A Bush Christmas by Margareta Osborn

attraction to this bloke.
    He was nothing like her usual boyfriends. They were normally debonair, lighthearted, fun-loving, out-to-have-a-good-time-regardless kind of men. A bit like herself. Well, that was until her dad died, leaving her all bereft. Good times didn’t seem to mean so much after his death. As if to have a good time was almost in violation of the sadness she felt.
    Now she was attracted to this man, a more serious, very country bloke. What gives? she wondered. It was weird. Really, really bizarre.
    But even ‘bizarre’ didn’t cut it, she decided, as Stirling walked back in the door and her heart just melted as he stood there, fresh from a shower. His russet hair curled at the ends, softly touching his tanned neck. A yummy set of broad shoulders were now encased in vivid green. His long legs were sheathed in faded denim blue jeans with a brown leather belt drawing attention to his trim waist. The man had no right to look so scrumptious. She could have eaten him right up. No, bizarre didn’t cut it at all. He was fantastic.
    Jaime touched the side of her mouth, checking to make sure her tongue wasn’t hanging out. It wasn’t but she clenched it firmly between her teeth just in case, and smiled brightly. ‘Time to retrieve your sponge?’
    Stirling didn’t move. For some reason his eyes were focused on her legs. She glanced down. Nothing strange there. Her knee was crossed over the other as she sat on the stool. She looked back up. He was still standing there, all silent and brooding, just staring.
    â€˜Ahem …’ She cleared her throat.
    Startled blue eyes dragged their way up to her throat, where they fastened on the V of her halter-neck top.
    Now there was one thing in life Jaime wished she had, and that was a bigger cleavage. She needed to squish her arms together to give the impression of a decent bust. But her arms weren’t together now and he was still staring.
    She peered down and there, sitting on her top, was a big blob of cake mixture. She lifted a finger, scooped it off and slid her finger into her mouth to suck the sweet mixture. Lavishly licking her skin, she gloried in her femininity, something she never would have done if she hadn’t downed a whole bottle of wine and just started on a second. Stirling’s flinty eyes watched every move. She licked and nibbled some more, enjoying having this man watch her do it.
    Until The Cat appeared, curling around the stockman’s legs. Stirling was jolted out of his trance, and leant down to scoop the creature up. Jaime’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. The Cat let him pick it up !
    â€˜You better get that cake out of the oven, otherwise it’ll be flat and burnt.’ The man leant against the doorjamb, stroking the feline which lay cradled in his arms like a baby. As The Cat stretched out its paw in obvious ecstasy, Jaime found herself wishing Stirling would stroke her like that.
    â€˜Yes. Right. The cake.’ Mind on the job, Jaime Josephina. She moved to open the oven door, grabbed a pot-holder and slid out the two sponges. They were beautiful. Tinged with light brown, crisp at the very edges, nice and high, looming over the tin.
    â€˜Now run a butter knife around the edges and tip them out onto that cake cooler with the clean tea towel on it.’ Stirling sounded matter-of-fact.
    How did a man who lived in the bush know all this finer cooking stuff?
    Jaime did what he said. And voilà! There they were, two featherlight sponges. She turned incredulous eyes towards the man still standing in the doorway, stroking The Cat.
    â€˜It worked!’
    â€˜Of course, Princess. I expected nothing less.’ And he grinned.
    Holy fuck! When the man really smiled, as in put his whole heart into it, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
    Oh crap, did she say that aloud? And why was he looking at her all funny?
    Jaime had to sit down.
    â€˜Are you feeling okay?’ Stirling