Man Drought (14 page)

His heart flipped over at the undeniable flirtation in her voice. And dammit, he wanted to flirt back. But that wouldn’t be right.

‘So, how did you afford it?’ he asked instead. ‘I know Cathy and Trev were hanging out to go, but it couldn’t have been that cheap. And you’ve done a lot of work there already.’

‘Jamie had good life insurance,’ she explained. ‘My parents tried to get me to invest it in shares, but where’s the sense of adventure in that?’

‘Nowhere,’ he agreed, realising that her spark and sense of adventure were two of the things he liked about her. She wasn’t afraid to get stuck in, to get dirty – he’d seen that yesterday when he turned up in the ambulance and saw all that she’d achieved in a day.

‘As for experience,’ she continued, ‘I’ve worked in a flash bar in Subiaco almost since I finished high school, managing it for the last four years. I haven’t got any theoretical training in hospitality or business, but what I don’t know, I reckon I can learn. Any further questions?’

‘I think I’m satisfied for now,’ he said, trying not to smile.

‘Good.’ She adjusted herself in the seat, angling her face towards him. ‘Because you were about to tell me about your family and why Charlie and your mum aren’t on happy terms.’

‘I was?’

‘You were.’

‘All right, all right.’ They still had an hour’s drive ahead of them, she’d spilt her heart, and he certainly didn’t want to talk about Serena. ‘About a month ago, Mum came for a visit and tried to convince Charlie to go with them to Perth.’

‘To live?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. And taking Charlie away from the bush would be like taking chocolate away from a woman with PMT. He told them exactly this, but Mum was adamant. She was staying with him for a few days and said she was worried about him living on his own, that she thought he was getting forgetful. She managed to convince Dad and Paris, and they all jumped on the bandwagon, trying to convince Charlie that he’d get a lot out of moving into one of those retirement homes. They totally ambushed him.’

‘Ouch. No wonder he doesn’t want to visit. I can’t imagine anyone telling Charlie what to do.’

‘No, and as you can imagine, he didn’t take kindly to being told they thought he was past it. He was already forced off the farm and into a place in town when Mum wanted to turn the house into a B&B and use his room for guests. That idea didn’t take seed, but he’d moved by the time she changed her mind. No way was he going to move again. After raising a son, and then sharing the house with a daughter-in-law and eventually two grandchildren, he realised he liked living alone. Then Mum mentioned Alzheimer’s and he really lost it.’

‘Oh.’

‘What’s “oh” supposed to mean?’

She hesitated a moment, bit down on her lip before saying, ‘Well, it’s probably nothing. It’s just—-’

‘What?’ He cut in before she had a chance to continue. Discussions about Charlie’s health set him on edge. If he were wrong and Charlie was going downhill, his mother and Paris would never let him forget it.

‘Relax, I’m trying to explain.’ She leaned forward and switched off the radio that had been playing low. ‘I don’t know anything about dementia but I can’t help but notice that Charlie
is
very forgetful.’

‘He’s old. He’s supposed to be forgetful.’ He forced himself to keep the annoyance out of his voice. She was beginning to sound like his mother.

‘Do you want me to go on or not?’

His turn to sigh. He stared at the road ahead. ‘Sure. Go on.’

‘It’s just little things and not all the time,’ she explained, ‘but I often have to give him instructions more than once. And occasionally I’ll give him a job to do and have to go looking for him because he gets distracted and starts on something else. They’re not big things, but they’re adding up.’

‘Charlie loves working at the pub.’

‘I know,’ she rushed, ‘and I’m more than happy to keep him on as long as his forgetfulness doesn’t get out of hand. But I do wonder if there isn’t more to it than old age.’

‘Nah.’ Gibson shook his head, refusing to believe it. ‘I’m no Alzheimer’s expert, but he’s pretty together for his age. He pays all his own bills, keeps his house clean, does his own shopping. He’s practically a walking encyclopaedia of general knowledge. He still remembers people and always cooks for himself.’ He pushed aside the recollection of how flustered Charlie got that day Gibson had arrived and cooked him lunch – or the time in the shop when he’d forgotten Imogen’s shopping list.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Both sets of my grandparents died young, so I haven’t had much experience with old age.’

‘But I appreciate your concern,’ he said, not looking at her as he spoke. Since his parents had moved to Perth, the responsibility of looking out for Charlie had fallen solely on his shoulders. Although he didn’t mind, and certainly didn’t see it as a chore, it was good to
know Imogen also cared about him. She seemed like the kind of woman who cared about everyone she came in contact with.

