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 calledpasta madreor was thatLievito 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 breador was thatMother 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 todocumentary 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.’
Fourteen
