Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance (6 page)

‘So who was that lass you were dancing with the other night?’

Alex appraised the nosy fish processor and stuffed his hands in his pockets. This was his last stop, dropping off the morning’s catch ready for live export to China. The Chinese were prepared to pay the steep prices for the seafood, unlike the Aussies. The southern rock lobsters were even more expensive than those from the west coast, since they were generally bigger.

‘I don’t dance,’ Alex muttered. ‘And she’s just a work contact. To do with my photography sideline.’ Winnie was already in his head since she’d emailed him some boring photo assignment with old Mrs Mannix. Thoughts of irksome city blow-ins aside, it had been a good morning’s fishing, and he and the skipper had doubled their catch from yesterday. Their crustaceans now jostled with the other local fishermen’s in the shed’s massive water-storage tubs.

The ruddy-faced fish processor quirked an eyebrow at Alex. ‘Well, she looked pretty easy on the eye.’

Alex narrowed his gaze. ‘Last time I checked, you were married.’

The processor put up meaty hands in defence. ‘A guy can still look, can’t he? Besides, I meant she’s a good one for
you
. Isn’t it time a young bachelor like yourself got a girlfriend? One that lasted longer than a night?’

‘Footloose and fancy-free is more my style,’ Alex murmured. The guy was walking a fine line. Declining the processor’s offer of a beer to celebrate the end of a hard day’s work, he headed for his ute, parked near the sand. He nodded at his skipper, Walker, who was chatting to another fisherman beside his four-wheel drive, to let him know the last job was done. Walker tipped his hat in return.

In his ute, with Kasabian blaring, Alex checked his rear-view mirror and pulled out. The ocean glittered alluringly, even though he’d already spent the morning there.

He felt a bang against his door, the shock punching the air from his lungs. Hitting the brakes, he turned to find Kirk astride his motorbike, one hand on the side of the ute – thankfully in one piece. Alex wound down the window.

Tugging off his helmet, Kirk spiked up the front of his dark hair. ‘You almost sideswiped me, man. That’s why I had to give your ute a warning wallop.’

Alex blew out a breath. ‘Shit, man. I didn’t even see you there. Sorry.’ To think he’d had the cheek to curse Winnie’s driving skills.

‘Clearly. Still, I don’t fancy being road kill.’ Kirk leant on Alex’s window ledge, a teasing glint in his black eyes. ‘You distracted thinking about that girl? From the magazine?’

Alex tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Not Kirk, too. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said.

‘Whatever you say.’ Kirk trailed his gaze down Alex’s ute. ‘Hey, what happened to your side mirror? No wonder you didn’t see me coming.’

Of course. It was all her fault again.

‘You really don’t want to know,’ Alex said, his teeth clenched.

Winnie walked into the office on Wednesday morning and found Olive whispering into the phone. Again. She threw her handbag on the desk. She’d had enough of Olive’s personal calls and her apparent lack of interest in work, as amusing as her banter as a coworker could be. At least Winnie was
trying
to get some articles in the pipeline.

Winnie’s mood wasn’t aided by the state of her back, which ached from the coffin-like camp bed, or being bleary-eyed because the mangy, collarless cat had returned at the crack of dawn to mew outside her window.

Fixing herself a peppermint tea in the kitchen – a local brew by Robe’s Mahalia Coffee, apparently – Winnie violently swirled her spoon in the mug, waiting for Olive to hang up. When she did, Winnie marched back to her desk, plonked down in her seat and eyeballed the redhead. ‘Morning, Olive. Who was that on the phone? A potential advertiser, I hope.’

The ad manager had the grace to blush. ‘No, my – my psychic.’

‘Your
psychic
?’ Winnie shook her head. ‘The office line is not for your personal use, you know.’ Wow, she almost sounded like Christa. So
chilling
. She might even make a good head-kicker herself in future.

Olive narrowed her gaze, her blush dissipating. ‘What about the call you made to that Sydney friend of yours yesterday? What was her name – 
Bruna
? Interstate calls aren’t cheap.’

‘That was
one
call – not one an hour,’ Winnie huffed. ‘Really, Olive. We’ve got just two months until the magazine hits the newsstands. I’m sorry to play hardball, but I am the editor, which means I’m in charge. I’m disappointed you haven’t set up one advertising appointment yet.’