The kind of woman who, once upon a time, would have been just his type.

When Imogen and Gibson turned off the highway and into town later that night, the main street was deserted. Security lights glittered in the few shops and dull streetlights struggled to illuminate the road, but the pub was lit up like a Christmas tree. Shadows moved in the windows and a Lee Kernaghan tune blared through the open door. Lights along the verandah showcased bunches of blue balloons on every pole.

‘What’s going on?’ Imogen asked as Gibson slowed the ute in front of the building.

‘The balloons are for Amy,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s a country tradition. Whenever someone in town has a baby, pink or blue balloons are hung outside their workplace to spread the good news.’

‘Aww, that’s really sweet.’ Imogen sighed as he parked. ‘I wonder who organised it?’

‘Probably Karen,’ he predicted. ‘Your new female staff wouldn’t know about the custom – and I can’t see any of the blokes getting it together.’

But he was wrong. When they entered the pub a few moments later, they almost tumbled over in shock at what they saw. Heads swivelled to greet them with full-face smiles. Charlie, Cal and Pauli stood among the punters, lifted their glasses and shouted, ‘Surprise!’

Not only was the painting finished, the floors were polished to the perfection of a diamond, the new furniture was in position and the vintage signs she’d spent weeks hunting down were now hung around the walls in the exact positions she’d anticipated. Someone
must have found her plan. Imogen pressed her hand against her chest, trying to take it all in. Words eluded her.

‘Here, come sit down.’ Cal rushed over, took hold of Imogen’s elbow and led her to a stool. Charlie reached across and placed a tumbler of something yellow in front of her. She gulped it down, grimaced at the taste and then took another look around her.

‘Wow.’ It really was the only word for it. ‘I thought I said to leave the work till I came back.’ She glared at Cal and Pauli, but in an appreciative, happy way.

They held up their hands and Pauli nodded to Charlie. ‘It was all his idea. He rallied the troops early this morning, filled them all with caffeine, and they’ve only just knocked off. He also organised the balloons out front. Did you seen them?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’ Imogen smiled at Charlie, finding it hard to get even two words past the grateful lump in her throat. Perhaps her fears about his mental health were unfounded after all.

Everyone looked at her expectantly. Despite feeling like she could curl up in bed right this second and unsure if she could string together a coherent sentence, she wanted to say a few words.

Instinctively, she looked for Gibson, but he’d already taken a position at the other end of the bar, far away from her. Her heart sank. They’d shared such easy camaraderie during the journey home that she stupidly thought all his standoffishness would be over, that maybe they could be friends. But one look at him now and she knew she’d thought wrong. He couldn’t even meet her gaze. He hadn’t said much since she voiced her worries about Charlie. Maybe he didn’t appreciate her interference. Maybe he was angry.

Pulling herself together, she straightened her shoulders and stood. Cal whistled to get everyone’s attention, which wasn’t really necessary. Imogen cleared her throat and silently prayed for inspiration.

‘Thanks. I wish there was more I could say, but you are all amazing. I can’t thank you enough for giving up your weekend. The place looks fabulous – far better than I imagined – and so perfect for a top secret idea I have.’

Her staff looked at her with intrigue and Wazza shouted, ‘Tell us! Don’t be a tease!’ She sensed Gibson looking as well, but she resisted the impulse to turn and check.

‘I’ve got a few things to investigate before I can tell you more, but let’s just say, I’m hoping all this hard work will reap
you
some rewards as well.’

With time for one more round of drinks, Imogen forced herself off the stool to take over from Charlie, who deserved a break. For a change, he didn’t resist, instead making a beeline for Gibson. They sat at the very end of the bar, a visual distance from everyone else, Charlie grinning as Gibson talked. Imogen tried not to stare, ignored the desire to buzz about and eavesdrop on their conversation, but it was like ignoring a full block of chocolate in the fridge. If she was curious about Gibson before, now she felt like she could burst with the desperate need to know more about him.

In almost four hours of solitude they’d talked about practically everything under the sun – she’d shared her painful story about Jamie and they’d discussed Charlie at length – but he’d given nothing away about his ex-wife and their divorce. She shouldn’t care; there was no logical reason for her to give a fig why his wife had left him, but dammit she did. Had she always been this nosy? Or had landing in a small town where everyone was supposed to know everything about everyone else sent her over the edge?

