An indeterminate while later she woke to the sound of her back door opening and footsteps crossing the kitchen tiles.
She shot upright, dragging the sheet to her chin, just in time to see Brie poke her head in her bedroom door. ‘Hi ya, sleepy-head. Oops...’ Her friend’s eyes rounded in surprise and she looked away from the dark head on the pillow beside her. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, backing up. ‘I’ll just disappear—’
Swinging her legs off the bed, Olivia glanced at Jett, oblivious to the world. ‘The kitchen. Coffee. Go.’
‘Sorry, Liv, I used my key when I couldn’t get hold of you at the airport,’ she said when they were both in the kitchen. ‘I got a bit worried. But I can see everything’s fine.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Who is that and where do I get one?’
Olivia couldn’t help the smile that almost burst from her lips. ‘You don’t recognise him?’
‘I only saw a broad outline and a nice firm slab of bronzed back and dark hair and—’ Her eyes widened again. ‘You’ve stolen my brother?’
‘Not stolen. Borrowed.’
‘You and Jett.’ Her hands snuck up to her face to smother a grin. ‘I thought he was going to Cradle Mountain?’
‘He liked the view here better.’
‘I want to hear everything. Or maybe not; he is my brother after all.’
‘After coffee.’ Olivia laughed. Hard to imagine they’d been lovers for a couple of weeks already. ‘I’m starved—we didn’t get around to dinner last night. It’s become a bit of a habit I have to admit, which is a shame since his talents extend to the kitchen... But this one’s my handiwork.’ Olivia pointed at the slow cooker. ‘Help yourself.’
‘You cooked? You? For a chef? And not just any chef—’
‘He bought me a cooker the other day. What else could I do? I won’t tell you what happened with the salmon mousse when I tried to use the new food processor.’
‘Ooh,’ Brie murmured delightedly. ‘You naughty girl.’ She walked to the coffee machine and switched it on.
‘No. No, it was nothing like that.’ But Olivia’s cheeks burned and she climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar. ‘Stay for lunch?’
They caught up on news over coffee. New Year’s Eve, the break-in, Brie’s holiday, the fundraiser plans. The renovations and retreat. By the time they paused for breath they were prepping salad for lunch.
‘Hey.’ The Voice. Deep, husky, morning-after voice.
They turned as one. ‘Jett. Hi.’ Brie set down the cucumber she was slicing and crossed the room to peck his cheek. ‘This is a nice surprise.’
‘What is?’ he asked, feigning innocence as he touched his lips to her brow while his eyes twinkled mischief at Olivia over his sister’s head.
Brie punched his arm. ‘You, you idiot. And don’t you look relaxed? I like seeing Livvie pink-cheeked and happy too.’
While they all caught up, Olivia made a salad dressing and thought how it could be—the three of them bound by friendship, love and family. But he wasn’t called the Jettsetter Chef for nothing. He was always off on some new culinary adventure on the other side of the world. He was helping out now but give him a couple of months in Tasmania to write his books and he’d be gone again.
She was darn well going to make the most of him while he was here.
Over the next couple of weeks, funds for the dinner cruise and late donations from the race rolled in. When Brie didn’t have clients, she came by to help with writing up job and person specs for the new staff they’d need and to chat over a wine or share a professionally cooked meal with them.
In addition to Brie’s beauty therapy skills and Olivia’s business and natural therapy qualifications, they needed a fitness instructor, a grounds-person, a therapeutic chef with an enthusiasm for organics and raw food nutrition. A qualified accountant on the books. Building contractors. More.
Jett enjoyed the freedom of working his own hours. Getting down and dirty in the garden. He experimented with recipes in Olivia’s kitchen and gave her some lessons in the basics. Meanwhile he took inspiration from Tasmania’s pure air and magnificent surroundings.
Every night he took a different kind of inspiration from the special woman he shared a bed with. Neither tried to define what they had or how long it might last. He pushed it to the back of his mind.
In the middle of the night when those thoughts and questions refused to stay away, he wrote. Within the week he’d finished a draft of a book that took his writing in a new direction. Its working title was The Bare Ingredients: For Lovers of Food. The Blue-Mint-Lagoon-cocktail-in-the-shower recipe featured front and centre. He was also working on other themes that Olivia had helped him come up with over hot chocolate when neither of them could sleep. She loved his idea of Hot Tarts and Sexy Sauces while the profits from her more demure suggestion of Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice would go into Snowflake’s account.