fit—that she could control. Running both exhausted and exhilarated her and helped keep the demons at bay.
‘Morning, Doc.’ A wide grin sliced across a weather-beaten face.
Kirby jogged on the spot next to a stack of crayfish pots and looked down at Garry Braithwaite, sluicing his fishing boat. ‘Morning, Garry.’
‘Everyone calls me Gaz, love.’
She noted his request for next time she greeted him. Acclimatising to Port was a lesson in letting go of city ways and shortening every long name and lengthening every short one. ‘Good catch?’
‘Not bad.’ He indicated a large white plastic trough filled with crawling crustaceans. ‘These beauties will be in Japan before you’re in bed tonight.’
‘That’s amazing.’ She glanced behind her at the fish co-op which was ablaze with lights. This was its busiest time of day as it accepted the catches of the local fleet. She turned back, a wistful tone in her voice. ‘Are they all going to Japan? Not even a few to the farmers’ market?’
‘Just the ones the co-op rejects. I’ve got about five.’ He started to wind up the hose, his expression cheeky. ‘Do you have a special dinner guest tonight, Doc? Perhaps you should talk to Deano and get some abalone.’
Kirby ignored the inference. In some ways coming to Port had been like stepping back in time. It appeared to be the small town’s opinion that no matter how qualified, successful or independent a woman was, if she was young and single she must be looking for a husband. A few months ago Kirby might have agreed. ‘Save me a small cray, Gaz, and I’ll catch you at the market in half an hour.’
She turned and switched on her MP3 player, and with her feet matching the thumping bass beat she ran toward the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the sweet smell of fruit muffins straight out of the oven and the scent of rich brown earth clinging to freshly picked produce.
She’d been trying to get to the market for the last three Saturdays but each time a sick patient had derailed her plans. Coming to Port was supposed to be the commencement of her GP training but within a week of starting as the town doctor, her mentor had fallen ill. Without supervision, Kirby was flying by the seat of her pants.
It was still early in the season but if the last weeks had been a typical Port Bathurst summer then she really needed some extra help as well as a mentor. She didn’t want to have to move again and find another GP programme, and returning to Melbourne was not an option. Surely there was an experienced doctor with a family who wanted to have an idyllic summer by the sea?
But Port Bathurst wasn’t Lorne or Sorrento, it didn’t have designer clothing shops, the mobile phone coverage was intermittent and the dial-up internet was really more down than up. The glory days of it being a gold-rush port had faded. Today it sat at the end of a very long road, with a large chunk of wilderness between it and the nearest town. Although all these things had been part of the charm that had drawn Kirby to the historic town, it seemed to put most people off. No one had answered her advertisement. Kirby surveyed the slowly building crowd. It was still early so there was a marked absence of teenagers but plenty of empty-nesters clutching well-planned lists, examining the fresh produce and enthusiastically haggling over prices. Toddlers and preschoolers full of energy zipped up and down between stalls, way ahead of their half-asleep parents. A man in his thirties walked past, pride radiating off him as he held his wife’s hand and wore a baby sling on his chest, his newborn snuggled against him fast asleep.
Family is everything. She steeled herself against Anthony’s uncompromising voice but it wasn’t enough to stop the ache that throbbed inside her whenever she glimpsed such a scene. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, rolled her shoulders back and kept walking. Forget eating healthy—right now she needed hazelnut coffee and a hot jam donut.
She unexpectedly paused, derailed in her quest by the sight of an old wooden trestle table groaning under the weight of bountiful vegetables. Arranged in groups for effect, the vivid colours of nature demanded attention. The red and green skins of the capsicums shone, the plump white ends of spring onions contrasted stunningly with the healthy dark green tails, and the ruby tomatoes promised an old-fashioned, rich flavour. The vividness of the colours astounded her and she was struck by how lush and enticing everything looked. These vegetables glowed with good health and were positively sexy.
‘Can I help you?’
The deep voice vibrated the air around her, moving it across her skin like a silk caress and leaving behind a tingling trail of unmet need. Completely stunned by her body’s reaction to a disembodied voice, she glanced up.
Emerald-green eyes, the colour of the bay, gazed down at her, swirling with hints of blue and dancing with undiluted charm. An indistinct memory stirred.
‘Anything take your fancy?’
You. She bit off the word that thundered hard and fast through her head and found her voice. ‘I’ve never seen vegetables like this before. The colours are amazing.’
He smiled and dimples carved into his cheeks, seeming to darken his early morning stubble. Surprisingly deep lines for a man who looked to be in his early thirties bracketed a wide mouth, and unexpected fine lines radiated from his eyes toward short dark hair streaked with silver. ‘Thanks. They’re my first crop of organic vegetables so I feel like a proud dad with his children.’
She raised her brows. ‘Except you’re selling them.’
He grinned. ‘Every kid has to go out and make their way in the world.’
She laughed. He was the most gorgeous farmer she’d ever met. Not that he really looked like a farmer despite the fact he had a cattle dog sitting quietly beside him. There was no sign of a battered hat and his pressed stone-coloured shorts contrasted with a fresh blue-and-white-striped short-sleeved shirt—smart, casual weekender clothes, the type that a man of the city would wear. A gym-buffed man of the city.
Working out in a gym could have given him his broad chest and wide shoulders but not the sun-kissed skin. Skin stretched over taut muscles and was covered by a smattering of golden hair which was in stark contrast to his darker head hair. No, this man’s body emanated a base power generated by sheer physical hard work.
She studied his face. Something about him seemed familiar and yet nothing about him prompted recognition.
His brilliant green eyes danced at her. ‘If you tell me what you’re thinking about, perhaps I can suggest a vegetable to match?’
Horrified that he’d caught her out staring at him as if he was on display like his stock, she randomly pointed to a stack of vine-ripened tomatoes. ‘I’ll take two, please.’ She noticed small white scars on the back of his hand as he reached across the table.
Long, tanned fingers picked up the red, round fruit and placed them lightly against her palm. ‘I recommend you spread hot, grainy toast with the local goat’s cheese in virgin olive oil, and then top it with thin slices of tomato covered with freshly ground pepper and some of my basil. You’ll be licking your lips and fingers to soak up every last wondrous morsel.’
An image of him languorously licking her fingers spun through her, making her dizzy. She’d obviously been working way too hard if her mind could just shoot off on dangerous tangents like that. She’d come to Port Bathurst to start over and to protect herself, and that didn’t mean melting into a puddle of lust at a stranger’s feet.
‘Right,
