Page 3 of Feeding the Grump
But Aiden Jones is quite a common name, so I’d figured it must be a coincidence. The odds of a New Zealand rugby player buying my rundown manager’s cottage seemed about as likely as finding a Michelin-star restaurant in Old Thompson’s hay shed.
It wasn’t until I’d gone to drop off a spare key after the possession date and been greeted with those familiar steely eyes and granite jaw that I discovered I actually did have a New Zealand rugby legend as my new neighbor.
Since then, I’ve kept my distance and my mouth shut.
Because Aiden Jones has one of the most high-stress jobs in the country, constantly scrutinized by everyone from professional sports commentators to the guy behind the counter at the local store. He deserves a place where he can unwind without anyone gawking at him.
I also feel a weird kinship with Aiden Jones.
He’s known as the Ice King. Someone who simply gets the job done, doesn’t make any fuss, and doesn’t waste more words than necessary.
He couldn’t be more different from the flashy Bannings.
Of course, the media likes to play up their rivalry and the contrast between them.
You can see Jones’s contempt for Bannings every time he’s asked about him in an interview, although he always keeps his comments professional. Unlike Bannings, who often seems to try to bait Jones with some of his remarks to the media.
Benji’s still arguing passionately about Bannings’ style of play, and it’s distracting how he keeps shifting closer to me every time he makes a point, like proximity will somehow make his argument more convincing.
Benji always talks with his whole body when he’s excited about something, his hands moving, eyes bright. And even though everyone is listening to him, he seems to focus mostly on me as he makes his points.
The heat from his leg pressed against mine makes it difficult to follow the conversation, but I do my best, arguing back just as fiercely about Jones’s tackle success rate and defensive line statistics.
“Bloody hell,” Lance cuts through our argument with a knowing look that makes me want to kick him under the table like I did when we were kids. “Last time I saw you this fired up was when the stock agent tried to undervalue your two-tooths at the autumn sales.”
“Rugby’s important,” I manage to reply.
“My brother manages to use up his monthly word quota arguing with you, Benji,” Lance says with a grin at Benji.
Benji stretches back with a smile. “Sadly, I don’t think the New Zealand selectors really care about our opinions.”
“It’s a good thing they’re not listening to you,” I say.
Benji meets my gaze, his green eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that always sends a jolt down my spine.
For a split second, it feels like everyone else in the pub fades away. I can’t tear my gaze away from him.
Lance laughs, and it shatters the strange tension. He claps me on the shoulder as he turns his attention to Benji. I clear my throat, looking down at my beer.
“Anyway, what’s new with you, Benji?” Lance asks. “Heard at the feed store that you’re thinking about going into bees.”
“Yeah, I’m putting in some hives.”
I whip my head up to stare back at Benji. “You’re putting in bees? They’re not something to mess about with when you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Benji takes a casual sip of his beer, foam clinging to his upper lip until he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, David. I’ve done my research.”
“Research isn’t experience.”
“That’s why I talked to old Wilson. He’s kept bees for forty years.”
“Wilson’s half-blind and fully mad.”
Benji laughs. “He knows his bees. And I’m thinking of starting with just two hives near the manuka patch.”
“Two hives means thousands of bees,” I point out. “Thousands of bees that don’t recognize property lines. They’ll be all over my place.”
“And you’ll get the benefit of a free pollination service,” Benji says with infuriating brightness. “Your orchard yields will go up fifteen percent, minimum.”
“Or my sheep will get stung.”
“Bees don’t just randomly attack sheep, David.” Benji leans forward, one eyebrow cocked. “I’ve ordered special Carniolan queens. They’re known for their gentle temperament.”
“You’ve already ordered them?” I straighten in my seat. “Without talking to your neighbors first?”
“I’m talking to you now,” he says in this patient tone.
“After you’ve already made up your mind.”
“I thought you’d appreciate the honey. It might sweeten you up.” He gives me one of his standard-issue Benji grins, where one side of his mouth quirks up more than the other.
Why the hell do his words and grin send a flush of embarrassment mingled with something else I refuse to name racing up my neck?
“You need to buy proper protective gear, make sure you’ve got a contingency plan for something going wrong. Those allergic reactions can come out of nowhere, even if you’ve never had one before.”
Benji’s eyes switch from playful to something softer. “I appreciate your concern for my safety.”
I’m waiting for him to finish his words with one of his typical smartass comments, but he doesn’t say anything else. Which sends us into another weird moment where we’re staring at each other.
“It’s called being a good neighbor,” I say finally.
“Right,” he replies.
He holds my stare a moment longer than necessary. It’s almost like he’s waiting for me to catch up on something I’m missing.
I blink and look down, suddenly fascinated with the condensation rings on the table.
The conversation among the others moves on to Bruce McMillian’s new deer fence, but for the rest of the evening, there’s a weird tension between Benji and me.
And I don’t think our disagreement about his new beehives is why my chest tightens every time he looks at me.
By the time Tilly starts wiping down tables, I’m no closer to understanding the weirdness that has engulfed me.