Olive stared at her for a long, loaded moment, then suddenly tipped back her head and laughed. Not quite the reaction Winnie had expected. Finally, Olive wiped her eyes of tears. ‘No need to get all high and mighty. I make more in commission in one day than you make in one week. That’s the difference between advertising and editorial.’ Turning, the redhead opened her desk’s top drawer and silently handed Winnie a typed list.

Winnie glanced down at the paperwork. ‘Right, what’s this?’

Olive crossed her arms, squashing a green bead necklace against her tiny chest. ‘All the local advertisers I’ve got on board already. Who else do you think I’ve been emailing and calling? The psychic aside, of course. It’s called
networking
, Winnie. I put in some groundwork before the office opened, so I’d be ready ahead of time. And
Christa’s
certainly seemed happy with everything thus far.’

Winnie stared at the lengthy list of business names, her jaw slack. ‘Huh.’ Her two potential stories now looked pretty paltry in comparison. And they’d walked in off the street.

Olive turned back to her screen and sniffed. ‘I googled that last mag you worked at, too – 
Slicker
. It looks like more of a rag.
Beach Life
’s going to be a bit bigger and glossier, isn’t it?’

Winnie silently fumed as she fired up her own PC. ‘Perhaps in size and design, but the readership numbers will be measly in comparison.’ She swiped at her mug, misjudging its location with her fingertips and knocking it over. Nice. Peppermint tea spilled all over her keyboard – and her thighs, where her skirt had hitched up. Ouch. She shot back in her seat. ‘Blast it.’

Rather than laughing meanly at her again, Olive jumped up, plonked a tissue box on Winnie’s desk and extended a hand for her keyboard. ‘I’ve got a hairdryer in my handbag. Might save it. You mop yourself down.’

Standing up to let the tea run off, Winnie unplugged her keyboard and passed it to Olive. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice. ‘And sorry for coming across all heavy-handed before. Things have just been getting on top of me lately – new town, looming deadline and all. I shouldn’t have accused you of being slack just now. You’ve clearly been doing a terrific job – much better than me. You were even good enough to clean up this place before I arrived and sort out newspapers for me.’

Olive waved the keyboard in the air, and droplets of peppermint tea flew about the place. ‘No problems. And I shouldn’t have gone off like a bucket of prawns in the sun at you either. I just didn’t want your city-slicker superiority getting out of control.’

They grinned at each other. It was their first fight and somehow they’d emerged unscathed.

Olive rested her free hand on her hip. ‘You know, there’s this nice muntrie café nearby, called Sandy Grove. It’s set on a farm. Maybe we could go there for a bit of a brainstorming session. Drum up a few more story ideas? I know it’d be tough going it alone when you’re not from around here.’

‘I
love
the idea.’ It was too early to face the five emails from Eden the bridezilla already blinking in Winnie’s inbox – a blur of pink font and exclamation marks. ‘What kind of café did you say it was again?’

‘A
muntrie
one. They’re one of Australia’s oldest bush foods and look a little like tiny apples, but they’re actually berries. And they’re totally delicious.’

‘I’m salivating already.’ Winnie grabbed a wad of tissues and began drying off her thighs. ‘So why were you ringing a psychic, anyway?’

Olive busied herself plugging the hairdryer into a nearby power point. ‘Nothing important. Just life and stuff in general.’

‘
Okay
.’ Obviously Winnie had touched a nerve, but she decided to let it go for the moment. They’d only just smoothed things over.

With her gaze still averted, Olive gave the keyboard a few blasts of hot air, before pausing. ‘Oh, before I forget, I have to duck out to an appointment tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make up the time, though. The optometrist only visits here once a month.’

‘You wear glasses?’

‘Contacts.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘And another thing.’ Olive put the keyboard down for a moment to fish the work car keys from the desk drawer. She dangled them in the air. ‘Let
me
drive us to the café.’

Winnie had to smile. ‘Sure thing.’

Winnie sucked the creamy remnants of muntrie cheesecake from her fork. ‘So what about celebrities?’ she pressed Olive. ‘Anyone famous come from around here?’

The muntries tasted – addictively – like a blend of spicy apples and sultanas. Nearby, the berry plants covered rows of trellis like green carpet. Unfortunately, the endless treats Winnie was enjoying in Kingston didn’t bode well for fitting into her skinny jeans upon her return to Sydney.

‘Kingston
does
have one famous daughter . . . though I don’t know she’d talk to you.’

‘Who?’ Winnie pressed, her stomach fluttering with anticipation.

‘Alice Bevan.’

