‘Oh,’ she said, not bothering to disguise her lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s you.’

‘It is,’ Guy agreed.

Lucy hated the way he could say something perfectly unexceptional like that with a straight face and yet still make it sound as if he were laughing at her. It was something to do with the ripple of amusement in his voice, or maybe it was to do with his blue, blue eyes, currently hidden by ridiculously mirrored sunglasses, where a smile always seemed to be lurking even if he was only asking her to pass the toast.

What’s so funny? she wanted to yell at him, but she had the nasty feeling that the answer would be her. Nobody else at Wirrindago seemed to find him annoying. They all thought he was great.

Lucy couldn’t understand it. Guy had the kind of assurance that she always associated with generations of privilege and a gold-plated trust fund, and she didn’t trust his practised charm for a moment. The self-deprecating humour and oh-so-engaging smile were completely wasted on her.

‘Why do you always call me Cinderella?’ she asked irritably.

‘Because you’re very pretty and you never seem to be allowed out of the kitchen,’ said Guy.

‘I’m a cook,’ she reminded him with a touch of sarcasm. ‘Providing three meals a day for eight men-and the occasional visitor like you-tends to mean that you spend a lot of time in the kitchen.’

She was rather pleased with the subtle way she had managed to dismiss him as an ‘occasional visitor’. It made her feel better to remember that he was just passing through, while she had every intention of staying for ever.

‘You certainly seem to work very hard,’ Guy agreed. ‘I’d say a day out is the least you deserve. I quite like the idea of a local rodeo as the outback equivalent of going to the ball, don’t you?’ he said, with one of those smiles that Lucy was sure was meant to have her swooning with delight. ‘Hal gets to be the fairy godmother who says you can go, the stockmen’s old truck is the pumpkin that brought you here…now all you need is a Prince Charming!’