Page 25 of Delicious (Delicious #1)
Epilogue
Benji
Three years later
“I think you should carry me over the threshold,” I say.
“I need my back in working order,” David replies, his lips twitching into that half-smile that always crinkles the corners of his eyes.
Our new home sits proudly on what was once the infamous thistle paddock, a two-story timber-and-stone affair we’ve named Thornfield. Not after the Jane Eyre mansion, but because it made David snort with laughter when I suggested it.
The wraparound porch faces both our properties, with matching rocking chairs positioned to watch the sunset.
We’re standing on the porch now, debating the best way to mark this milestone.
“Trust me, I have a vested interest in keeping your back in working order,” I say with a lewd wink that leaves subtle in another time zone entirely.
David’s ears turn that adorable shade of pink. His jaw works in that oh-so-familiar way as he fights a smile while trying to maintain his stern farmer facade. It’s been three years, and I still live for the moments I break that stoic exterior.
“That whole carrying over the threshold is meant for newlyweds, and we’re not newlyweds anymore,” he rallies.
He’s right. We’re no longer newlyweds, having celebrated our first wedding anniversary last month with an epic trip to Queenstown. Racing each other down the luge, dining out at a top restaurant where David critiqued the quality of the beef, holding hands while walking along the lakefront.
It never fails to amaze me how David has never flinched when showing his affection for me in public. The guy went from being the most stereotypical straight-presenting farmer you could ever imagine—he wore the same polar fleece with a hole in one elbow to every single woolshed party for five years, for fuck’s sake—to walking square-shouldered and straight-backed into the Farmers’ Collective holding my hand, like anyone who was remotely homophobic could just fuck right off.
Our relationship did cause quite a stir initially. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been given a pass for my sexuality due to the fact I wasn’t originally from around here. But David was a different story. He was a fifth-generation farmer here, the gruff local institution with his immovable opinions on everything from stock rotation to the correct way to stack hay bales. When he became half of David-and-Benji, gossip ricocheted through Canterbury like a stray .22 round in an empty wool shed, pinging from one farm to the next until even the sheep looked scandalized.
Rumor has it that Old Thompson actually spit out his mouthful of beer at the pub when the news finally reached him.
Pete, the stock agent, had sidled up to us at the pub barely a week after the Farmers’ Collective meeting, his weathered face a curious mix of embarrassment and fascination.
“So it’s true,” he’d said, fiddling with a beer coaster rather than meeting our eyes. “You two are…” He’d trailed off, apparently unable to find the right farming metaphor for our relationship.
David had given him that patented Harrison stare, the one that made members of the shearing gangs quake in their boots.
“Yep. Got a problem with that?”
The way Pete had backpedaled, you’d think David had threatened him with sheep shears.
“No. No problem. Just like… I was surprised, you know, the fact you guys are neighbors…”
“Must be something in the water around here,” I’d said airily.
Which apparently had two of our other neighbors frantically cleaning out their water tanks the next day.
The fact we’re officially no longer in the honeymoon phase of our relationship doesn’t concern me at all. We were like an old married couple long before we ever got together.
“Does not being newlyweds anymore mean we’ve got no excuse for our lunchtime quickies?” I tease David now.
“I didn’t say that,” David says quickly.
I laugh because, despite David and I still having spirited discussions about nearly everything, our arguments transform into a different kind of negotiation in the bedroom. The type where we both always win.
“I guess we’ve got a whole new house to christen,” I muse. “And there are lots of rooms.”
David’s eyes darken, and there’s that familiar shift where my practical, buttoned-up farmer transforms into the man who once pinned me against the kitchen counter because I wore his flannel shirt and nothing else to make pancakes.
“There are lots of rooms,” he echoes.
Our house is bigger than we technically need for just the two of us. But it’s our plan to fill some of the empty rooms with kids, whether it be our own or ones we foster. I can’t wait to see David as a dad. I’ve already watched the way he tends to the orphaned lambs, his gruff exterior melting away as he gently coaxes them to take the bottle. I’ve seen how he kneels to eye level to talk to Lance and Emma’s two-year-old daughter Lily, how he helped her plant carrot seeds in the vegetable garden with infinite patience.
Some people are just natural parents waiting to meet their children.
“Talking about our new house, do you think we should actually get inside?” David asks. The late afternoon sun catches in his eyes, highlighting the tiny laugh lines that have deepened since we’ve been together.
“Sure. If you’re not going to carry me, I guess holding hands and stepping across the threshold together is the best alternative.”
“That works for me,” he says, fishing the keys from his pocket. He holds them up, sunlight catching on the metal, turning them momentarily golden. “Ready?”
I place my hand over his, feeling the familiar roughness of his skin. Together, we guide the key into the lock, turning it with a satisfying click.
The door swings open, releasing the scent of fresh paint. We continue to hold hands as we step across the threshold.
Inside, the walls are that soft gray David pretended to hate when I painted my weatherboards and the kitchen window perfectly frames his new vegetable garden. My purple gate has been repurposed as our garden entrance, weather-beaten but still defiantly bright against the Canterbury landscape.
I nod out the window. “Pepper looks happy in her new paddock.”
