Page 22 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Four

David

I ’ve never courted anyone before.

It feels like such an old-fashioned word, one that belongs back when blokes actually knew what they were supposed to do in situations like this instead of standing in their kitchen silently panicking about how to make a bloody cheese sandwich.

I spend twenty minutes staring at my wardrobe before accepting that my idea of dressing up means jeans without fence wire tears and a shirt that’s never seen the inside of the woolshed. The shirt even has all its original buttons, which practically makes it formal wear in my book.

The drive to Benji’s place has never felt longer.

My hands are sweating on the steering wheel like I’m sixteen again, learning to drive stick in Dad’s old Hilux. Each fence post I pass marks the seconds until I make a complete fool of myself. I keep the radio switched off because my thoughts are making enough noise.

I pull into his driveway.

The engine ticks as it cools while I try to convince myself to get out or drive away.

There’s no point overthinking it now. Not when my truck’s probably left a dust trail on the gravel road that’s visible from space.

Taking a deep breath, I climb out of my truck, striding up to Benji’s front door and knocking.

Maybe he’s out? Hopefully, he’s out.

Benji opens the door.

“David. To what do I owe this pleasure?” It’s his standard greeting, the one he always gives me every time he sees me.

He’s leaning against the doorframe wearing dark jeans and a green shirt that makes his eyes look like the sun through spring leaves. His hair’s slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, and the half-smile on his face is the one that makes my chest feel too tight for breathing.

“It’s a nice evening.” I clear my throat. “Thought we could go down by the river for a picnic. If you want.”

His eyebrows shoot up for a moment. But the speed at which his eyebrows settle and the happy smile spreads across his face makes me realize I’m the last to work out what’s been happening here.

Which I’m sure is something he’s not going to let me forget.

“Sure, a picnic sounds great,” he says, and I can’t take my eyes off his mouth, the way one corner lifts higher than the other. “What do you want to eat?”

“I chucked together some food for us,” I say.

His eyebrows rise. “I think in the interest of my tastebuds, I’d better contribute something edible to this venture. Your reputation with anything more complicated than a sandwich is legendary around here, and not in a good way.”

“I made cheese sandwiches,” I admit, and Benji’s laughter fills his kitchen like sunshine, warming places inside me I didn’t know were cold.

“I just baked some honey buns. They’ll go great with cheese sandwiches,” he says.

I hover awkwardly in the door as Benji bustles around his kitchen, grabbing containers and wrapping things in tea towels.

“Take your truck?” he asks once he’s packed things up.

“Yeah.”

My pickup bounces down the track to the river like it’s trying to remind us why farm vehicles aren’t meant for romance.

The air between us feels thick with all the things we’re not saying. The rhythm of his fingers tapping on his knee matches the nervous flutter in my chest.

The evening light’s gone soft and hazy, making everything look like one of those photographs in farming magazines, all golden grass and long shadows stretching across paddocks.

The river appears through the willows, braided streams glinting like silver wool threads.

I park the truck and grab the picnic blanket and the bag containing our food.

A pair of paradise ducks take off as we approach, their calls echoing across the water. Everything smells of warm grass, river stones, and something else I can’t quite name.

I spread the picnic blanket on a patch of grass, and Benji settles next to me, his knee knocking against mine. He unwraps his baking like he’s revealing prizes at the A&P Show, which makes me want to roll my eyes and smile at the same time.

“The river level’s looking good,” he says. “Hopefully, we’ll get through summer without water restrictions.”

As we eat the cheese sandwiches, we talk about ram prices at the latest sale, the wild pig digging up Thompson’s bottom paddock, and whether the Hadfields down the road will really convert their place to dairy like the rumors say.

Then Benji starts to talk about his latest organic trial, and the way he talks about the land reinforces the lesson I’ve learned over the last five years. He genuinely cares about the same things I do. He just comes at them from a different angle.

I find myself watching the curve of his smile, the way his hands move as he talks about nitrogen cycles and soil structure. Style and substance together in one package. The thought rises unbidden, warming my face and making me reach for my water bottle to gulp some down.

