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Like making me laugh is a victory.

But I don’t have time to dwell on that thought because I suddenly realize the search has taken us closer to Aiden Jones’s boundary. The old macrocarpa hedge there is thick enough to swallow a full-grown sheep, let alone a lamb.

Benji heads straight for it. “Perfect hiding spot for a lamb.”

“Leave it,” I say sharply. “We’ll check the creek bed first.”

He turns to me, that familiar spark of challenge in his eyes. “Since when do you shy away from thorny situations?”

Before I can stop him, he pushes into the hedge, the branches catching on his clothes.

“Benji—”

“Found some wool caught here.” His voice is muffled through the foliage. “Might be recent—shit!”

There’s a ripping sound followed by cursing.

“You stuck?” I call into him.

“Not really,” he says in a tone that clearly means yes.

I blow out a frustrated breath. “Stay still.”

Following his path through the hedge, I find him thoroughly tangled, one arm twisted behind him where his sleeve has caught on a particularly vicious branch.

Of course, being Benji, he still has a grin lingering despite his predicament.

“Don’t say it,” he warns.

“Wasn’t going to say anything,” I reply as I move closer, trying to work out the best angle to free him.

But there’s not much room to maneuver inside a hedge. In fact, it feels like the branches are deliberately pressing us together, leaving barely enough space to breathe. I can see Aiden Jones’s backyard through the gaps in the foliage.

Benji turns slightly, and his chest brushes against mine. Which somehow makes every muscle in my body tense.

What the fucking hell?

“Never figured you for the rescuing type,” Benji says. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, something I’ve never noticed before and immediately wish I hadn’t.

“I’m not rescuing you. I’m rescuing my hedge,” I retort. We’re so close together that I feel the laughter shuddering through his body.

The world narrows to the inches between us, my heart hammering so loud I’m certain he can hear it. His breath warms my neck, sending an electric current zipping down my spine that has nothing to do with the twigs digging into my back. I suddenly forget how to swallow properly, my mouth as dry as summer dust.

I try to focus on the task at hand, but my brain’s suddenly rewiring itself without permission. Benji’s hip presses against mine as he shifts his weight, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us.

I fumble with the branch that’s got him caught, my usually capable farmer’s hands clumsy as a newborn calf’s legs. The familiar scent of him—soil and that fancy shower gel and something uniquely Benji—fills my nostrils, making it impossible to think straight.

Benji shifts, and our eyes lock.

Bloody hell.

Something passes between us, quick as summer lightning and just as electric.

“Hold still,” I command, though my voice comes out embarrassingly rough.

His breath catches as I lean in closer, my fingers working at the stubborn branch that’s hooked his sleeve. Twigs scrape against my skin, but I barely notice the sting.

“You’re making it worse,” I mutter as he tries to twist free.