Because yes, Pepper the lamb grew up to be Pepper our pet sheep, who now produces her own lambs for us to dote on every spring.
Lance mocks us constantly about how two farmers with eight thousand sheep between us have sheep as pets, but if it wasn’t for Pepper escaping her paddock, who knows how long it would have taken my loveable grump to get his head out of his ass?
Of course not many people can say that their relationship was helped by spying on New Zealand rugby’s most bitter rivals kissing each other. Not that we’ve ever shared that part of our story.
I still love holding it over David’s head how I figured out what was happening between us two years before he did.
I’d just broken up with my latest boyfriend, James, the week before. James was a dentist, and he’d been a nice guy, and I was beating myself up again for always falling for people who seemed like a match on paper but couldn’t hold my interest past the three-month mark.
I’d been in a bad mood all day trying to figure out why my experimental organic fertilizer was turning my best pasture into something that looked like a nuclear testing site. Three different soil experts had given me three completely different opinions, my online research had yielded nothing but contradictory advice, and I was about ready to admit defeat and go back to the commercial stuff that made my skin crawl with environmental guilt.
I’d just arrived back at the house, and when I saw my grouchy, finicky neighbor had turned up, no doubt to berate me about some farming practice I was doing wrong, my mood had soured further.
David was leaning against his truck, his dark hair slightly mussed and his brown eyes fixed on me with their usual disapproval. Even annoyed and covered in a day’s worth of farm grime, the man was unfairly attractive. It was unfair how someone with such a permanently furrowed brow could still look like that.
“Your sheep are getting into my clover paddock again,” he’d announced without preamble, following me onto the porch. “Your southern fence line has got more holes than my granddad’s socks.”
I hadn’t had the energy for a snarky reply. “I know. I’ve got materials on order, but the supplier’s back ordered until next month.”
David’s eyebrows had knitted together in that way that made him look perpetually disappointed with the world. “I fixed it this morning.”
I’d stopped halfway through unlocking my door. “You what?”
“Fixed your fence.” He’d shrugged like it was nothing, like he hadn’t spent hours doing a job that wasn’t his responsibility. “Used some of my spare posts and wire. Should hold until your order comes in.”
He’d bent to retrieve something from behind my porch steps. It was a wooden crate filled with vegetables from his garden. Heirloom tomatoes in three different colors, those stubby Italian eggplants I’d mentioned liking once over beers at the pub, and right on top, a bundle of purple asparagus.
“You grew purple asparagus?” I asked, staring at it dumbly.
“Yeah, well.” His ears turned pink. “You said at the farming conference dinner last year that the regular kind was boring.”
As I stared at the asparagus, something had shifted inside me, like tectonic plates rearranging. I remembered that conference. I’d been drunk on mediocre wine, rambling about how everyone should experiment more with heritage varieties. David had sat there in silence, seemingly uninterested.
Except he’d been listening. Really listening.
I looked at him standing there in his faded work shirt with a smudge of dirt on his cheek, avoiding eye contact as he handed over vegetables he’d grown specifically because I might like them. All while pretending it was nothing special.
The same man who’d lectured me about proper fencing techniques for forty-five minutes last month. Who’d stayed up all night with me during that storm when my barn roof threatened to give way. Who argued with every new farming method I tried and then quietly implemented the successful ones on his own land.
A voice snuck into my head. This man is the love of your life.
And the voice resonated inside me with such clarity that I almost laughed out loud. Of course it was David. It would always be David. No one else had ever made my heart pound the way he did.
“You okay?” he’d asked, frowning at my sudden stillness.
“Never better,” I’d replied, trying to suppress my smile so I didn’t spook the guy. I felt like I’d just discovered gold in my backyard. Which, in a way, I guess I had.
That memory still makes me smile as David and I explore our new home, seeing all the signs of our merged lives. His worn armchair beside my designer reading lamp, his practical wooden coffee table perfectly centered on my wildly colorful Turkish rug that David initially called a hazard to navigation.
We wander through the first floor, my hand trailing along the walls as David, ever the practical farmer, checks the window latches.
We end up back in the kitchen.
“Should we test the water pressure?” I ask, nodding toward the sink, but my smirk means something else entirely.
David gives me that look where he’s pretending to be exasperated but can’t quite hide the smile pulling at his lips. “We haven’t even unpacked a single box.”
“Practicalities later,” I say, stepping closer to trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. “I want to know if that shower fits two comfortably.”
He catches my wrist, his thumb brushing over my pulse point in a way that sends electricity racing up my arm.
“Seems like important information for new homeowners to discover,” he concedes, eyes darkening.
I tug him toward the stairs, and he follows willingly. Three years together, and my heart still races at the feel of his hand in mine, at the knowledge that this grumpy, wonderful man is mine.
In our bedroom, the late afternoon sun slants through windows that frame the distant hills. His farm is to the left, mine to the right, and this house bridging them together. Perfect symmetry.
David’s arms wrap around me from behind as we gaze at our land. His lips find that spot just below my ear that makes me shiver.
“We’ve got a lot of rooms,” he reminds me, his words a murmur against my skin.
I turn in his arms, my fingers already working on his shirt buttons. “Then we better get started on christening the first one.”