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Chapter One
Jasmine Kennedy’s body clock never failed. Sick, tired, sleep deprived or hungover, it didn’t matter. No need to check the time, because she woke at 5:41 every morning.
A vise-like grip tightened around her brain, and she scrunched her eyes tight. Not today. C’mon. Ten more minutes, please.
A seagull squawked, and she smelled a weird, musky scent with citrusy overtones. She cracked open an eye. How was light trickling through the gap between the blinds? The south-facing bedroom on her farm never got the morning sun. But now the window was on the opposite side of the room and it was bright. Too bright.
Where was her heavy woollen doona? Why were crisp hotel sheets swathing her body and a soft squidgy pillow nestling her head? She gripped the bedding and opened the other eye.
Where am I?
A well-muscled, tattooed forearm rested across her side, the calloused fingers almost caressing her belly. She was spooning a stranger in an unfamiliar room.
Why am I half dressed?
Frozen, except for her heart beating overtime, it took a second to get her bearings and for memories to filter in. She was at the Dolphin Cove Hotel, and the hunk wasn’t a complete stranger. He was Ben from last night, and falling asleep next to him wasn’t part of the plan. It was supposed to be a relaxing evening celebrating her new contract to supply eggs to a local supermarket. Live a little, party with a cute stranger, recapture the teenage years she had shied away from.
They’d chatted over drawings and tattoos until late. Too tired for the twenty-minute drive back to her home, she’d needed a half hour power nap. He insisted she could trust him, and she did. When his snoring started, she’d removed her jeans and bra to be more comfortable and drifted off. Nothing much had happened, except some memorable kissing, but she had overslept.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Slowly, she eased onto her back. Ben’s hand fell to her stomach, where her silky singlet top had ridden up past her waist. Her evening’s fun and games grunted, and she tensed as his fingers brushed across her skin, leaving tingles in their path. He snuffled, but he didn’t wake. She pushed out from under his arm and he rolled onto his back, dragging the covers with him. His mouth opened and his muffled breathing grew heavy and louder. His snoring covered the rustle of sheets as she slid out of the bed.
The crack of light revealed his blondish curls and a three-day-old beard. Her blurry mind recalled his pale blue eyes and contagious grin. Despite the fun, a beard was never good news, and her pale skin would wear the telltale signs.
Jasmine had conquered worse situations—almost trampled by stampeding cattle, stuck ankle-deep in the sewerage run-off without mobile phone coverage, or writing off her mother’s car two days after getting her licence. Creeping out of a guy’s room was a piece of cake.
With her bum in the air and biting her lip, she crawled towards their clothes. Please don’t wake. One pair of large jeans was draped across the foot of the bed, while hers lay on the floor where she had thrown them and his grey T-shirt was balled up in the corner. By the door, next to one enormous blue Nike, sat her discarded heels. No bra. Where had she put it?
Buoyed by the success of getting a contract with a supermarket in a neighbouring town, Jasmine had gone to the pub to celebrate. Running into Nina, an acquaintance from the local bakery, she’d enjoyed a couple of cocktails. When Ben turned up, along with his friends from the local football team, instead of acting like a responsible thirty-year-old businesswoman, she’d reverted to a giggling teen.
She hadn’t laughed so much in ages. The plan, after the fun night, was to sneak out and treasure the memories, not get stuck for a morning chat, where almost strangers pretend to swap numbers and promise to call. Spoiler: No one ever calls.
A head shake sent her shrunken pickled brain bouncing against her skull, shooting waves of pain through her body all the way to her toes. Mixing two cocktails and a glass of wine hadn’t been clever, and she was paying for it now. She dragged on her jeans. Ben’s muffled snore nearly had her crawling back under the sheets for one last kiss. Instead, she stacked his clothes in the corner.
Her handbag and, more importantly, her phone were on the desk behind a pile of rubbish. Carefully, trying not to make a sound, she bundled her beaded bracelets into her bag because trying to put them on would wake Ben. Last night they had caught in his hair, and he’d removed them with a laugh, claiming he was a safety fanatic, and the jewellery was a high risk for causing a head injury. She bit back a smile and kept moving, checking the room for anything left behind.
The sleeping giant continued to snore; his bulging chest lifting with each grunt. If she got out of there without getting caught, it was worth every minute. After her disastrous marriage, she wasn’t ready for another relationship. Her damaged heart sometimes felt like a crumpled tissue found at the bottom of a toilet bag that was held together with bits of floss and Band-Aids that had lost their stickiness. But laughing with Ben would go down as one of the best nights ever.
