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Yeah. He had it bad for Vera. So what? It was his life, and if he wanted to have it bad for a prickly woman from out of town who barely seemed interested, then that was his choice, wasn’t it? Besides, after the kick in the teeth from the council rejection, he needed to see her more than he even needed that beer.

He pulled his jacket off the coat hook and then heard the scampering claws of a dog on the floor.

‘Jane Doe.’

She looked at his jacket, then she looked at the row of hooks on the wall where the dog lead was hanging.

‘Girlfriend, I’m sorry. They don’t allow dogs in The Billy Button Café. I’m going for a meal, not a quick drink. You’ll have to stay here.’

Jane Doe sat down expectantly and extended her neck to let him know that slipping the catch onto her collar would be no trouble at all.

Josh rolled his eyes. Now he was being guilt-tripped by a dog. ‘Did Poppy teach you that trick?’

The dog’s tail beat a steady rhythm on the floor.

‘I don’t make the rules, Jane. What about a high-priced, organic roo-jerky treat instead?’

He made his escape while Jane Doe hunkered onto the floor with a generous chunk of jerky between her front paws, and thought, not for the first time, how relieved he was that seven-year-old Parker hadn’t turned up yet to reclaim his pet.

The park that separated the clinic from the café over on Paterson was quiet, and the breeze kicking up off the lake hadn’t got the memo that summer was only a month away. He stuffed his hands deep into his jacket pockets and kept his eyes on the lights of the café glimmering a golden welcome through its ornate windows.

Marigold was floating about the inner room, her arms waving about as though she was conducting a symphony orchestra. Of course, Wednesday was craft night. Mr Juggins was there, and Vonnie from the supermarket … and was that Vera tucked into a corner stitching? He smiled. The babble of people relaxing together at the end of the day in a gracious old room that looked like a fancy parlour from an olden-day movie sounded exactly like what he was in the mood for. He eased his way in the door and was pounced on by Graeme.

‘Dr Handsome, welcome back. Dinner? A takeaway beef bourguignon pie? Or have you finally succumbed to the lure of Marigold’s Wednesday night craft group?’

‘Woah.’ He threw his hands up. ‘I’ve done my share of stitching today already. Dinner. A table for one.’

Graeme looked at him as though he’d just shot the last Tasmanian tiger in captivity. ‘Josh, you disappoint me.’

‘I do?’

The manager shook his bald head. ‘Single men never ask for a table for one. It’s a rule.’

‘Whose rule?’

‘It’s a law of the jungle type rule. Come. Sit at the counter.’

The counter was perfect. He could see into the craft room and keep an eye on Vera there, and maybe start up a little conversation if she wandered over to the till. ‘Lead the way. Hey, I thought you didn’t work Wednesday nights.’

‘Roster changes,’ said Graeme. ‘For Alex, I mean. He’s on call nights this week.’

Josh took a seat. A menu was propped up on the counter between a stone trinket box filled with Himalayan salt and a miniature pepper grinder, and on it he spied the magical word, beer.

‘What do you fancy?’ said Graeme.

‘Lasagne. Beer.’

‘The dinner of champions, excellent choice, mate.’

‘Make it a generous helping, would you? I’ve been living off my own cooking and it—’

‘Sucks?’

Josh snorted, and grabbed the copy of theSnowy River Startucked in amongst the serviettes and sauce on the end of the counter. Vera swished by behind him and he let his eyes rest on her for a long, wistful moment as she disappeared into the kitchen. ‘Does that sort of comment get you tips in the big city, Graeme?’

‘Everything gets me tips, Josh. I’m an operator.’

‘That’s the truth. How’s the house building coming along? You need a hand again, you let me know.’