Free Just Not Mine by Rosalind James Page B

down at him, steered the trolley into the housewares aisle, selected a packet of ivory candles, then wondered why she was doing it. It wasn’t a romantic dinner. Well, no. But it was a party on her new patio, with new friends. So, candles.
    “Bet you remember some things,” she said.
    He was quiet for a full minute as they rounded the corner towards the meat department, and she wondered what was going on in that dark head.
    “I remember her doing chicken,” he said suddenly. “She’d stand at the sink and reach her hand in the hole and pull the guts out of the inside. And then she’d cut it all up and smash it and cook it a special way that tasted good. It didn’t taste like chicken normally does, like Aunt Cora makes it. I remember that.”
    “Sounds like she was a good cook .”
    “ Yeh. Because she was French. She said if you were French, you had to know how, because you couldn’t eat English food. She laughed when she said that.”
    “See?” Josie smiled down at him. “You do remember.”

    The doorbell rang while she was hacking away at a pumpkin. “Get that for me, will you, love?” she asked Charlie. “That’ll be your brother. And your sister,” she added hastily.
    She’d resisted the urge to glam up too much, at least, even though she’d found herself putting on a dress, which the apron was covering up just now. Well, it was a party. Of sorts. And if her hair was down, and she was wearing a bit of makeup, that wasn’t for Hugh’s benefit, because she had a partner. But she’d been out and about, and even in casual New Zealand, her image required more polish than she’d been featuring today. Anyway, Hugh had looked at her all day in her work clothes, and her pride demanded a better showing.
    But he was standing just the other side of the kitchen bench now, and she was looking at the depth of his chest, being reminded about the size of his arms, and he was smiling at her, and her hands had stilled on her knife.
    “Do the ballet run, then?” she asked him, forcing herself to start cutting through the dense orange flesh again.
    “Yeh. I take it you finished the job? Get your swim?”
    “Yeh.” She smiled herself. “Bet I had a better time.”
    He laughed. “Bet you did. I was going to say I’d take the kids home, because we all need showers, but d’you need a hand here first?”
    She needed to stop smiling at him. “Again, a hand’s what it’d be. Don’t think you could do too much with one.”
    “I can do quite a lot with one,” he said, the look in his eyes letting her know exactly what he could do, and suddenly, her oven wasn’t the only thing warming up. All he was doing was standing there, and he was still sending tingles to places they had no business being, evoking every shivery, delicious sensation that the most heated on-screen kiss failed to arouse, and it took all the training she had not to show it.
    She looked down again hastily, resumed her hacking progress. “Nah, got this. Go take your shower. Then come back and help me christen my new deck.”
    He glanced sharply at her, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, and she realized what she’d said and very nearly blushed. She never got flustered with men, and she’ d worked with, dated, been chatted up by men infinitely more handsome, polished, and urbane than Hugh could dream of being, but she was flustered now.
    All he said, though , was, “Right. See you in a bit. Hour or so OK? Enough time?”
    “Perfect,” she said. “See you then.” And kept chopping her vegies, moving around her dark little kitchen in her bare feet, and did her best to pretend that this was about a thank-you and nothing more.

    “A feast,” he said when she let them back in again, led them back through the kitchen, and he saw the vegies and salad laid out, the fish ready to cook.
    “Could you drink a beer?” she asked him, opening the fridge.
    “You going to drink with me?”
    “I don’t drink beer.”
    “Don’t drink