The other men in the pub were an open book – one she could write herself if she had five minutes to do so. Warren was a larrikin, desperate to have fun and get laid; Guy was similar, but she got the impression that deep down he longed for something more serious. Then there were the others: farmers, farm hands, guys that
worked in the nearby mine. She could take one look at any of them and pretty much guarantee what they were thinking, but all her woman’s intuition flew out the window when it came to Gibson Black.

It irritated her that she cared, so she was almost relieved when he finally pushed off his stool and said goodbye to Charlie. She feigned busyness, wiping the bar with a vigour it didn’t need, her heart pumping all the while as she wondered if – stupidly hoped – he’d stop and say goodbye to her, acknowledge what they’d shared. She got a goodbye, albeit a brief one, which included Cal and Pauli in the equation.

‘Night girls.’

He waved as he swaggered towards the exit, looking absolutely dapper despite sitting in a hot ute for the last four hours. As a hot flush swept over her, Imogen found herself helpless to do anything but stare.

‘See ya. Bye.’ Cal and Pauli tossed careless farewells in Gibson’s direction, yet Imogen couldn’t even manage one word. How could they not be affected?

She wanted to run after him. She wanted to grill him about whether he’d resume his daily visits to Charlie now, to ask him all the questions she’d neglected to ask in his ute. She wanted to
do
things with him, and although she would never admit it to anyone else, she could no longer fool herself. Where Gibson Black was concerned, Imogen was losing a battle.

That night, she again found it difficult to talk to Jamie.

Gibson had always been a sleeper. His mother happily told anyone who’d listen that when he was a boy, she’d barely have left his bedroom after kissing him goodnight before he started to snore. In reality, Gibson was pretty certain he didn’t snore – neither Serena nor any of the other women he’d been with had ever complained in that department – but he humoured his mum because the rest was true: he did love to sleep, and usually he was gone within a few seconds of laying his head on his pillow.

But the past few nights, sleep had proved near impossible. Even on Sunday, following an eight-hour round trip after being up before dawn to check the sheep, he spent the night tossing and turning and wishing he’d had longer with Imogen to chat. He didn’t care to analyse this fact and was glad that pretty soon he’d start seeding on Roseglen, giving him something to focus his energies on other than things that weren’t meant to be.

He glanced at his digital alarm clock again and groaned. Four-thirty.
If he got up now, he’d have most of his jobs done before the sun even rose. But what would he do with the rest of the day? While pondering this quandary, a brilliant idea popped into his head.

Boot camp!

Wazza and Guy had been hassling him to join their crazy exercise regime since they started it, just before Christmas, supposedly to keep the football team fit during the off months. He’d never seen the appeal before – believing that those who worked on the land got enough exercise going about their daily routines and didn’t need structured fitness drills – but lately he’d begun to look at boot camp in a whole other light.

Staying away from the pub hadn’t done the trick, cold showers weren’t working, and counting sheep was a joke. Gibson needed to put his body through something harsh, something that would tire him out and put an end to the fantasies he knew he shouldn’t be having.

Glad to be doing something proactive, he got out of bed with a new spring in his step. As he entered the kitchen, Jack and Jill peered sceptically at him from their beanbag – he swore a look of anxiety flashed between them.

‘It’s okay, sooks,’ he told them as he filled the kettle and then flicked the switch. ‘Go back to sleep. I don’t need you this morning.’ He bypassed breakfast and took his cuppa into the study to start on some bookwork. He churned through the invoices he’d been putting off for almost a month and then updated his records on Agrimaster. Finally, when the sun was just nudging the horizon, he turned off the computer and put on his footy shorts, a t-shirt and sneakers.

He didn’t see another car as he drove into town but when he turned into the oval there was already quite a crowd. Chris – who led the bootcamp – Wazza, Guy, a couple of other farmers, some shearers and the local cop were assembled in the middle of the field doing stretches.

‘Well, well, well,’ Guy called as Gibson got out of the ute. ‘Never thought we’d see you here.’

‘You rabbit on enough about something, I have to come test it out,’ Gibson replied, scratching the side of his head and hoping desperately that this would work. He joined the rest of the group and dropped into a thigh stretch. The guys were a few seconds into the next stretch – a hammy – when the three men in front of him looked up and let out low whistles of surprise.

Chris’ mouth dropped open. ‘Holy shit.’

Of course Gibson turned to look, but the words that almost slipped from his lips were much harsher than ‘holy shit’. He balled his fists at his sides and resisted the childish urge to kick the near-dead grass. What was
she
doing here?

‘Looks like it’s our lucky morning,’ said Guy under his breath, so that only Gibson could hear him.