Jasmine sighed. No point lingering, transfixed by his pecs, trying to get her tired mind functioning. She had to escape and get home. She reached for the door and frowned at the wobbly handle, trying to turn it without making a racket. Light from the corridor flooded the room and Ben snorted as she pulled the door closed behind her. Her heart thumped double time as she raced down the corridor, past the familiar turn-of-the-century black-and-white photos of the Dolphin Cove Hotel. No one could find her here, because the hotel was one of her clients.
When the bar had closed the night before, they hadn’t travelled far, only upstairs to his room. He hadn’t revealed why he was staying there, and swapping private details wasn’t part of her plan. She never mentioned her egg farm twenty kilometres down the road, and he didn’t volunteer any personal facts. They’d kept their conversation superficial and shared an unspoken pact for a classic one-night stand—not that much happened. Drawing chickens on coasters and a bit of kissing didn’t really count.
Screech. She stopped mid-stride and held her breath, but it was just a seagull on the beach outside. The birds had her jumping at shadows.
Her head pounded, her mouth felt like chickens had been scratching at her tongue and her skin tingled because of Ben’s beard.
She really needed to pee and to drink a bucketload of water before driving home.
Creak. The century-old floor groaned under her weight. Her head snapped up, and she bit her lip. Did anyone hear? She edged to the side where the boards squeaked less. Her sweaty palm against the wall steadied her shaking body. Everything was loud, the birds, the flooring, even her breathing seemed to echo through the empty hall.
Without falling over, or meeting anyone else, she made it to the downstairs public bathroom undetected, then gasped at her reflection in the mirror under the harsh lighting. Between the beard rash and her smudged mascara panda eyes, she was a mess. The idea of putting on three coats of mascara the night before to give her eyelashes extra length was regrettable. If Ben had woken, she would have scared him to death. Her matted, long brown curls were beyond finger combing, so she splashed water on her face and attempted to clean herself up as much as possible. Wiping with the cheap, scratchy paper towel inflamed her skin, cleverly blending with her bloodshot brown eyes and masking her freckles.
“You can do this,” she whispered at the mirror. “It’s just a walk of shame. Millions have done it before you.”
With a decisive nod, she left the bathroom and the squawk of seagulls outside mocked her. The hotel sat on an inlet with a wide verandah overlooking the water, the perfect place to spot a dolphin. Situated in the centre of a small country town, it was a popular meeting point for local farmers and business owners.
In the hall, she scanned both ways. To the left was the dining room, and to the right was the way out. The big double wooden doors at the base of the nineteenth-century staircase were ten metres away. If they were locked, there was no escape until the staff arrived in a few hours.
Blanketed in silence, she crept down the carpeted hall, holding her breath. She was two steps from freedom when she heard a jangle. Jasmine froze. Her last functioning brain cell shut down as the latch clanged and the door pushed open.
Please let it be a resident.
“Morning, Jasmine.” Margie, the hotel’s assistant manager, clutched a bunch of keys. Margie was in her early fifties and had worked here for years. Her greying hair was scraped back into a low ponytail, and she wore the uniform black shirt with the hotel emblem on the left pocket.
“Bit early for a drop off, isn’t it?” Margie’s head swung around. “How did you get in?”
Jasmine scanned up and down the corridor, wishing an excuse would appear. Standing barefoot, clutching her shoes, wearing a strappy top, and with no egg delivery was beyond her basic marketing skills.
“Morning.” Instead of bright and cheerful, the late night of chatting had left her sounding like a pack-a-day smoker.
Margie’s eyebrows shot up. “Big night?”
Jasmine’s face heated, and she crossed her fingers that the beard rash hid her flush.
“I didn’t see your name on the hotel bookings. Hmm, did you finally let your hair down and meet some locals?” Margie winked. “Or was it a travelling salesman? There were a few staying last night.”
“Hmm.” Jasmine looked at the floor and hoped a hole would open on the worn red carpet. Owning up to an innocent sleepover after chatting and drawing until the early hours, plus lots of kissing, made her sound like a teenager. But it had been hilarious.
Jasmine’s heart thumped as her brain tried to master a rescue plan, but she had nothing. That only left one choice. “Must dash.”
She flew through the door and didn’t stop running all the way down the main street. No wave for Mr Sandhu at the local supermarket who was putting out the A-frames advertising the latest specials. No word for the newsagent unlocking his front door. Thankfully, it was too early for anyone to be in the cafe.
The fear of explaining her appearance to a local kept her going, despite the throb in her head, the pain from running barefoot, and the ache in her jiggling breasts. She never jogged, and especially not, God forbid, without a bra.
Chapter Two
Beeeep… Beeeep… Beeeep.
The phone alarm blared, waking Ben.
