Happy Mother's Day!

But he soon cringed as her right eyebrow flickered and threatened to shoot skyward. It had been so long since he’d had to ingratiate himself to someone new he was obviously pretty rusty. Had he said something wrong? Had it sounded like some sort of chat-up line? But he wasn’t trying to chat her up. He was just chatting.

She blinked up at him, her mouth twisting as she warily weighed his words. ‘Seven years,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve never met a live one in the real world before. I had kind of reached the conclusion you guys were all well-trained robots kept in some warehouse up Max’s Port Douglas headquarters,’ he said before he had even tried the words out in his head.

Note to self—think before you talk.

Siena looked down at her bare feet, her shaggy curls flicking over her head. ‘Do I look like a robot?’

‘Oh, no. You seem plenty real to me,’ he said. And, okay, that time he meant every ounce of flirtation wholeheartedly. How could he not? It felt so darned good.

When she looked back up James was awarded a lopsided smile brimming with appreciation for his efforts and somewhere deep down inside him something shifted. Big time. Not at all prepared for such a shift, he tried to shift it back. But it was too late.

As James struggled internally, her eyes narrowed as though she was trying to figure him out. Or perhaps she was just trying to place him. Maybe they did know one another. Maybe that was all this shifting sensation was. Not attraction but familiarity. He was about to ask if they had met before, but even he knew that would absolutely sound like a line.

‘Firstly,’ she said, spare hand now firmly on her jutted out hip, ‘I am not just any old flight attendant. I am one of the top Cabin Directors on MaxAir’s international corridor. And secondly, the only reason I am in this get-up, rather than my favourite Dolce suit, pristine make-up, without a wind-up key sticking out of my back, thank-you very much, is because some kid spilt cola all over me on the plane up here from Melbourne. Please tell me Kane-o doesn’t drink cola.’

Kane-o? What was this woman on? Whatever it was he wanted some.

‘He doesn’t drink cola,’ James repeated like a good little acolyte, eternally grateful he had thought before saying that last gem out loud. ‘Matt showed Kane the cola and coin trick and Kane is now petrified of the stuff. He’s more scared of cola than he is of the dark.’

As he had really hoped they would, her bow mouth kicked up at the corner and her ocean-green eyes sparkled. Damn it, but she was lovely.

‘Excellent,’ she said, nodding so hard her curls bounced about her ears before settling in messy disarray, framing her flushed cheeks.

‘Excellent,’ James repeated, his voice sounding heavy and languid in the hot air. Was the air hot? The air-conditioning was on but it sure felt hot.

The room went quiet as the two of them ran out of things to say. James searched for a conversation topic but he could find nothing. His mind was too full with the warring tangle of magnetism and self-reproach for daring to go there in the first place.

‘So, is the tow-truck on its way?’ Siena asked, setting the glass on the sink with such care he wondered if she had read his mind. She tugged on her ear. ‘You were on the phone a minute ago.’

‘It’s on its way.’

Siena felt awash with relief at the news. She didn’t want to have to call Rufus, Max’s complimentary driver, charming, chatty and playful as he was. Not. But it was time to go.

Mostly because after accidentally reading James’s blog she now knew why those cool grey flecks shrouded his once happy eyes. And, rather than making her feel further estranged from his situation, she felt … moved. Moved enough to stay cooped up in his suburban kitchen trading wisecracks when she should have been busy getting on with her day. The truth was she itched to see what would happen if that half-smile of his morphed into the real thing.

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But that didn’t matter, because in two days she would be on a plane back to Melbourne—either to bury herself in the employment section of the newspaper or, if she was able to convince Max of it, packing her bags for a move to Rome—the furthest place from Cairns she could imagine.

It suddenly occurred to her that she was mirroring James’s stance exactly, or he was mirroring hers, casually leaning against the kitchen bench, hands leaning inches apart along the sink’s edge, knees pointed to one another. Yep, it was way past time for her to go.

‘Excellent,’ she said again, clapping her hands together nice and loud to break through the loaded silence. ‘I’ll wait outside. Must make sure they take the car where I want it to go lest my brother kill me.’

She backed away towards the front door, thinking that might be goodbye, but James followed, watching her with those dark, sombre, but really quite lovely eyes of his. She again felt the atypical thread of longing and attraction tugging her through the midriff.

Uh-uh. Nope. No way …

She skipped over to the piano, grabbed her tipped-over handbag and then made a beeline for the front door.

In her haste she tripped backwards over a rug at the front door. James reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her upright until they stood nose to nose.

While her balance steadied her breathing pace rocketed away. James’s workman’s grip was strong. Her wrist burned from his touch. She caught a waft of wood shavings and cedar oil. The guy smelled of tradition and family and home.

A flash of memory caught her off-guard. Her dad used to insist the dining table remain polished to a high shine. She’d always had the feeling her mother had liked it that way and he had continued the tradition after she was gone. It had been one chore she hadn’t minded, the smell of cedar so delicious, the act of running oil over a smooth surface calming, productive, helpful, always eliciting a pat on the head from her dad when the deed was done.

The memory, the scent, the house, him—it was all so heady she felt herself swaying.