Christmas Down Under: Six Sexy New Zealand & Australian Christmas Romances

by Rosalind James

  He said, “Which bit do you believe?”

  “That you’d never been to a Farmers’ Market before. Not sure what I think of you watching romantic comedies, though.”

  “I may have been forced to watch one in my time. Maybe two. But don’t ask which cos I have no clue.”

  She was more interested in with whom he’d seen them, rather than which movies.

  He said, “So how does it work, all this farmers’ stuff?” He stopped by a boutique bread stall to look at the loaves.

  “The produce has to be grown on a local farm, and the bulk of the ingredients have to be local too although obviously some things can be imported. Turkish dates, for example, but they have to be clearly labelled. The French market has imported things, obviously but here, it’s all New Zealand made. Most of its organic but that’s not a requirement. There are different regulations for other things, like the clothes so I’m not so sure what they are.”

  She picked up a cellophane wrapped, bow-tied Panettone loaf. She used to make these every Christmas but last year, she hadn’t. Last year they’d barely survived the season and celebrating in any way had been the farthest thing from their minds.

  He glanced at the loaf, a wry grin on his face. “What, there are bread farms these days?”

  “Somebody grew the wheat, the nuts, and the dried fruit.” If she had room, she’d get a loaf on the way back.

  On second thought, she bought one anyway, and handed it to Michael. “You could make yourself useful.”

  “Women,” he muttered, but he was looking down at her, his mouth slightly curled, and for a moment she was captured by that look. There was something in his expression she’d never seen before, something she couldn’t place, something that made her heart almost ground to a halt...

  He blinked, broke the contact and looked around. “Can I smell coffee?”

  “Ah, yes. Coffee. It’s just up ahead.” Her mouth was dry, her throat like gravel. A remnant of the flu, she told herself, but she turned away, confusion nipping at her heels.

  They moved on to the next stall, and he held up a pair of multi coloured boxer shorts.

  “Just the kind of thing Carl would wear.”

  “Tie dyed boxers,” she said lightly. “So seventies.”

  “Perfect for Christmas, since he missed the seventies by a decade.”

  He took his wallet out from his jeans pockets, completed the visa transaction, chatted a minute to the woman who smiled, flirted, and handed him the package.

  “I never took you for a shopper,” she said with renewed respect.

  He fake-shuddered. “I was dragged here kicking and screaming.”

  “I don’t remember the dragging. Come to that, I don’t remember the kicking or the screaming either.” She spied one of the stalls she’d been looking for and pointed. "Over there. They do good chutneys.”

  As they walked over, Michael said, “I think my grandmother used to make chutney.”

  The comment caught Penny by surprise. “You had a grandmother?”

  “Of course I had a grandmother.” They were walking slowly, and he moved closer to her as they passed a group of people crowded around a stall. His arm went around her back as he shepherded her away.

  Just as quick, his arm dropped away.

  He said, “Everyone has a grandmother. Two of them usually.”

  “I just mean….” Her mind was all over the place, about the same as the nerves in her back. “You just never mentioned her,” she began feebly. “I mean, them.”

  “I never knew Dad’s mother but gran was my mother’s mother. She died when I was about sixteen. She used to heat jars in the oven when she did her preserving and I remember the chutney. Or maybe it was relish.” He glanced at her. “Is there a difference?”

  Sixteen years old, she thought. That was about the time he started coming around to the Portman’s.

  Was there a connection between his grandmother passing and Michael coming around to the Portman’s more often?

  She explained, “Chutneys tend to have more spices and relishes more fruit. And there’s difference in the cooking times. And pickles have more vegetables in them.”

  “All sounds like gibberish to me,” he said.

  She shook her head. “You have so much to learn. You need to spend time in my book library at home and immerse yourself in the goodness. I’ll show you some time.”

  “A library of cookbooks? I think I’d rather eat the food than read about it.”

  “You’ll love it. But in the meantime, I’ll buy you some of the chutneys here. They’re organic and gorgeous.”