His chest tightened at Guy’s words for a number of reasons, ‘lucky’ not being one of them. While the blokes around him practically tripped over their sneakers in the rush to go forth and welcome Imogen, Gibson hung back. Despite the obstruction of the men in front of him, the visual of Imogen jogging their way was impossible not to appreciate. She was wearing those tiny shorts again, and a top that wasn’t wet like that other time but may as well have been thanks to its minuscule fit. His imagination ran away with itself as he stood there like a cardboard cut-out, unable to control the thoughts rushing through his mind and sending messages south.

‘Must be the morning for newcomers,’ said the local cop. ‘Something in the air?’

‘Oh? Am I not the only newbie?’ Imogen asked, sounding pleased by the fact.

Like the Red Sea folding back, the blokes in front of Gibson stepped aside, and before he could school his expression to one of nonchalance, Imogen looked up and met his gaze.

Somewhere to the side of him, he thought he registered one of the guys speaking – ‘This is Gibson’s first time too’ – but he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, because it was taking everything he had to concentrate on breathing.

‘Really?’ Imogen grinned, but he fought the desire to smile back. ‘What a coincidence.’

A damn nuisance was what it was. How the hell was he supposed to rid his body of the tension she was solely responsible for creating with her parading around half-naked alongside him? He should just go, suddenly recall an urgent job that had to be done on the farm. But right about now that elusive cat had his tongue clamped tight.

Something had shifted between them during their drive from Perth. They’d talked – really talked – and he could no longer write her off as a city chick with fanciful ideas she’d soon get bored with. But now, he realised, it’d be easier if she were. He liked and respected her, and found her attractive too, which complicated things.

‘You’ve missed the stretches,’ Chris told Imogen.

She shrugged. ‘I jogged here, so I’m warmed up already.’

Not as warm as him, Gibson bet, and not as warm as her other fans either.

‘Let’s form a couple of rows,’ Chris went on. Before he’d finished the instruction, the other men were scrambling to be one of the lucky ones on either side of Imogen. Not Gibson. For self-preservation, he chose the row in front of her and at the opposite end. He threw himself into the push-ups, trying to block out his surroundings and just exert himself.

All was going swimmingly until Chris announced they should all turn the other way. Next on the agenda were lunges across the oval and it couldn’t have been more torturous. But it wasn’t the agony of Gibson’s thigh muscles contracting with each move that tormented him – that kind of exertion was why he’d come – it was
the hell of watching Imogen’s already tight butt contract each time
she
made the move. The agony of knowing, no matter how much he longed to make another kind of move, it wouldn’t be right.

Somehow he made it through the hour, doing his best not to drool like the other guys. Did Imogen notice their attention? Did she care? She trained with equal vigour as the men, pushing herself further with each excruciating exercise. When they were done, she mentioned popping to the public conveniences and he grabbed the chance to leave before she came out.

As he stooped to pick up his water bottle, Wazza and Guy came up alongside him. Guy slapped him on the back. ‘Did she tell you she was coming this morning?’ he asked with a grin.

Gibson flinched and straightened to a stand, leaving the bottle at his feet. ‘No. Why would she?’

‘I’ve been thinking about our bet,’ Wazza said, before taking a sip from his own water bottle. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then added, ‘I think Guy should be out, and I was wondering if you’d like a little wager?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Gibson said, irritated and pretending he had no recollection of his mates’ stupid bet.

Guy was only too pleased to remind him. ‘Remember Waz and I had that bet about who could bed Imogen first? Well, apparently I’m out.’

Wazza made a scoffing noise and elbowed his mate. ‘He’s out because he’s gaga over Jenna.’

Guy shrugged and smiled smugly.

‘Besides,’ Wazza continued, ‘there’s the Female Friendship Code of Honour to consider.’

‘The what?’ Gibson looked towards the toilet block, not wanting Imogen to overhear this crass conversation, and wondering if his buddies were ever going to grow up.

‘Guy’s ruined his chances with Imogen, hasn’t he? Even if he
were still interested, there’s no way she’d ever sleep with him after he did the deed with one of her BFFs. Seriously, it’s how women think. So I was thinking maybe
you’d
like to take up the challenge? What do ya say?’

Gibson grimaced and shook his head. ‘I say you need to grow up and start treating the woman’, he couldn’t bring himself to say her name in this context – ‘with a bit of respect.’

Wazza and Guy raised their eyebrows at the reprimand but he didn’t plan on sticking around to explain himself. He might not always agree with them, but generally he found their antics amusing. Not today.