He shoved aside the bedsheets, then scrambled over to the sound coming from a pile of rubbish on the desk. Nearly knocking over the chair, he fumbled for his phone to silence the sound bellowing through the quiet room.
“Erghhh.”
A moan combined with the thud of his body slumping against the wall as he concentrated on shutting off the noise before the entire hotel woke up.
Bright light streamed through a crack in the blinds, highlighting the mess in the room. Two glasses and a half-empty wine bottle sat on the desk, surrounded by chip packets and chocolate wrappers—they’d cleared out the mini bar.
Jazzie, the pretty girl with long brown curls edged in a crazy green stripe, who had stayed the night, was gone. Her smile had been big and honest, no fake tightness around her brown eyes. She’d laughed at all his jokes, which made her button nose scrunch up. With a smattering of freckles across her face, she’d been adorable and the most fun he’d had in months.
The imprint of her head remained on the pillow and the black edge of a bra peeked out of the sheets. He moved to the bed and picked it up, running his fingers along the silky material. She must have removed it while he was asleep, because he hadn’t seen her take it off. Rather than leave her underwear for the cleaning staff to find, he’d hide it at the bottom of his case. Not as a keepsake, but to spare him, and maybe her, embarrassment.
Did he get her number? He scanned the phone. Nope. He had asked, but she had evaded the question by showing off a dog tattoo on her arm.
Ben fell back on the sheets and grabbed her pillow to smother his groans, but the vanilla scent of her perfume—she’d smelt gorgeous—dredged up the sound of her laughter, and he hugged it tighter. They’d bonded over a love of art, a desire to travel, and had agreed animals made better companions than humans. He had imagined, maybe hoped for, more than just a Saturday night, but he’d woken up alone. Typical of the bad luck that had stalked him for the last few months.
“You dickhead.” The pillow muffled his voice.
They had chatted for hours before tumbling into bed when she claimed to need a twenty-minute power nap before driving home. Last night’s giggles would have gone through the walls, keeping the neighbours awake. He’d have to sneak away without running into anyone, because he didn’t need the town gossiping about his almost love-life.
Jazzie had mentioned recently moving to an old place out of town, but had kept the details sketchy. The best thing about new residents was they didn’t know the history of the townsfolk yet. Because she didn’t know him, it was a chance for an unbiased first impression. He didn’t have to be the Stewart boy, who everyone sighed at before asking; ‘Are you okay?’ or ‘How are you recovering from the accident?’
Last night, for a few hours, he’d been just Ben from the bar. No surnames or annoying questions necessary. She hadn’t given him any fake sympathy, because he never mentioned his artificial foot, so he didn’t have to put on a brave face and pretend that every day was perfect. After losing his foot and the bottom part of his leg in a motorbike accident a year ago, he had grown weary of constantly reassuring the town that his change of circumstances was fine.
The two of them had gotten on amazingly well. They shared similar dreams for a different life, and he’d thought they’d made a connection. Her drawing on a coaster poked out from under a chip packet. After a long chat about tattoos, they had each drawn a picture of a chicken. He screwed up his nose at the sketch. Jazzie’s drawing was amazing, but there was no way he’d ever get that inked on his body, because the only feelings he had for hens were bad.
A shower always washed away the fuzziness of a late night, but the dribble in the bathroom would barely drown an ant, let alone remove the memory of Jazzie’s soft lips nibbling his skin. Ben gave up after a few unsatisfying, barely wet minutes.
The room with superb views over the inlet had been his home for the last three nights. Rising late to the sound of crashing waves, the smell of sea air and the squawking of birds was a welcome change from the lowing of cows, the lingering stench of poo and being woken before dawn for milking. After living in the workers’ shack on his parents’ dairy farm for the last ten months, a few days by the ocean had been perfect.
He tended to his residual limb, ensuring the skin was intact and not red, paying particular care after sleeping with it on. The daily routine—looking after the area, checking it stayed healthy, before putting on his compression liner, then his artificial foot—was a constant reminder of that fateful night when a motorbike ride to clear his head had ended badly. A terrible result after a fight with his now ex-girlfriend, and a daily reminder of his momentary impetuous stupidity.
He surveyed his small collection of clothes. Three work shirts nestled in the wardrobe with a few casual T-shirts. He hated the green shade of his uniform, because it turned his tan a sickly yellow. He removed a work one and the slash of yellow writing—‘Western Eggs’ with a little chick at the end—didn’t improve it. There was no way he would wear it to the family lunch later, but it was essential for this morning.