  He leant closer to her, as a group of people rushed by and this time his arm was around her shoulders. “I’d wager you make the best chutney on the planet.”

  “My tomato relish is pretty good,” she said.

  They stopped by the stall.

  He reached across and picked up a jar. His sleeves were rolled up, his wrist was bare save for the wrist watch. A light sprinkling of hair on a golden tanned hand.

  He was speaking to her and she dragged her gaze away.

  “Do you make the relish you serve at the café?”

  “I do actually.”

  He lowered his voice. “So why are you buying somebody else’s?”

  “Variety. Seeing what others are doing.”

  “Makes sense. Which flavour do you recommend?”

  She stood back, cocked her head. “Who are you buying it for?”

  “I’m not buying it for anyone. I think I’d like a few jars in the pantry.”

  “For what?” She reached across, took two jars, and placed them in front of him. “You never eat at home.”

  He looked affronted. “Of course I do.”

  “What was the last meal you cooked?”

  “I didn’t say I cooked at home.” He handed the jars to the assistant. “I said I eat at home.”

  “What was the last meal you had at home?”

  “I never said it was a meal. Are you listening to me? I have bread.”

  “You can’t just spread it on bread.”

  “Of course I can. That’s what you do. And you add cheese.” He gestured to the next stall. “And some pickles and olives and hey presto. I’ve got a meal. Haven’t I?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, Michael McGuinn, what am I going to do with you?”

  He laughed then, out loud, and the sound mixed with the noise around them, with the continual low thrum of children and adults, cries from bored babies, and the music over the sound system. It was loud and busy and she loved it.

  She glanced at Michael as he suddenly said, “Thank you, God,” and made his way to the coffee cart.

  He seemed content.

  He actually seemed happy.

  He had nursed her back to health, and as she joined him to order coffee, she knew, it was the least she could do.

  It was odd to think that all those years he’d needed her family.

  And now, for the first time, it had been her - needing him.

  And even more was the feeling deep down inside her, that it had felt right.

  So very, very right.

  Chapter Eight

  BY THE time Michael dropped her home, Pen was tired.

  Market shopping usually invigorated her, usually meant that as soon as she stepped in to the kitchen and unpacked the bags, she was itching to cook. This time, she stuck on coffee and realised that the flu, or whatever it had been, had taken its toll.

  She’d ended up texting Daisy and inviting her for dinner as well. Daisy was more a foil for Michelle’s distrust of Michael, even though Michael had never done anything to Michelle at all.

  Daisy’s husband Joel, a history professor, was at Oxford lecturing, and Daisy, while she’d wanted to go with him, hadn’t because of a rough time with morning sickness.

  Pen had also rung Michelle’s brother, Adam, to see if he could join them. Adding another male to the mix seemed like a good idea, but he’d been painting his new place a
ll day. Which meant it was Michael and three women.

  When Daisy arrived, Penny went up to shower before she finished off dinner, and by the time she came down, Daisy and Michelle were in the living room, discussing baby names.

  Penny’s phone vibrated as she walked through to the kitchen.

  It was Michael, texting from the wine shop on the corner on which wine to buy.

  Pen poked her head around. “Michael’s asking after wine. I know you won’t be drinking, Daisy, but what about you, Michelle?”

  “Oh, I’ll be drinking. Tell him to load up.”

  Daisy arched her eyebrows at Penny. “What did this Michael ever do to Michelle to make her hate him so much? He was Greg’s best friend, wasn’t he?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” Michelle said stiffly, “And I don’t hate him. He’s…” She waved her arms around. “He’s a very pleasant man.”

  “He sounds insipid,” Daisy commented, as Pen texted Michael back. “So much so, I actually can’t wait to meet this guy.” She frowned. “And now I’ve completely forgotten what we were talking about and I know it was something massively important.”

  “We were talking baby stuff,” Michelle reminded her. “No wonder Joel’s gone to Oxford. Your mind has already turned to mush and the baby’s barely the size of a walnut.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “Let’s talk baby showers.”