Despite the sweat swimming on his skin, the morning’s exertion had not been the success he’d hoped for. He still felt tight and strung up in all the wrong places. He stooped again, this time snatching his keys and water bottle. Without a goodbye to his friends, he strode across the grass to his ute.

In the ladies’ bathroom, Imogen splashed water on her face and then looked into the mirror, silently congratulating herself for getting through an hour of exercise with Gibson sweating in close proximity. He was the reason she’d finally decided to give boot camp a shot, but she’d never in her wildest imagination considered he might be part of the group. He didn’t seem the sort – yes, he had a great body; yes, she’d noticed – but it looked the type you achieved through hard manual labour, not structured exercise.

The way he achieved his sixpack didn’t matter, but the fact he’d been invading her thoughts since the night she returned from Perth did. It had been one hot fantasy after another, with Jamie’s face constantly interchanging with Gibson’s in the sordid dreams that came every night.

She’d heard men joke about taking cold showers and throwing themselves into physical chores to tame overzealous hormones, and in the early hours of this morning, boot camp had seemed the nicer option. Now she wished she’d just stood under the shower and let the cold tap work its magic.

She’d never felt so strung up in all her life.

She sighed and stared again at her reflection, wondering what was happening to her. Before coming to Gibson’s Find, she’d had to deal with grief and worries about how to direct the rest of her life, but she’d never contemplated having to face this kind of quandary. She’d adored sex with Jamie – loved the way he always made her feel so cherished – and they had a healthy sex life, but usually he was the one that initiated. Just her luck, her libido had come into its own when she no longer had a sparring partner, when she no longer had the option to crawl into someone’s arms and lose herself.

Telling herself she couldn’t hide in the bathroom all day, she took a deep breath and ventured outside. Yet as soon as she exited the conveniences, her whole body jolted at the sight of Gibson only a few metres away, striding towards his ute.

‘Hi there,’ she called, wanting to reclaim some of the ease that had flowed between them on their trip back from Perth.

He stopped, turned slowly and gave her a look that made her wish she hadn’t said anything at all.

‘Have I done something wrong, Gibson?’ She folded her arms across her chest, determined to get a straight answer. ‘I thought we were friends now. Why are you giving me the cold shoulder again?’

‘Leave it,’ he practically growled. His eyes narrowed and a storm looked to be brewing in his pupils.

‘No.’ She let her voice rise. ‘What is it with you? Is it because of your wife? Is it me? Or are you like this with everyone? I thought we got on well the other day, why can’t you—-’

He clamped his fingers around her arm and tugged her round the side of the building, out of view of everyone else. At the skin-on-skin contact she lost her train of thought. She found her back up against the bricks with him standing in front of her, still holding her wrists and oh-so-incredibly close. Their eyes met for one brief second and she didn’t know whether to scream or to lean forward and touch her lips against his.

Before she could make her decision, he took it out of her hands.

One moment she was contemplating a kiss, the next his mouth was on hers and she was melting. All the anger, all the tension that had been building up these past few days – weeks even – evaporated at the taste of him. It had been so damn long, yet instinctively her body knew how to react – her hands found their way to his neck and up into his hair. She revelled in the feeling as she pulled him closer to deepen the kiss. He groaned, but didn’t break away, slipping his tongue inside her mouth and, in doing so, turning her insides upside down. She clung to him, not wanting the moment to end, not wanting real life to intervene when this fantasy was perfectly delicious. But eventually they needed air.

As quickly as he’d come to her, he pulled away. Wiped his lips, rolled his eyes, shook his head, tried to thrust his hands into pockets he didn’t have. The whole caboodle of regret. She stood there in pleasant shock as he clamped his hands behind his head instead.

‘That’s why!’ He all but glared at her. ‘That’s why I’ve been keeping my distance.’

‘Huh?’ She could barely think, but his words made no sense.

‘I’m attracted to you, dammit.’ He quickly peeped around the corner to check they hadn’t been sprung. ‘Happy now?’

A rush of endorphins flooded her. She let his confession sink in. Pushing aside the image of Jamie that snuck into her head, she instead thought of Jenna’s advice and how marvellous she’d felt only seconds before. Unfortunately, her friend was right – her libido
hadn’t died alongside her husband and she couldn’t ignore the joy that ignited inside her at Gibson’s admission, the rush that came from his kiss. The encounter fuelled the illicit thoughts she’d been harbouring. Scared, hopeful, anxious, she finally found her voice. Smiling up at him, desperate to soften his scowl and maybe score a replay, she tipped her head to one side. ‘Is that such a problem?’