heat, drooling at this guy. It was enough to make her scurry back inside the kitchen and poke her head in the fridge.

Spotting the assorted fruit, she decided to make that fruit salad Stone was talking about last night.

But when Stone walked out of the pool, with the soft golden sunrise caressing his rippling muscular torso like a god, she was speechless enough to freeze on the spot—while burning up on the inside.

This man was so gorgeous, he could be the star of his own movie—where she’d live on popcorn and soda to never leave the cinema again.

Stone grabbed a towel to dry himself off, ruffling his hair in that messy wild look that was short at the back and sides.

It perfectly matched that sexy saunter belonging to a man who knew how to move in the wild.

Stone was rugged, handsome, and downright delicious on so many levels, he was basically a high-rise full of temptation—and she was caught somewhere between the warning label, the penthouse, and the fire stairs that might be her only escape.

‘What are you making for breakfast?’ He approached the counter and pinched a slice of the rockmelon she’d forgotten she was cutting.

‘Fruit salad.’ The fragrance of pawpaw, honeydew melons and strawberries filled the kitchen, like it was summer all over again. ‘I can whip you up some eggs. You’ve got plenty in the fridge.’ Even if it seemed odd talking about eggs after yesterday.

‘Omelette or scrambled?’

‘My omelettes always end up scrambled.’

Now why did he have to smile at her like that? Soft. Sexy. And so were those wet shorts that he hid behind the towel he wrapped around his waist.

She sighed way too loudly, as he inspected his fish tank where the light had automatically switched over from blue to a warm yellow, highlighting the ridges across his tanned torso.

‘A scrambled omelette sounds good. There’s ham in there, too. And I’m sure we’ve got plenty of last night’s bread to toast. I’ll bake some fresh bread later.’ Stone strolled around to the kitchen in that low-hanging towel.

It was so distracting she had to put down the sharp kitchen knife for fear of cutting herself.

Stone dragged over a jar from the corner of the bench, its contents milky, like a science experiment of sorts. He peeled back the plastic covering, gave it a sniff, then grabbed a new jar, some scales, warm water and flour. Was Stone going to bake a cake?

‘What is that?’

‘My sourdough starter.’

‘You make your own sourdough bread?’

Stone nodded at the bread, left over from dinner last night.

‘I’d never have guessed it.’ It was just one more thing to learn about this guy. What other hidden talents did Stone have tucked away like that gift that kept on giving? ‘How did you learn?’

‘I had this Italian backpacker teach me. It was her family’s recipe that she called pasta madre or was that Lievito Madre ?’

If Stone started speaking in fluent Italian, or French, or any other foreign language, she was going to faint in a good old-fashioned swoon across his kitchen floor if she wasn’t careful. ‘What does that mean?’ What are you doing to me, Stone?

‘ Mother bread or was that Mother Starter ?’ Stone shrugged with his back to her, his focus on the scales and sourdough starter. ‘Either way, she taught me to make sourdough pasta or pizza bases, and the odd tray of crackers for dips and beer sessions.’

‘Do you often get baking tips from your backpackers?’ Considering how easily he’d talked her into making breakfast, it was clear he was used to having guests—like she was used to bunking in with the film crew when on location.

‘It’s not what you think, shortcake.’

‘How would you know what I’m thinking?’ Seriously, Romy was unable to even think properly, not while the godlike man before her played with flour and a set of scales, dressed in just a towel.

‘This backpacker was a 64-year-old widow who’d just kicked cancer and was taking her bucket list trip with her grandson.’

‘How did she end up with you? Out here?’ She tried to ignore the freckles on his tanned shoulders, and how his back muscles moved so beautifully as he worked at the kitchen counter.

‘Finley needed a babysitter, and her grandson was keen on crocodiles. Good kid—helped clean out the ponds. The boys loved him. His grandmother, though? Sick of living on takeaway on the road, Maria took over my kitchen. I’ve never eaten so well.

She’s a proper Italian nonna, the kind who measures with her hands and scolds you if you do it wrong.

She taught me to hand roll fresh pasta, said a machine would ruin the soul of it.

Every Christmas she sends me homemade goodies—on the condition that I send her photos of her sourdough starter.

She even gives me baking lessons over video calls. ’

‘And here I was picturing pretty blonde Swedish backpackers, working on their tans by the pool.’ They were probably topless, too. Oh brother, didn’t that bother her to even think such a thing.

Romy tied her hair up into a tight ponytail as if to control her emotions. She was not jealous. No. Uh-huh. Not possible. Because they were purely platonic.

‘Oh, yeah, I’ve had a few European blondes here, too.’ The smirk was positively sinful.

See. Platonic. Yet, she cracked the eggs a little too hard into the bowl.

Romy didn’t have curves, or long flowing hair, she hardly wore make-up and couldn’t remember the last time she had a manicure. She dressed for work, not to draw attention to herself, but to blend in with her surroundings in the wilderness where she was quite used to not being seen.

Romy was plain, compact, and fuss free for a reason—because the passion for her job came first. She spent all her money on tools and equipment, on perfecting her craft as a cinematographer, working her way up to documentary filmmaker .

And in that field, she was just one of the guys.

Someone to joke around with, when working with a film crew of mostly men who’d lug their cameras around, like she did.

Stone stirred his sourdough concoction, then packed it all away, leaving the new jar, wearing some sort of colourful shower cap, to sit on the corner of the kitchen counter. ‘That’ll be good to set tonight. I’ll go shower for work while you do breakfast.’

Suddenly she remembered her other issue. ‘I need to show you something I spotted from the drone’s footage.’

‘What?’ Stone paused in the doorway. The silhouette of him wearing just a towel was going to be replayed forever in her daydreams.

‘Over breakfast?’ She needed him to get dressed first—because there was no way she’d be able to concentrate with Stone wearing just a towel. And this felt important. ‘It’s to do with the crocodile farm.’