The shop door jingled. “Good afternoon, ladies.” Mr. Cummings’s florid voice floated over the top of Ally’s head.

“Hi, Mr. Cummings,” Ally said, still on all fours as she reached for a bar of soap lodged beneath a postcard stand. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“I’ve brought someone to meet you, Ally.”

As Ally struggled with the caught piece of soap, a pair of men’s shoes appeared in front of her. Crocodile, hand tooled, expensive. Definitely not Mr. Cummings’s shoes. They were attached to trousers—finest wool, elegantly tailored, citified. Still on her knees, Ally straightened her back and found herself eye level with a slim pair of hips and a thin leather belt cinched around a taut waistline. Her gaze flew upward, past the crisp cotton shirt, silk tie, flawless jacket, and finally clashed with a pair of simmering brandy eyes. Eyes she could never forget.

Nate Hardy. In Burronga. In her shop.

And here she was kneeling in front of him like a penitent, her face practically in his crotch.