The butterflies decelerated to slow circles. ‘Sorry . . . 
who
?’

‘Well, she’s changed her name to Allira Becci now. Guess she thinks it’s more exotic, like, you know, Portia de Rossi’s really Amanda Rogers.’

Winnie dropped her fork noisily onto her plate. ‘You mean Allira Becci, the international model? She’s from
here
? And her real name’s
Alice
?’

Olive’s vigorous nodding resembled a bobble-head doll. ‘Yup and yup. Sometimes it’s surprising how many roads lead back to Kingston.’

‘She’d make a
fantastic
cover,’ Winnie exclaimed. ‘And she seems really sweet, too. A total girl next door. I’ve heard there are some salt lakes in the Coorong that would be cool for a fashion shoot. Surely the soft spot for her hometown could be a lure? I’ll contact her modelling agency. Might even make her homesick. She could do a shoot for us on the way to visiting family!’

‘Yeah . . . it could work,’ Olive said doubtfully.

Winnie was unperturbed by the ad manager’s tone. She could feel the journalistic buzz kicking in – she was finally making inroads. ‘Anyone else spring to mind who might add a bit of glam to the magazine?’ Winnie asked hopefully.

‘Actually,’ Olive steepled her fingers, ‘I did hear Kingston’s most eligible bachelor, Chester Wyatt, has signed on to do the next season of
The Farmer Wants a Wife
. Apparently his brothers put his name down without him knowing. It’s still meant to be a bit hush-hush, though.’

Winnie thumped the table excitedly. ‘That’s brilliant. We could get the exclusive before the official word gets out. Nice one again, Olive. Your ideas have been pure gold today. I should have grilled you earlier. So, what makes this guy Kingston’s most eligible bachelor anyway?’ The title might have even gone to Alex, if he weren’t so cagey. And unkempt. So very different to media magnate Grant.

‘Chester’s a seventh-generation cattle farmer, and absolutely loaded.’ Olive batted an eyelid. ‘A real
stud
meister, and not too shabby-looking either. But he is notoriously shy – bit too quiet for my tastes. His number’s in the phone book, but he’s not the type to hang around, answering the blower.’

A groan escaped Winnie’s lips. ‘Great. So how am I supposed to get a hold of him?’

‘Hmm.’ Olive drummed her fingers on a copy of the
Coastal Herald
, which she’d opened on the table for inspiration. ‘Aha!’ Eyes lighting up, she spun the rag in Winnie’s direction, tapping a coral-painted nail on the lower half.

Winnie squinted. ‘Are you gesturing at the ad about the beef field day, or the phone-sex line one?’

Olive rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘The beef field day one. They’re like shop windows for cows. This one’s at Chester’s best mate’s farm tomorrow. He’ll be there for a chinwag for sure. And
that’s
where you could lasso the guy and charm him into an interview.’

Winnie gulped. The thought of being surrounded by majestic creatures destined for the dinner plate was more than troubling – it was her worst nightmare, but she had to keep in mind the magazine’s looming deadline.

‘I guess I could go,’ she said faintly.

Her phone buzzed on the table, startling her. She checked the screen and all her muscles tensed when she saw it was Christa. ‘I’d better take this.’

Roughly seven minutes later, she terminated the call, feeling as usual slightly battered and bruised from the earbashing. ‘Well, looks like we’ve got a magazine launch party to organise.’

‘A party – cool!’ Olive’s eyes gleamed. ‘Better start planning my outfit.’

Winnie was less excited. Christa, naturally, would want every detail perfect. Which added another pressure on top of having a gazillion pages to fill for the launch issue.

Resting her head in her hands, Winnie darted a look at Olive. ‘Tell me – how’ve you found working with Christa? I know you’ve only dealt with her on the phone and email, but just in general . . .’

‘Ah, she’s all bark and no bite.’ Olive waved a hand in the air. ‘I haven’t had any problems, though I gather you two have your history, since you worked in the same office. You just need to learn to rub her tummy every now and then, I reckon.’

‘Yeah,’ Winnie murmured absently, though the thought of being within touching distance of Christa’s belly utterly repulsed her. ‘And, uh, what about Alex Bass? How do you find him, work-wise?’

‘He’s all right.’ Olive winked. ‘Bit stroppy at times, but decent eye candy . . . You keen?’

‘No, no, definitely not. I was just curious about him – 
professionally
. Where he sprang from, his credentials, that sort of thing.’