Just like her impersonal politeness made him ache and burn. He missed their easy-going banter, the connection that had once existed between them.

Tel ing himself it was for the best didn’t help.

Grinding his teeth together, he ordered himself to focus back on the sanding, but before he could he caught an eyeful of the way her breasts pressed against the cotton of her simple shirtdress and he found he could barely move let alone get back to work. Her curves had become curvier in the last few days and only a saint could deny noticing.

Both he and Kit knew he wasn’t a saint.

Kit glanced behind him. ‘Ooh, no hole!’ She pointed and moved towards it.

‘Don’t touch. It’s stil wet.’ He’d only just finished plastering it. He glanced back at her, tried to keep his eyes above neck level. ‘How’s your work coming along?’

Her lips turned down and he could’ve kicked himself for asking. He didn’t want her thinking he was checking up on her or anything.

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Slow.’

She thrust out one hip and surveyed him. Her legs went…al the way up. He gulped. She hadn’t been wearing that dress at lunchtime. Just as wel too.

With the memory of that much bare skin on display he’d have made a mess of the wal .

‘Wanna go fishing?’

That jerked his eyes back to her face. The beginnings of a smile played around the corners of her mouth. He’d do a lot to turn it into a ful -blown smile.

‘Fishing?’

She shrugged as if it was no skin off her nose whether he said yes or no, but that smile no longer threatened to come out and play.

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and then back again. He should stay as far away from this woman as he could. ‘I’ve never been fishing.’

She rol ed her eyes. ‘That’s not what I asked.

Would you like to give it a go?’

Did he? He didn’t know. The thought of spending the rest of the afternoon skiving off with Kit sounded great. Too great if the truth be told. He should resist it, wrestle her house into shape and then get the hel out of here. ‘Where?’

‘On the breakwater.’

He stared at her blankly. Her hands flew to her hips. ‘Alex Hal am, haven’t you explored even the tiniest bit since you’ve been here? Haven’t you had a look at the beaches or the lake or anything?’

He knew where the hardware store and the supermarket were. He didn’t need to know anything else. Besides, he’d had too many other things on his mind—like Kit’s pregnancy—to play tourist.

Garbage! All you’ve done is avoid thinking about Kit’s pregnancy. In fact, he suspected he’d rather staple gun his hand to the wal than talk about pregnancy and babies.

So he’d concentrated al his efforts on her house instead.

Not on the fact that he was going to become a father.

And not on playing tourist.

In case Kit hadn’t noticed, he wasn’t precisely in holiday-maker mode.

She shook her head, almost in pity. ‘C’mon, al work and no play is making Jil a very dul girl.’

She eyed him up and down. It made his skin go tight and hot. Her eyes skittered away and he watched as she swal owed once, twice. ‘What you’re wearing wil do fine, unless you’d rather change into a pair of board shorts.’

He shook his head. She’d said fishing. Not He shook his head. She’d said fishing. Not swimming.

‘Put that down.’ She pointed to the sander. ‘You can come and help me haul the fishing rods out of the garden shed. Chop-chop.’

He kicked himself into action. It was only one afternoon.

Alex parked his car and spent a moment just drinking in the view. Final y he turned to Kit. ‘I had no idea it would be so beautiful.’

The grin she sent him warmed him as effectively as the sun on the bare flesh of his arms. She settled a floppy canvas hat on her head and gestured in the direction of the breakwater. ‘C’mon.’

She insisted on carrying one of the fishing rods—

the lightest one—and Alex carried the other rod, the tackle box, a bucket and the net. He couldn’t explain the primal urge to take her rod, though, and add it to his load.

Perhaps it was just good manners?

Yeah, right! If he had any manners whatsoever he wouldn’t be trying to catch as big an eyeful of those golden legs of hers as he could.

She pointed to their right. ‘This is cal ed the Rock Pool. It’s where al the local kids learn to swim. It’s where I learned to swim.’