Benji licks a smear of honey from his thumb, then wipes his hands on his jeans before splaying his fingers on the blanket between us, just close enough that I can see a small scar across his knuckle.

I can be accused of being many things in life, but a coward isn’t one of them.

Taking a deep breath, I slide my hand over to cover his.

He freezes, and for a horrible second, I think I’ve got this all wrong, and my stomach plummets. The river sounds suddenly too loud in my ears, blood rushing alongside it.

But then Benji flips his hand over, curling his fingers to intertwine his with mine.

He fixes his green eyes on me.

“Remember the time you kept showing up every time I was testing my automated gates, pretending to check your fence line, when really you were making sure I didn’t electrocute myself?” he asks.

I keep my voice gruff, trying hard to contain all the emotions swirling inside me at the feel of Benji’s hand in mine. “Had to protect my investment in that boundary fence. The last thing I needed was you barbecued against the wire and me having to explain that to the insurance assessor. It was the neighborly thing to do.”

Benji ducks his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he squeezes my fingers. He shifts his weight, pivoting slightly until our knees touch through worn denim.

My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat as something hot and electric zips up my spine.

The smugness growing in his smile makes me realize he’s completely aware of the effect he’s having on me.

“Remember the time you insisted on helping me dock lambs even though I said I could manage, then spent the whole time telling terrible sheep puns to keep me from worrying about the storm coming in?” I counter.

“It was the neighborly thing to do. And I object to your categorization of my puns as terrible. I’m pretty sure ‘I wool always be here for you’ is the height of comedic genius.”

I snort, but I’m fighting a losing battle against the smile tugging at my lips.

Benji leans slightly closer, his eyes catching the last golden light as if he’s gathering it just for us.

“Remember the time you kissed me on the riverbank?” he asks.

My forehead rumples. “I’ve never kissed you on the riverbank.”

“Oh well,” he shrugs. “Then I guess you better fix that. If you think it’s the neighborly thing to do.”

My pulse hammers against my throat and heat surges to my face.

Bloody hell.

I’m lightheaded, my body suddenly unsure how to handle wanting something it never knew it could have.

But I do as my neighbor asks me.

I lean forward and press my mouth to his.

Benji’s lips are warm and slightly chapped under mine, tasting of honey from his buns. My heart thunders, but his hand cups my jaw, steadying me.

Fuck.

It’s a gentle kiss at first, careful like we’re testing uncertain ground.

The stubble on his chin grazes my skin, sending a jolt through me that feels like touching an electric fence, except there’s no possibility of me pulling away.

Not when this kiss feels like coming home after a long day of working in the rain. Warm and right and somehow inevitable.

Suddenly, so many of the things I’ve never quite understood make sense. Those soppy country songs Lance’s wife Emma always plays in her car about hearts and forever. The way my parents used to dance in the kitchen to the crackling radio. The way old Joe Morrison’s voice still breaks when he talks about his late wife.

I now understand all those things in the context of Benji’s lips.

But when he makes a small sound in the back of his throat, hunger roars through me, my control snapping like an old fence wire under too much tension.

His mouth opens under mine, and now our kiss is wilder, like years of bickering and boundary lines and carefully maintained distance are collapsing all at once.

We’re crashing together like a downstream surge after the spring melt, powerful enough to reshape the riverbank.

His hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer as the last light paints everything gold around us. My hands somehow get tangled in his hair, making him groan into my mouth.

When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless and panting.

His pupils are blown out, his lips red and slightly swollen, like the first ripe strawberries in my garden.

I know I’m wearing a stupid, foolish grin. In fact, it appears I can’t stop grinning.

The only thing that makes it slightly less mortifying is the matching grin on Benji’s face.

“So, my place or yours?” Benji says the words casually, like they’re something he’s said many times before.

Or maybe they sound so familiar because they’re something we’re going to be saying to each other for years to come, at least until we finally relent and build our house on the boundary between our land.

It could be a good use of the thistle paddock, come to think of it.

“Mine’s closer,” I say.