  Pen sat on the edge of the couch. “Have you got any ideas?”

  “An English High tea,” Daisy said. “Joel doesn’t care what theme I choose. I mean, he cares, obviously, but he’s wrapped up in his work at the moment so he can take sabbatical when the baby arrives. He’s okay for me to take care of all that baby stuff.” She pulled her phone out and Michelle said, “You’re not messaging him while you’re here with us, in the middle of talking to us, are you?”

  “I’m not that rude.” Daisy smiled at her phone. “I’m just gazing at his photo.”

  Penny said, “He’ll be back from England before you know it. Why do you need to gaze at him?”

  “And why so frequently,” Michelle added. “Why do you even have a picture of him when you claimed he was burnt into you retinas?”

  “Oh, he is. But I just like to remind myself that he’s mine. Dr Joel Benjamin is all mine.”

  She slammed the phone to her chest, and the sound of dialling sounded.

  “You’re chest texting,” Michelle laughed.

  Daisy hastily checked her phone. “Close. It was dialling my sister, Petunia.”

  Penny grabbed a pen and notepaper. “Tell me more about the high tea. What were you thinking for the menu? Sandwiches, cupcakes, tea served in china pots?”

  Daisy nodded. “One of the books in my shop has a chapter on the Art of the Vintage High Tea and I’m thinking that will be my theme.”

  “I love all that gorgeous old stuff,” Michelle said. “And Daisy, you’ve got such a terrific vintage collection.”

  There was a knock at the door, and they heard Michael call out, “Only me.”

  “Door’s unlocked, come on through to the lounge,” Penny returned.

  A second later Michael walked in with a wine bag in each hand, and Daisy waggled her eyebrows at Penny.

  Pen introduced, “Daisy, this is Michael McGuinn, and Michael, this is Daisy Miller.”

  “Benjamin-Miller.” Daisy held up her hand and waggled her ring fingers. “Recently betrothed to my beloved.”

  “Isn’t betrothal the engagement?” Michael came over and dutifully inspected the ring. “That looks like a wedding band.”

  “Hence proof I’d have made a hopeless academic. Unlike my husband.”

  “Academics can be over rated,” Michael grinned.

  “Then you’ve never met my husband.”

  “Don’t get her started on her husband,” Michelle chipped in.

  “She’ll make you feel inferior.”

  It looked like she was on the cusp of muttering, “Not that you’d ever feel inferior to anyone,” and Pen hastily pointed out to the kitchen. “Bring those through.”

  In the kitchen, he set the bags on the bench and pulled out the bottles. “A pinot and a chardonnay. Okay with you?”

  “Perfect.” She inspected the labels as Michael beckoned out to the living room. “You didn’t mention you were inviting anyone else. I figured it was just going to be you and me, like old times.”

  “Old times,” she reminded him, “were with my family, and they aren’t here. I figured you’d be bored with just me, and Michelle didn’t have plans, and Daisy’s missing her husband.”

  Michael looked perturbed for a moment. “So I’m dining with three women.” He grinned. “I won’t complain about that.” He patted his stomach. “I’m starving. When’s dinner?”

  Now, this really was like old times, and Pen held out the bowl with the berries she hadn’t used in the dessert. “Here. Have these. And it’s only fifteen minutes away. Ten if you don’t distract me.”

  He sighed but there was contentment again on his face, and for a moment Pen felt it too. Felt that load she’d been carrying lighten as he murmured, a grin on his face, “Then I guess it just might be the longest ten minutes of my life.”

  Over dinner, they discussed Daisy’s baby shower.

  “We definitely have to use old china,” Daisy said. She was picking away at her food which was very un-Daisy like. “My sisters and I have got Royal Doulton from Grandma Poppy’s collection, and I think there’ll be enough for 25. I’ve made a preliminary list of guests but I expect it to grow when I remember who I’ve left off.”

  “But it will be so cramped in the shop.” Michelle frowned. “And what about all the books getting grubby, and people nicking off with the stock, and there’s hardly any parking down your street and stuff all parking up on Ponsonby Road.”