A sweep of golden sand and clear water stretched out from the breakwater to a smal er bank of rocks bordering the channel. Kit told him the channel led into Wal is Lake. The breakwater provided a wave trap and this little bay had been roped off to provide a safe place to swim. Tiny waves lapped at the shore in rhythmic whooshes and the water was so clear he could see the sandy bottom, free from rocks and seaweed. He couldn’t think of a prettier place to learn to swim.

To their left, though, stretched mile upon mile of golden sand and the foaming, rol ing breakers of a surf beach. The salt in the air and the sound of the breakers intensified the further they walked out on the breakwater. The firmness of the path beneath his feet, the warmth of the spring sun and the sound of seagul s on the breeze eased tension out of his shoulders he hadn’t even known was there.

‘Is that where you swam as a teenager?’ He pointed to the surf beach. He’d bet at sixteen she’d been a golden surfer girl.

She grinned at him and it struck him that she stil was.

‘Sometimes. But when I was a teenager my friends and I hung out at Forster beach.’ She waved her hand to her right, indicating somewhere across the channel. ‘It was way cooler.’

He laughed at the teenage inflection. He paused to glance back at the bridge that spanned the channel and connected the two townships of Tuncurry and Forster. It was white and wooden and gleamed in the sun.

She nudged his arm and urged him forward again. ‘C’mon, I want to see if my favourite rock is taken.’

She had a favourite rock?

It was a huge flat monstrosity about three-quarters of the way along the breakwater that looked as if it would comfortably hold four people with room to spare. She gave a whoop and immediately clambered down to it.

‘Heck, Kit!’ Alex tried to keep up with her, tried to put a hand under her elbow to steady her. An impossibility given his armful of fishing rod and tackle box. He dropped the bucket. ‘Steady on.

You’re pregnant. You’re supposed to take it easy.’

She turned back to look at him, hand on her head to keep her hat in place. ‘It doesn’t make me an infirm old granny, you know? Now, c’mon, front and centre. I’m going to teach you how to cast off and if you don’t get the knack by your third go I’m going to push you in.’

The bark of laughter that shot out of him took him completely by surprise, but Kit’s eyes were so bright with pleasure that he didn’t try to suppress it.

He managed to cast off successful y on his second go. Kit cast off next and then settled on the rock, feet dangling out over the water several metres below. Alex folded his large frame down to sit beside her. ‘What now?’

She sent him a wide-eyed stare. ‘Why, we wait to catch a fish, of course.’

But he could sense her laughter bubbling just beneath the surface and it made him grin. It made him feel as if he was on holiday.

It made him feel young.

His grin, or whatever she saw in his face, made Kit’s eyes widen. Her eyes dropped to his lips and he recognized the flare of temptation that flitted through them.

If she leaned forward and kissed him, he would kiss her back. Right or wrong, he would cup one hand around the back of her head, slant his lips over hers and explore every mil imetre of those delectable lips of hers. Slowly. Thoroughly.

They were both holding fishing rods. How much trouble could one little kiss cause…in public, on a breakwater?

He glanced down at the oyster-encrusted rocks below and found his answer. It took every ounce of strength he had, but he turned his eyes seaward.

‘What are we hoping to catch?’

‘Who cares?’

Her voice came out al breathy. Alex’s hands tightened on his rod. He kept his gaze doggedly out to sea, but from the corner of his eye he could see to sea, but from the corner of his eye he could see the way she swung her legs.

‘I am wearing my swimming togs under this dress, you know?’

‘What?’

‘You seem very disapproving. You think my dress is too short, don’t you?’

‘No, I—’

He broke off. He could hardly explain the reason he kept staring was because he couldn’t help it, because she fascinated him, because he wanted her. That wouldn’t help either of them.

‘Bream,’ she said. ‘A couple of bream would be nice. Or whiting. They taste great—sweet and juicy.

Lots of bones, though. A flathead, maybe? Just try and avoid hooking a grey nurse shark. It’l snap the line.’

‘I’l do my best,’ he managed.

‘It’d be nice if the tailor started to chop.’

He didn’t know what that meant. No doubt if he hung around long enough he’d find out. If he stayed.