Despite it being a Sunday, the hotel owner had agreed to speak to him at ten after cancelling their Friday meeting. He’d even thrown in two nights’ accommodation for the inconvenience. This morning’s mission was to wake up, whack on a smile, and try to convince the hotel to change their preferred supplier to Western Eggs. Not a huge contract, but it would be his fourth for the month, ensuring he met his target with two days to spare.
When his brother Jake encouraged him to apply for the position as the regional sales manager for a large Western Australian egg provider, he had no idea what it would entail, but he wanted to stop working on the family dairy farm. He needed to reclaim his life after losing his old job as a roofing carpenter.
Jake loved his job as a product manager. His brother made product management look sexy. Jake actually made everything look fantastic. But Ben’s job of rocking up to small country supermarkets with a cartoon chicken emblazoned across his chest, begging them to stock Western Eggs, was anything but interesting. The term ‘suck eggs’ had probably been coined by an egg salesman.
He wandered through the old hotel, the floorboards creaking from his weight. Faded paint, threadbare carpets, and the woodwork worn smooth after a hundred years of use. As a ten-year-old, he’d slid down the once-glamorous curved staircase, squealing at the top of his lungs. Today, he’d be professional.
The dining room was half full with a mix of locals and tourists. A group of retirees, including his first-grade schoolteacher, were in the corner, and he hoped a distant wave was enough to stop them from approaching. One of his old football teammates was having breakfast with his family and a nod and smile was enough, because he was busy feeding a toddler. There was no time to chat with anyone; he had to prepare his marketing pitch.
He sat by the large window overlooking Dolphin Cove. The smaller room off the main bar had views across the outside deck down to waves crashing on the white sandy beach, depositing chunks of seaweed that would later be swept out to sea. Though working, it didn’t stop him from enjoying the scenery and he searched for a dolphin because it meant good luck.
Ben spread his notes on the scratched wooden table. Two years ago, the hotel had white tablecloths, but now a paper placemat menu hid the marks from years of abuse. In his head, he rehearsed his spiel while devouring the perfect hangover cure of bacon, hash browns, sausages, mushrooms and, of course, eggs.
As he sipped a second cup of coffee, a thickset man in chef’s whites sat in the chair opposite him. Dark food splatters marked the front of his uniform and his thinning, greasy hair stuck to his head.
“Margie tells me you’re Ben Stewart from Western Eggs?” The man’s lips barely moved as he mumbled.
“Yeah. Thanks for the delicious breakfast.”
The chef grunted.
“I’m meeting Keith at ten to discuss his egg supplier,” Ben said.
“Keith can’t make it. I’m Greg, the head chef, and I’ve taken over the hotel ordering.” Greg’s attempt at a smile was almost a snarl, revealing stained teeth and stomach-turning bad breath. His hands, covered in scars from cuts and possibly burns, thumped on the table, but there was no offer of a handshake.
Great. Now he had to deal with a chef who would be price sensitive rather than emotional. His plan was to appeal to the country pub owner and convince them to buy their eggs from a local company, not a national producer. Ben squeezed his thigh in a futile attempt to quell the phantom pain in his foot—a new bad habit he had developed in moments of stress. With a deep breath, Ben began his pitch.
“Western Eggs have two styles of eggs. Free-range offers a superior quality product and with ten thousand hens per hectare, the birds have the freedom to move. Very appealing for animal lovers. For the more price sensitive, we have our cage variety. We source our supply locally, reducing the transportation costs and we pass those savings on to the customer.”
Greg’s beefy hand waved away further discussion. “I’m not interested in your story. Currently, we’re getting eggs from a Dolphin Cove producer who is all about the happy hen. Blah, blah, blah. I’ve got a tight budget, and if you can beat her price and ensure a continual supply, I’ll sign. I’d rather deal with you than the hippy down the road with her love beads and chicken-hugging tendencies.”
Ben let out a nervous laugh. Too easy. “I’m sure you’ll like our competitive pricing.”
Greg crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ll see.”
After a sip of coffee, Ben set out the terms of his organisation. Greg had argued him down on the price. Like every other deal Ben had brokered, when the buyer pushed for a lower cost, he caved. It may be another sale, but the profit margins were tight.
Only forty dozen a week, but it was enough to make the month’s quota. Despite losing the girl, he had gained a contract. The glow of success might help him through his family lunch, especially if he could prove he was good at his new job.
He rubbed at his knee in a futile attempt to stop the phantom pain. A night with a mystery lady meant he hadn’t treated his stump correctly and his missing foot would tingle disapproval all day, but he didn’t care, because the night with Jazzie had been worth it.
Out the window the waves crashed on the shore, depositing a lump of seaweed on the white sand and there wasn’t a dolphin in sight.
End of Excerpt
