Sting (11 page)

“Just tellin’ it as it is.”

She pours my coffee into a large black takeaway cup, and then places the rolls and cookies into separate brown paper bags on the counter.

I hand her thirty dollars in notes, which should be ample, and wave her off when she scrimmages in the till to give me change.

“Thanks. Well, have a good day,” she chirps as she hands me my order.

“Oh, don’t worry. I will.”

“Will I see you later today?” she asks, a little coy this time.

“Guaranteed,” I promise. I knock on the counter twice. “Later.” I wink.

“Yeah, later.”

It’s gonna be a long fucking day, but it’ll all be worth it, just to see the smile on her pretty face again.

****

I drive my Ute into the drive-through section of the hardware store, and pick up the lengths of timber. I head into the main store, which is at least twenty aisles wide, and grab a new tube for the wheelbarrow tire, some rope to strap shit down, heavy-duty nuts and bolts, a measuring tape, spirit level and a few bags of quick-set cement. On the way to the register I find some grease spray for the gate and some hedge shears. I pay for it all and then load it into the Ute.

Now I just need to sort out the plants.

I walk back into the store to the outdoor garden section. After scouring a few rows of different shrubs and trees, I finally find the herbs and vegetables.

I pick up a punnet of sweet capsicums and read the planting guide. I really don’t have the time to be working out this shit, like if it’s the right time of season to plant now. I should’ve looked up this stuff last night. I hate shopping, and this here is not really my kind of shopping.

“Can I help you there?” a husky female voice says from close behind. I turn to face a tall, wiry-thin lady with curly blonde hair, skin-tight black jeans and a tight green polo shirt with the company logo on it. She looks about fifty or so and sizes me up like I’m her next meal.

I put down the capsicums. “Ah, yeah. Looking for some veggies and stuff. Whatever’s best for planting now.”

She pushes her tits out towards me. They’re obviously fake, given their unnaturally large size compared to the rest of her body. Her centre of gravity must be way off.
What is it with booby women in this town?

“I’d love to help you, handsome,” she purrs, running her open palm down my upper arm to my elbow. “I’m Sharon.” She extends her bony hand, and I shake it. Briefly.

I take a not-so-subtle step back and focus on the tomatoes to her right. Big Red. Roma. Truss. Heirloom. Aren’t tomatoes just tomatoes? I know there are small ones and bigger ones, but how can there be so many different types to choose from?

“I’ve got two large garden beds and I need stuff that’s easy to grow, you know, in season.”

“Sure, well, these truss tomatoes are very popular, but you’ll need some stakes. Have you got some already?”

“Nah, but I’ll get a few, thanks.” I take a look around, grab an abandoned trolley and return to her. She’s standing there with what looks to be half a dozen stakes in her hands. She positions them in the cart.

“Right.” I put a couple of punnets of tomatoes in the trolley. “What else is good?”

“For this warmer weather, it’s a good time for capsicums, cucumber, chillies, eggplant, shallots,” she says, pointing at each of the different varieties of punnets.

“Yup, all sounds good.” I grab a few of each punnet and add them to the trolley. “I need some herbs too, basil and thyme. The usual stuff.”

She leans in front of me and reaches for a punnet, blatantly brushing her tits against me.
Really?
She could have walked around me
. Touchy feely lady, back the hell off
. I’m trying to focus here.

“Here’s some sweet basil.” She hands the plant to me and moves in closer. I’m tempted to snatch it off her.

“I recommend some liquid fertiliser and some straw to keep the moisture in. It, um, sure does get hot here, huh?” She fans herself and then blinks her stupidly long, likely-fake eyelashes at me.

“Yup. Let’s get that stuff then.”

“Sure, handsome. This way.” She turns and leisurely walks away, swaying her almost non-existent hips as she leads me through a couple of aisles and helps me gather the rest.

“Interesting little project you’ve got going on here. You working on it solo?”

I raise an eyebrow, a silent question.
What’s her caper?

“Single then?” she asks.

Okay, enough.

