It took her forever to find him, the backpacker’s day off with the poppies. His American accent grated her father, as too his artistic soul and retro flare.

Strutting into his picnic, she let him woo her with all that wasn’t Tasmanian. Big eyes, attentive smiles, and tendrils of copper tucked behind her ear.

His kiss stole her breath, his fingers her shirt. Jeans down, skirt up, she rode him bare, cradled in his worldly hands.

His release was hers, not just from the sweet agony of their sex, but from the monotony of her life on her father’s farm.