Page 3 of The Orchard at Rosevale
‘Lucky for you, I’m not the chef here anymore.’
Before he could second-guess the impulse, he kissed her. A gentle brush of his lips against hers, giving her plenty of opportunity to rebuff him.
Instead, she moaned and pressed her lips to his, demanding more as she grabbed his shirt and hauled him closer.
Stunned by the ferocity of her kiss—like she craved contact as much as he did—he slid his arms around her waist, the feel of her body against his exactly what he needed.
He had no idea how long they kissed, but when he backed her up against the bar and she writhed against him, he knew he had to stop before he hoisted her onto a stool and buried himself in her. With the doors unlocked, the last thing he needed was an unsuspecting patron to walk in and catch him having sex in his workplace, even if he’d officially quit.
‘Whoa.’ He eased her away from him, trying not to stare at her ravaged lips and the flushed cheeks that accentuated her beauty. ‘Sorry about that. Can I blame the alcohol again?’
She blinked, eradicating the disappointment in her eyes. ‘No need to apologise. We were both into it.’
If Cruz didn’t have the weight of responsibility bearing down on him, he’d throw caution to the wind and invite her back to his place. But he still had packing to complete and a few issues here to resolve, so he stepped away from her with regret.
‘I need to lock up,’ he said, gesturing at the door and, thankfully, she took the hint.
‘No worries.’ She grabbed her takeaway bag. ‘Thanks for this. I can’t wait to get home and devour it.’
‘My pleasure.’
He followed her to the door, bitterness dogging his every step. If he didn’t have to leave Tiles and his dream job, he would ask for her number. Hell, he’d ask her name and call her for a date. But he had to leave Melbourne tomorrow; why start something he couldn’t finish? He had a different life now, far removed from the one he wanted.
He opened the door for her, and she hesitated after stepping outside.
‘For what it’s worth, I wish you were sticking around in Melbourne.’ The hint of vulnerability in her eyes surprised him before she smiled. ‘Because I’m going to miss your exquisite food something fierce.’
‘This city is filled with good restaurants and talented chefs. You’ll find a new favourite in no time.’
With a shrug, she walked away, and he quickly locked the door so he wouldn’t be tempted to run after her.
CHAPTER
2
Elora rarely left the city. Born and bred in Melbourne, she adored every inch of the vibrant, cosmopolitan metropolis. She loved strolling the laneways to admire the graffiti murals, she loved trawling for unique fashion in the many trendy boutiques, and she loved turmeric lattes and artisan croissants.
Which pretty much explained her current predicament. Owing her ex money had been bad enough when they broke up five months ago, but with Jason now demanding repayment sooner rather than later—because he was a vindictive prick—she had no option but to take jobs outside the city.
Driving into Rosevale Grove, a town thirty kilometres from Mildura on the Victorian/New South Wales border, didn’t seem all bad. At first glance, the town appeared surprisingly tropical, with towering palm trees circling the ‘Welcome to Rosevale Grove’ sign and lining Main Street. Unlike many small country towns, which boasted dilapidated buildings, Rosevale Grove looked shiny new. The wrought-iron railing on the upstairs veranda of the pub on the corner gleamed with a fresh coat of cream paint and the ochre bricks looked scrubbed. The bakery, supermarket, café, clothing boutique, op shop and Thai restaurant boasted black signs with matching white calligraphy and huge terracotta pots filled to over-flowing with fuchsia, red and purple flowers. Another pub as well maintained as the other sat on the corner at the end of the street, and opposite it, a bank, post office, medical centre and lawyer’s office.
If Kinstead Avocados looked half as appealing as the rest of the town, it wouldn’t take much to improve the farm’s profile and profit margins. Elora had researched the business online, and the first thing she needed to do was revamp their website. Their current one had poor SEO, old photos taken by an amateur, only a landline phone number as a contact and zero social media presence. She aimed to change all that. After all, she’d bolstered the online profiles of businesses across various industries; how hard could it be to bring a farm into the twenty-first century?
The woman who’d reached out to her, Ferne Wardlow, had been clear in her expectations. The avocado farm that had been in her husband’s family for generations had been flailing, and to improve business, the farm’s image needed an overhaul. Ferne said Elora could stay onsite for a week, and do whatever it took within the allocated budget to put the farm on the map.
Considering the job came with free food and board while earning Elora enough to almost clear her debt to Jason, she’d jumped at the chance.
She followed the highway five kilometres out of town, then turned left at the giant avocado perched on top of a stake like an ugly, oversized lollipop. A handmade wooden sign withKinstead Avocadospainted in a funky, bright green font had been tacked onto the stake like an afterthought. Elora shook her head. Looked like the farm’s online presence wasn’t the only thing that needed revamping.
A long dirt track wound its way through the surprisingly green landscape, before she turned a corner and the farm came into sight. Rows upon rows of avocado trees cascaded down a gently sloping hill from a colonial-style farmhouse. As she drove up to the main house and parked, she couldn’t help but be charmed by the two wooden rocking chairs on the veranda adjacent to a love seat covered in candy-pink cushions. The cream-rendered homestead with bottle green–trimmed windows and door looked like it had been plucked out of Quaintville and placed in the middle of this land; ten hectares, according to Ferne.
Getting out of the car, Elora heard the distant rumble of a tractor and the constant buzz of bees. She inhaled, the air redolent with citrus, which she assumed came from the orange farm next door. With the spring sun warming her skin and a balmy breeze lifting her ponytail off her neck, this felt like a vacation rather than work. She could easily live here for the next week.
‘You made it.’ A tall woman came around the side of the house, her smile welcoming.
This had to be Ferne, but she looked nothing like a farmer, or what Elora envisaged as one. Rather than denim, a flannie and workboots, the woman wore a white maxi dress covered in red roses, and beige sandals. Her hair, a burnished red threaded with grey, skimmed her shoulders, and her lipstick matched the crimson of the roses scattered on her dress.
‘This place is gorgeous,’ Elora said, stepping forward and holding out her hand. ‘Elora Curtis, your new PR person.’