“Actually, the triplets are really excited about getting out in the garden with
Daddy
. So is my wife, but she’s pretty far along in her pregnancy, so I’ll probably end up doing most of it myself.”

Her jaw drops, and she huffs. “Oh, um, well. That’s nice.” The fake forced smile that she gives me has me fist-pumping inside.
Take that, cougar.

“Right, well, thanks for the help. I’d better get back to the tribe.”

“Um. My pleasure. Good luck.”

I rush through to the checkout and then make a beeline for Willow’s.

****

Everything goes to plan.

Build the beds? Check.

Load the old shitty timber and weeds into the back of the Ute ready to take to the rubbish tip? Check.

Compost delivered, and topped up garden beds? Check.

Plants are planted, watered and fed? Check, check and check.

Finally, I fix the squeaky gate and give the hedge a cut, and load the trimmings into the back of my Ute.

Today, I totally dominated.

I’m feeling pretty fucking happy with myself. A bit of physical labour isn’t bad. And gardening, well, I actually kind of enjoyed it.
Who knew?
It was probably more the fact of
who
it was for than anything else. I followed the planting instructions to the letter, and hopefully I haven’t fucked it up.

Just before six o’clock I give the plants another water and lie down on the faded swing seat on the back veranda.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WILLOW

Pulling into my driveway I don’t know whether to be afraid or pissed off that someone has parked here. I know it’s a busy street, but in my driveway? I’m already in a mood, because I was looking forward to seeing Ryan again. He guaranteed that I’d see him again today.
His words
. And yet, no handsome fisherman in my café. It’s enough to make me want to scream and devour the nearest block of chocolate. I park on the street and get out to inspect the mystery car closer.

When I spy the neatly trimmed hedge out front, weeds and clippings piled high in the back of the vehicle, I let out a long breath.
Perhaps this is not as sinister as the conclusion I’ve jumped to.
Did Gabs organise a tradesman to tidy up? That sweet woman is always doing things for me.

I unlatch the gate to the backyard and it glides open like a dream.
What the fruitcake?

What sounds like a snore or a snort, comes from the back veranda. I look around for some kind of weapon, grabbing my broom, which is leant against the back of the carport. What am I going to do? Brush them to death?

I sneak along the path, creep up the timber steps, and nearly die at the sight before me.

Holy sharks!
There’s a sex god on my swing. It reminds me of Jake from
Sweet Home Alabama
, all mussed up, covered in grease and kicking back in his hammock.

I’ve ogled this man enough to know who he is, even though he’s wearing more clothes than usual and I can’t see his face. My straw hat, which I’d left on the swing seat, sits perfectly angled on his head, but I can still see his strong jaw covered in light stubble. Ryan is in a pair of filthy jeans and boots and a dirty white singlet top, that I’m guessing is the one he was wearing this morning.
Sigh.

Let’s see if I can have a little fun here.

I toss the broom aside and kick the edge of the swing back. Ryan snorts and then flails about as he sits up and regains balance. My hat falls to the ground.

“Hey,” he growls. A deep frown forms on his brow. The lines across his forehead fade when his eyes meet my curious gaze.

I stand with my arms crossed under my chest. “What ya doing there?”

With a dirty hand Ryan wipes what I’m presuming is drool from the edge of his mouth and then proceeds to blind me with a beautiful smile. “Just restin’ my eyes.”

“You’re not trying to bed in for the night? You looked pretty comfy, if you ask me.”

“No. I assure you. I
love
my bed.”
Okay. I don’t need that visual. On second thoughts, maybe I do. I can imagine him in bed later. When I’m alone.

“How did you find out where I live?”

He smirks.
Hello, beautiful dimple.
He rakes his fingers through his messy, sexy-as-anything hair.

I move my hands to my hips. “Have you been following me?”

“No, I haven’t. A certain lipstick-obsessed friend of yours gave me your address.”

Gabs.
I knew she was up to something.

“So besides dirtying up my veranda, what are you doing here?”

“Been workin’.” He stands and snatches my hand. His warm fingers entwine with mine. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Hand in hand, he guides me down the steps towards the back of the yard. When we reach the garden beds, which I barely recognise, my eyes well up.

