Page 21 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Three

David

T he next day, the first hint that something is wrong comes from the orphan lambs at their midday feed. Their bleating has a different pitch, like they’re singing a song with one voice missing from the harmony.

I count them three times, but the result doesn’t change. The little one with black spots around her eyes isn’t here.

“Shit.”

I pace the fence line, checking for gaps, and find where a fallen branch has pushed the wire down just enough for a determined lamb to squeeze through.

My gut churns. She could have wandered anywhere.

I’m halfway through checking the home paddock when Benji’s pickup truck comes bumping down my driveway. Fuck. Just what I need, Benji witnessing me running around like a headless chook looking for a lost lamb.

He gets out holding what looks like a casserole dish.

“Thought you might appreciate some lunch. Made too much beef stew last night,” he calls over to me.

“Can’t stop right now. Got a lamb missing,” I say tersely.

Instead of taking the hint and leaving, he puts the dish on the hood of his pickup truck. “Which one?”

“The little one. Black spots round her eyes.”

“Pepper?”

At my incredulous look, he shrugs. “What? She looks like someone sprinkled pepper on her face.”

Trust Benji to have named my lamb. Though I have to admit, it fits her.

“How long’s she been gone?” he asks.

“Must’ve gotten out this morning after feeding.”

He’s already striding over to me. “Right, where do you want me to start looking?”

“You don’t need to?—”

“Two sets of eyes are better than one.” He gives me that crooked grin that always makes arguing with him feel pointless. “Besides, I helped bottle feed her last week when you were drafting, remember? Makes me practically a godfather.”

That had been a one-off thing. I’d been running late finishing drafting, and when I arrived back at the home paddock, I’d found Benji contentedly feeding my orphan lambs. I could only imagine the ruckus they’d made when he arrived at my place to drop off his latest casserole.

“Fine,” I growl. “But we need to be systematic about it.”

We work our way through the paddocks in a grid pattern. The spring sun beats down as we walk, making sweat trickle down my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch glimpses of Benji moving through the long grass, his pants getting progressively more damp.

Not that I’m looking.

“Pepper,” Benji calls out.

I snort. “You expect her to come to her name?”

Benji shrugs. “I’ve found my sheep often react to my voice.”

“Next, you’ll be telling me you read them bedtime stories.”

Benji’s face lights up. “That’s not a bad idea. The Three Little Rams . Little Bo Peep: A Cautionary Tale .”

“ The Emperor’s New Wool Coat ,” I offer in return.

Benji laughs. “ Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Stock Agent .”

I can’t help chuckling at that one. Benji tilts his head at the sound of my laughter, giving me a satisfied smile.

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.

“Well, if you’d just?—”

The sound of a door opening cuts through his words.

Fuck.

We both freeze.

I peer through the branches and my heart climbs into my throat as the familiar form of Aiden Jones emerges onto the back doorstep of his cottage.

I glance over at Benji’s face. His eyes widen as New Zealand’s legendary rugby player crunches on the gravel path.

Shit. He’s coming in our direction.

But he stops at his woodpile thirty feet from the hedge.

Even though I knew Aiden Jones owned the place, it’s still surreal to see the Ice King himself, the guy whose poster probably hangs in half the teenage bedrooms across the country, only thirty feet away.

I feel Benji’s quickened breathing against me.

Aiden grabs his axe and positions a log on the chopping block.

As he starts to chop the wood, my shoulders unclench. He hasn’t seen us.

Benji uses Aiden’s distraction to make another attempt to wiggle free, stretching his arm at an impossible angle that forces him to arch against me. His shoulder slides beneath my chin, his thigh wedges between mine, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

Heat pools low in my stomach, my skin suddenly hypersensitive beneath my work clothes.

I’m acutely aware of every point where Benji’s body touches mine, like someone had drawn a map of all the places we’re touching and set them on fire. The steady thunk of the axe provides a rhythm to my rapidly beating heart.

What the hell is wrong with me right now?

Benji seems oblivious to the effect our enforced proximity is having on me.

Which is lucky, especially as the heat pooling in my stomach seems to have migrated lower, and my cock is starting to firm up.

Oh my fucking god. This seriously can’t be happening. I can’t be about to sprout wood while stuck in the woods pressed against my nemesis neighbor.

I shift, angling my hips backward, pressing myself against the unforgiving branches. Better twigs in my back than the mortification of Benji realizing exactly how my body’s responding to him.

But then, a sound from the cottage snaps my attention away from my predicament and makes me freeze again.

The back door opens, and a blond-haired guy saunters out, wearing only a pair of track pants that sit indecently low on his hips. His chest is bare.

When I realize who it is, my jaw drops so hard I nearly dislocate it.

Tyler Bannings.

The flashy Greens player. Aiden Jones’s fierce rival for his starting slot in the New Zealand team.

My brain short-circuits, unable to process what I’m seeing.

Tyler Bannings. Here. Half-naked. In Aiden Jones’s backyard.

When I glance at Benji, my astonishment is mirrored in his face. His eyebrows have shot up so high they’ve almost disappeared into his hairline.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes in my ear.

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

The cocky upstart strolls over to where Aiden’s chopping wood, moving with the same liquid grace that makes him such a devastating player on the field.

