Awakened By His Touch. Nikki Logan

system.’

      They walked on to the steady reassurance of the sound of gravel crunching under eight feet.

      ‘Your property is beautiful. This peninsula is extraordinary.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Have you ever lived anywhere else?’

      ‘Why would I? It’s perfect here. The wildlife. The space.’

      His lagging steps pulled him further behind. ‘The beaches...’

      There was more than just tension in his voice. There was apology in the way he cleared his throat.She quarter-turned her head back towards him as she continued onward and the penny dropped.

      Wilbur’s quiet growls down by the water... ‘That was you?’

      ‘I was using the lookout. I didn’t realise it overlooked a private beach. I’m sorry.’

      Had he watched her wading? Dancing? It took a lot to make her feel vulnerable these days. Not that she was going to let him know that.

      She tossed her hair back. ‘You got a first-hand demonstration of Wilbur in off-harness mode, then.’

      His crunching footsteps resumed. ‘Yeah, he was having a ball.’

      ‘He loves to swim.’

      Awesome—she was like a radio stuck on Channel Wilbur. Time for some effort. ‘So you must have drawn the short straw, being sent by your firm so far from the city?’

      ‘Not at all. I chose to come. Morgan’s isn’t on anyone else’s radar.’

      That got her attention. ‘You make it sound like a competition.’

      ‘It is. It’s the best part of the job. Finding raw talent, developing it.’

      Realising it. She stepped with Wilbur around an obstacle and then smelled it as she passed. A cowpat. Behind her, Garvey grunted. Presumably, he hadn’t been so lucky. She didn’t stop and he caught up straight away.

      ‘Did you miss it?’

      ‘Just.’

      He didn’t sound irked. If anything, that was amusement warming his voice. Her lips twisted. ‘Sorry, we have a couple of milk cows that free range.’

      Silence reigned for the next minute or two and, again, she had to assume he was looking around at the farm, its outbuildings and condition. Critically? Morgan’s had modern facilities to go with its spectacular coastal location but being judged had never sat comfortably on her. The smell of tiny wildflowers kicked up from underfoot.

      ‘So if it’s a competitive process, and we’re not on anyone else’s radar, does that mean no one else at your firm believes we have potential?’

      He took his time answering. Something she appreciated. He wasn’t a man to rush to fill a silence.

      ‘It means they lack vision. And they’re not paying attention.’

      Okay, for a city boy he definitely had a great voice. Intelligent and measured and just the right amount of gravel. It was only when she gave him another mental tick that she realised she’d started a list.

      ‘But you are?’

      ‘I’ve been tracking your progress a long time—’ His voice shifted upwards a semi-tone. ‘Are those tyres?’

      The rapid subject-change threw her, but he had to mean the chalets that they were approaching.

      ‘Dad had one of his recycling frenzies a couple of years ago and made a couple up for family and friends—’ and inconvenient visitors from the city ‘—when they visit. Tyres and rammed earth on the outside but pretty flash on the inside. Bed, open fire and privacy.’ For them as much as their guests. ‘And what I’m reliably informed are some pretty spectacular ocean views.’

      Tension eased out of him on a satisfied sigh. ‘You’re not wrong. One hundred and eighty degrees.’

      She stopped at the door to the chalet on the end, used the doorframe to orientate herself and pointed left. ‘Manufacturing is over that way, beach is down that track, and the first of the bee yards is up behind this hill. You should probably take a bit of time to settle in. Can you find your way back to your car for your things?’

      Idiot, she chided herself. He could probably see it from here. There was nothing between them and the Morgan’s car park but open paddock. What was wrong with her? Maybe her brain cells were drunk on whatever that was coming off him.

      ‘Yep. I’m good. Do I need to be somewhere at a particular time?’

      ‘Are you allergic to bees?’

      ‘Only one way to find out.’

      The man faced life head-on. Her favourite direction. ‘Well, if you feel like living dangerously, come on up the hill in twenty minutes. I’ll be checking the bees.’

      Soonest started, soonest done. She turned and thrust the chalet key at him and warm fingers brushed hers as he took it.

      ‘Do I need protective gear?’ he murmured.

      ‘Not unless you plan on plunging your hands into the hives. This first community is pretty chill.’ Which wasn’t true of all their bees, but definitely true of her favourites. ‘But maybe wear sunglasses.’

      ‘Okay. Thanks, Laney.’

      His voice lifted with him as he stepped up into the unlocked chalet but there was an unidentifiable something else in his tone. Sorrow? Why would he be sad? He was getting his way. She thought about protesting his presumption in using her nickname but then remembered what he’d probably seen down on the beach. Niceties, after that, seemed rather pointless. Although it did still have the rather useful value of contrasting with her own formality.

      ‘You’re welcome, Mr Garvey.’

      With a flick of her wrist Wilbur full-circled and walked her down the hill and back through the gate, leaving the subtle dismissal lingering in the air behind her. As soon as she turned him left, towards one of the closest bee yards, Wilbur realised where they were going and he lengthened his strides, excited. He loved the beach first and the bees second. Because when she was elbow-deep in bees he was free to romp around the yards as much as he wanted.

      Laney was always pleasantly breathless when she crested the hill to the A-series hives, and, as she always did, she stalled at the top and turned to survey the property. The landscape of her imagination. It was branded into her brain in a way that didn’t need the verification of sight—the layout, the view as it had been described to her over the years. Three generations of buildings where all their manufacturing and processing was done, the endless ocean beyond that.

      She had no way of knowing how like the real thing her mixed-sense impression of it was, but ultimately it didn’t matter what it really looked like. In her mind it was magnificent. And she had the smells and the sounds and the pristinely fresh air to back it up.

      So when Elliott Garvey complimented the Morgan property she knew it was genuine. They’d had enough approaches from city folk wanting to buy in to know that it was one of the better-looking properties in the district. But that was not why her family loved it. At least it wasn’t only why they loved it. They loved it because it was fertile and well-positioned, in a coastal agricultural district, and undulating and overflowing with wildflowers, and because it backed on two sides onto nature reserves packed with Marri and Jarrah trees which meant their bees had a massive foraging range and their honey had a distinctive geo-flavour that was popular with customers.

      And because it was home. The most important of all. Where she’d lived since her parents had first brought her home from the hospital, swaddled in a hand-loomed blanket.

      That was the potential they all believed in. Regardless of what else Call-Me-Elliott Garvey saw in Morgan’s.

      * * *

      What was