Page 50 of Delicious

The sight of Benji’s frame in the doorway hits me like an unexpected southerly, only this is something that leaves me somehow both cold and hot at the same time. I take a quick gulp of my beer.

Pete’s already standing to shake Benji’s hand.

“G’day mate,” he says. “You want to join us?”

Benji’s green eyes scan the table, and when they meet mine, the usual spark of mischief in them makes my collar feel too tight.

“Sure, I’ll join you,” he says.

He chooses the seat next to mine. Of course he does.

He smells like the land after rain, mixed with whatever fancy shower gel he uses. I’m sure the weird flip my stomach does is just my body preparing itself for whatever argument we’re bound to have when we’re in such close proximity.

“You’re looking all dressed up, Benji? You meeting someone?” Pete asks.

I stiffen, my hand clenching around my glass.

When Benji first turned up, it wasn’t just his city-slicker ways or farming techniques that caused the gossipers’ tongues to work overtime.

It was the fact he openly dated both men and women, which wasn’t something our little corner of rural New Zealand had seen much.

Even though he started off dating with gusto, Benji seems to have slowed down lately, like a tractor that’s run out of diesel. From what I’ve seen, he hasn’t dated anyone for the past two years.

Not that I care.

My house is on a slight hill that looks down over his place, so I’m aware of the comings and goings on his farm. Same as I notice when his sheep are ready for crutching, or his hay needs baling. Just being a good neighbor, that’s all.

Maybe he’s simply worked through all the eligible men and women and is waiting for fresh blood to move into the district. Though the thought of someone new catching Benji’s eye makes my stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with my anticipation of the meal the pub is cooking for me tonight.

“Nah, I’m not meeting anyone. I just thought it was time to retire the sheep-dip-stained look,” Benji says.

His shoulder bumps mine as he reaches for the beer Tilly puts on the table for him. My muscles lock up tighter than a new fence wire.

What the hell is going on with me?

I scan the room for something to distract me.

A replay of the final of the Supreme rugby competition is playing on a screen above the bar, showing the Auckland Greens losing to the Stallions. I nod at it.

“This must bring back some bad memories for you,” I say to Benji. “Watching your team get annihilated in the final.”

“At least my team made it through to the finals. Remind me, when were the Marauders knocked out?” he asks with an arched eyebrow, knowing full well the local team, the Canterbury Marauders, hadn’t even made the semis this year.

“Talking rugby, who do you reckon they’re going to start for the first Australia match. Jones or Bannings?” Pete asks.

This debate has been dominating sports media for the last few weeks. Aiden Jones is a legend in New Zealand rugby, one of the greatest players we’ve ever produced. He’s had a lock on his starting position in the New Zealand rugby team for the last six seasons. But Tyler Bannings is a young Greens player who’s had a phenomenal season, and there’s lots of speculation that the uppity hotshot might be named to start ahead of the veteran. Bannings has a raw talent that makes spectators forget to breathe, but he’s about as predictable as the spring weather.

“They gotta pick experience over the flashy upstart,” Doc Wilson says.

“I think they should start Bannings, actually.” Benji says the words with wicked intent, like he knows exactly how much that will irritate me.

I snort. “You’d pick style over substance? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

He slides a look at me. “Sometimes you get both style and substance together in a package.”

Fuck. It feels like another one of those Benji comments with a double meaning.

“Is that what you tell yourself when you look in the mirror each morning?” The words slip out before I can catch them, and I immediately regret how they sound. Like I’m admitting I’ve thought about what he sees in his mirror.

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