That part doesn’t shock me.

What shocks me is how he wraps his arms around Aiden from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

A choking noise escapes my throat.

Fuck. Luckily, it appears Aiden Jones is too busy to notice the strange noises coming from his hedge.

He puts down his axe and turns in Tyler’s arms.

“Come back to bed.” Tyler’s voice carries to our hiding spot.

“Some of us like to get things done before noon,” Aiden replies in his usual droll tone.

“I can think of better things to do.” Tyler’s hands slide down Aiden’s back as he eliminates the space between them to kiss him.

Oh my fucking god.

My eyes dart to Benji’s face as they kiss, seeking confirmation I haven’t completely lost my mind. Sure enough, Benji’s eyes are like saucers, and his mouth has formed a perfect O that would be comical if we weren’t currently hidden in a hedge spying on New Zealand rugby royalty.

I completely share his reaction. Seeing Aiden Jones and Tyler Bannings kiss is like discovering gravity works sideways or that sheep have suddenly learned to tap dance.

Tyler eventually pulls back, resting his forehead against Aiden’s. “You’ve made your point about being productive. Now come be unproductive with me.”

Aiden’s laugh is nothing like the short, controlled sounds he gives in press conferences. This is real, unfettered.

“You’re impossible,” he says.

“Pretty sure you already knew that about me.”

Aiden slings his arm around Tyler’s waist as they make their way across the yard.

The Ice King and his supposed rival disappear into the cottage.

After the door closes behind them, Benji and I stand there frozen for a few seconds. Then Benji turns his head to look at me, his face inches from mine.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “I never would have believed that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Because it turns out the biggest rivalry in New Zealand rugby is actually a love story. Who the hell could have predicted that?

I can’t quite get my head around the fact that Aiden Jones and Tyler Bannings are involved romantically while competing for the starting spot in the New Zealand team.

But I don’t have much time to contemplate the complexities of their relationship because I’m currently tangled in a hedge with my own personal rival, close enough to count his eyelashes, trying desperately to ignore how right it feels.

“Right, don’t move,” I order, my voice low as I assess the branch that’s snared Benji. I have to edge closer, my front flush against his side as I work at the gnarled wood that’s claimed his sleeve. His breath warms my neck, sending tremors down my spine. Every inadvertent touch between us sparks something that feels unnervingly right, as if my body’s solving an equation my brain’s been too stubborn to work out.

It almost feels like recognition.

I finally manage to work the fabric free with a small ripping sound.

We back out awkwardly, a strange shuffling retreat where we can’t stop bumping into each other.

When we reach the edge of the hedge, my boots are suddenly unsteady on the familiar ground of my own paddock.

My mind spins like the wheel of my old Massey Ferguson when it’s stuck in mud—working overtime but getting absolutely nowhere.

Benji gives me a funny look.

“You okay?”

I can’t answer him. I can’t speak right now.

“Bannings and Jones are just two people, David. It’s nothing to get freaked out over.”

“It’s not…that,” I manage to say.

His forehead furrows, but it’s impossible for me to explain everything swirling in my brain right now.

Aiden Jones. Tyler Bannings.

Two guys who don’t seem to get along on the surface but must be storing up all that friction just to strike sparks off each other in private, like flint against steel.

And my mind is racing, churning through a whole load of things.

My body’s reaction to having Benji pressed against me in the hedge.

Years of bickering over stock rotation schedules and water rights and his organic farming experiments that somehow worked better than they had any right to, every argument feeling like practice for something else entirely.

The fact that I currently have eight heritage varieties of tomatoes growing in my glasshouse after Benji once mentioned he liked the old heirloom breeds.

Personally, I don’t even really like tomatoes. Unless they’re in one of the sauces Benji makes.

Memories of fresh-baked fruit loaves left cooling in the sun and a freezer filled with dinners he’s made me.

The fact that, between his cooking and baking, Benji has been feeding me for the past few years.

The time my tractor broke down during hay baling and Benji showed up without being asked, spending the whole afternoon helping me finish before the rain hit. And he never mentioned how I’d told him the week before that his fancy automated baling system was a waste of money.

How he showed up every morning for a week after Dad died, quietly doing my milking while I dealt with the funeral arrangements.

And when he caught a nasty flu last winter, I found myself dropping by twice a day to check on him, telling myself it was just because his dogs needed feeding. Ended up reading him the Farming Weekly while he dozed on the couch.

And how having him pressed against me felt like discovering a new paddock I never knew existed on my own land.

My mind works through it all slowly.

Too slowly.

By the time I’ve realized what it all means, Benji’s stalking across the paddock, having spotted a familiar black-and-white spotted face peering out from behind my oldest poplar tree. The missing lamb is standing under the branches, looking about as guilty as a lamb can look, which it turns out isn’t very much.

“Here’s Pepper,” he calls back triumphantly.

I want to growl at him that I don’t name my pet lambs, but the words remain lodged in my throat as I stumble after him.

He tilts his head to his side to regard me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s standing in my paddock like he belongs there, one hand absently scratching Pepper behind the ears. There’s thistle fluff caught in his hair that’s catching the sunlight like a halo.

“Yeah, I think I will be,” I finally say.