The garden beds I’d been too busy to give attention to have been replaced with new timber. They sit higher than before, which means more good soil and room to grow. This has been on my to-do list since I got here. I’ve been dreaming of how I could potentially become self-sufficient, at least in the herb and vegetable department. I want to be able to produce more of my own organic produce.

I move a step closer and take in a deep breath of the earthy smell of wet dirt and straw filling the air around us. To say I’m impressed with Ryan’s handiwork is an understatement.

“So, whaddya think?” he asks. I cut my gaze to him, and he’s standing there, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, his chest out proud. He rocks back and forth on his heels and smiles as bright as the setting sun glaring behind him. This man …
sugar
.

“Ryan, it’s …” I stumble for what else to say. No one has ever done something like this for me. This man, who I barely know, has surprised me by doing something that has truly touched my heart. I’m so passionate about our little café and my food, and Ryan has cut right to the thing that means so much to me. But not only that, Ryan has given me more hope to believe that there’s somebody out there for me. He could very well be it.
My future
.

“Thank you,” I whisper, as tears trail down my face.

I take two quick steps towards him and jump up, throwing my arms around his broad, sweaty shoulders. He catches me and his strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off the ground. The mad thumping of my heart compels me into action—I kiss him hard on the cheek and squeeze him with all my might.

Sugar.

What am I doing now? Literally throwing myself at him?

I move my hands to his chest and push back. “Um, sorry,” I mutter.

He loosens his hold on me and I glide down the front of his body, and yes, I notice the bulge in his jeans.
Boy, do I notice
. He rounds his hands over my shoulders to steady me and drills me with those chocolate-brown eyes. I lick my lips. Mmm. Remnants of his salty skin tease my tastebuds with the hope of more. His eyes focus on my mouth and a hearty chuckle rumbles up his throat.

“Don’t be sorry, Blondie. I’ll take a thanks like that any day.”

He traces his thumbs over my cheeks, the playfulness in his eyes now gone. “But no tears, ’kay?”
Aw. What a sweetie.

“They’re happy tears, Ryan. I promise.” I give him a soft smile. He dips his head and rests his forehead on mine.

“Good to hear, because I never wanna be responsible for any other ones.”

I can’t imagine you would be.

I reach up and wipe my lip-gloss from his cheek.
Even though I like the look of it there.
I slip my hand into his and pull him closer to the plants.

“Come on, tell me about my garden. Are you much of a gardener?” Seeing him all dirty like this leads me to believe that this man has more talents than merely working on a boat.

“Let’s just say that after today, I know a bit more. I can’t take all the credit, though. Some bird, Sharon, helped me get stuff in season.”

Oh no
. Sharon Pitman. Otherwise known as Town Gossiper. Void of morals. Renowned boyfriend/husband stealer. Needless to say, she is
not
my cup of tea. I shudder at the thought of Sharon all over him. She wouldn’t have been able to hold herself back. Fresh meat in town is too enticing. I’ve heard the stories. Given half the chance, she’d have taken him out the back and given him a blow …

“What did you plant?” I ask, diverting my thoughts. Surely Ryan wouldn’t be attracted to someone like Sharon? I look into his warm eyes, which are focused solely on me. No. I can’t see it.

He grips my hand and leads me to the far row of planting, where a few timber stakes are positioned with plants close to the base. Straw is spread around, no doubt to keep the moisture in. I’ll have to make sure I keep the water up.

“I stuck all the planting guide thingies at the end of the rows so you know what’s what. We’ve got truss tomatoes at the end here, capsicums, shallots, and some other stuff and herbs. I made sure I used all organic fertiliser stuff, too.”

“Just the kind of plants I wanted. There’s nothing like the flavour of home-grown tomatoes. They taste a hundred times better.”

Our hands swing as we walk between the beds, inspecting the seedlings. He’s really done an incredible job. What did I do to deserve such a thoughtful … friend?

“You fixed my gate, too, and the hedge … I almost didn’t recognise the place. Thank you. It’s a beautiful thing you’ve done.”

“No worries,” he says, humble as anything.