  “You’re accusing her friends of being dirty as well as thieves?” Michael commented lightly.

  “No,” Michelle said defensively.

  “You so were,” Michael said.

  “Well, we’ve put so much work into the shop, I’d just hate to see it wrecked.” Michelle turned to Daisy. “What about Joel’s – I mean, your – apartment?”

  “I considered that but for several reasons the shop is the best place.” She lowered her voice. “The main one is, I think the baby may have been conceived there.”

  Michelle looked sick. “I hope I wasn’t around.”

  “TMI, Daisy, TMI,” Penny coughed.

  “I’d like to see this shop,” Michael murmured.

  “That is wrong on so many levels,” Michelle accused.

  Michael stared at her. “I said I wanted to see the shop. I do not want to imagine Daisy and her…” He shut his eyes a pained minute. “I think you’re the one with the wayward mind, Michelle.”

  Michelle glared at him and Pen hoped the evening wasn’t on the cusp of going to hell in a handbasket.

  “Do you want it to be held mid-afternoon,” she said quickly before any more accusations were thrown around.

  “A Sunday afternoon, definitely. Cross fingers it will be fine but I don’t trust Auckland weather so at least we’ll be indoors.”

  “I hope you don’t want me to man the till,” Michelle commented.

  “I’m not selling things, Mitch. We’ll just need to move some of the displays out of the way.”

  Michelle shrugged her shoulders at Penny, and even Penny was doubtful. She’d been in Daisy’s shop a few times and while there was room – Daisy had guest speakers every few weeks, and the shop was packed with women at the events – it was going to be cramped, Michelle was right.

  Michael’s phone suddenly went off, and he checked it.

  He rose to his feet with apology. “Sorry about this, but I need to take it. It’s my father.”

  As soon as he left the room, Daisy leant across to Penny. “Quick. Who the heck is he and are you going out with him?”

  Pen’s face heated furiously. “He’s just Greg’s best friend and he’s
been part of our family for years, and no, I am not going out with him.”

  “He’s really cute,” Daisy said. “Not in Joel’s league but cute.”

  “And he knows it,” Michelle said stiffly.

  Daisy looked strangely at her. “I like him. He’s got good table manners and he smells divine.”

  “You smelt him?” Penny said.

  “Hard not to when I’m sitting right next to him. He’s got amazing thighs, too.”

  Pen’s mouth dropped. “Daisy. You’re married!”

  “Which means I can comment on a man and not feel at all embarrassed about it because I am secure. It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt like this, and I’m taking advantage of that-“

  She coughed as Michael strolled back in.

  Daisy examined her lamb cutlet, Michelle looked into her wine, and Penny took a sudden interest in her wristwatch.

  Michael pocketed his phone and she asked, “How’s Jerome?”

  “He sounded good. They’re flying out in a fortnight. I’ll head out to see them before they leave.” He took his seat and Penny noticed Michelle giving his thighs a discreet glance.

  Michael added, “He asked after you, Penny. Wanted to know how you were doing.” He gave her an amused smile. “I think the old man’s developed a soft spot for you.”

  “It’s mutual. I liked him, too.”

  “So what did you ladies decide in my absence?”

  “That you apparently have amazing thighs,” Michelle said.

  Michael’s eyes widened. “Well, I...” He drained his glass of wine, and didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

  “Oh, don’t worry. It wasn’t me who made the claim.” Michelle picked up her own glass and waggled her free hand between Daisy and Penny. “You can take your pick, Michael.”

  He glanced at Penny, and she held her breath.

  He said, “Don’t even accuse Pen of such lascivious thoughts.” He swung around to Daisy. “It was you, right, Mrs Married To Some Hot Academic?”

  “Of course,” Daisy said but there was confusion in her voice and in her eyes, as she glanced at Pen.

  Penny’s heart began to slow down.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “And why couldn’t I say, or think, something like that about you? Why?”