Chapter 9 #2
That done, I stood at the wire, oddly mesmerised as I watched them do their thing for far too long to be polite.
While I stood there, Ziggy paced back and forth in front of the netting, testing a variety of overt incursion tactics mixed with covert mind-control, all of which the chickens ignored.
All in all, it was pretty hilarious. But when he began to run circles around my legs, I figured he wanted his breakfast, and it was time to head back. My grumbling stomach agreed.
I’d just closed the shed door when a flash of white in the forest beyond caught my eye.
Was that— I jogged to the same spot where I’d left the forest path two nights before and squinted into the bush.
Ziggy was tense and silent at my side, staring fixedly into the distance like he could sense something there as well.
But the endless layers of green dappled with morning sunlight remained empty.
No dogs. No animals at all. Even the birds had fallen silent.
By the time we arrived back at the cottage, Ryder was standing at the breakfast bar, whipping the hell out of something in a bowl tucked under his arm.
I called out, “Good morning,” and stepped through the door.
Ryder returned the greeting, his watchful gaze running the length of my body in a way that made my cheeks heat.
He wore nothing but a pair of sleep trousers that hung perilously low on his narrow hips and which showed off his impressive V-cut and all those glorious blond curls that covered his chest. And for the first time, I saw his sleeve tattoo in all its glory.
It was a huge tree, its root system running down his forearm to the back of his hand and even into his fingers.
The wide trunk rose over his elbow and up his bicep; the branching canopy spread over his shoulder to lick at the base of his neck.
When I finally peeled my tongue from the floor, I managed a croaky, “You do realise you’re breaking the Geneva Convention for cruel and unusual punishment.”
He looked at me blankly for a moment, and I had to wave a hand up and down his body to make my point. He laughed and went back to beating what I could now see were eggs. “Don’t look if it offends you.”
I ignored him, of course, adding the eggs I’d collected to the basket on the countertop. “I took the liberty of feeding them while I was there.”
Ryder’s eyebrows popped. He stopped his frantic whipping and gave me a sceptical look. “You fed them?” He narrowed his eyes. “Will they survive?”
“Pffft.” I waved his sarcasm aside. “I can pay attention too, you know. I gave them exactly the same as you did yesterday. But while I was there, I got to thinking.”
He gave me a narrow look. “Oh, you did, did you?”
I poured a cup of tea, plonked myself on a barstool opposite Ryder, and ignored his obvious scepticism. I also tried not to stare at his naked chest just a couple of feet away, but admittedly, I didn’t try all that hard. “It’s clear that not all the birds are laying—”
“Hens,” he corrected, shooting me a smile.
“Fine, hens,” I amended. “Anyway, I was thinking I could set up some cameras in the henhouse where they tend to lay and then set you up with some simple software to keep a better track of each hen’s relative production compared to the others and—”
“I take it you mean eggs?” Ryder didn’t bother to hide his grin.
“Yeeees.” I bugged eyes at him. “Eggs. You’re not listening. All I’m saying is that it could help you weed out the inefficient layers and maximise the potential in the ones who are doing well—”
Ryder’s hand shot up and the corners of his eyes crinkled with merriment. “No. Thank you.” He pointed to the end of the breakfast bar. “Pass me the salt and pepper.”
I slid them his way. “But—”
“Shhh.” He mimed zipping his lips, and for some reason, I did as he said.
“Thaddeus, I honestly don’t care which of those damn chickens lays more eggs than the others.
I love those stupid birds. They could decide not to lay another egg from tomorrow, and I still wouldn’t get rid of them.
I got the first one over eight years ago.
The least I can do is let them retire with grace and dignity.
For the moment, they give me all the eggs I need, and I’m fine with that. Now, sit down so I can feed you.”
“Feed me, huh?” I shot him a sly grin. “Oh, you mean breakfast. My bad.”
He leaned over and flicked me on the forehead. “Yes, I mean breakfast. Behave. We’ve had this conversation already.”
“But have we? Really?” I teased. “I mean, seeing you dressed as you are, a man could be forgiven for thinking that maybe he could reopen said conversation.”
Ryder’s cheeks bloomed prettily, and he stumbled a reply. “I wasn’t . . . I mean . . . I didn’t think . . . This is what I always wear . . . I wasn’t . . . ugh—whatever. Like I said, don’t look.”
“Mmhmm.” I smiled across the breakfast bar. “Just so you know, that’s not gonna happen.” I drank my tea and made a point of eyeballing Ryder’s every move until I had him so rattled he had to go and put a shirt on. And yes, I hadn’t really thought that one through, dammit.
An hour later, Ryder had me working in the glasshouse, or rather, standing over a piece of board looking lost and bewildered. Whatever rabbit hole I’d fallen down, it had zero regard for my non-existent DIY skills, but Ryder was a tryer, bless his cotton socks.
In my other life, I didn’t possess a hammer, let alone a toolbox, and my experience with manual labour was limited to explaining what I needed done to whatever tradesperson I was employing at the time.
It did not, under any circumstances, involve handling an actual tool, let alone responsibility for measuring or cutting anything.
If you needed someone to hack into the dark web and catch nasty people in the act of breaking the law, I was your man.
If you wanted the hole left by a broken glass pane neatly plugged, literally anyone else in the entire universe would do a better job than me.
“How’s it going?” Ryder appeared at my shoulder. He wore an amused expression that made me want to slap him. It was only the fact that he was balancing two coffees and a plate of sandwiches on a tray that saved him, just.
“How do you think it’s going?” I pressed rewind on the retractable steel tape measure, and it snapped into place.
“You do it. This is fucking embarrassing.” I slid the tape across the bench and wiped the sweat from my brow.
The sun had been beating through the glass roof like a raging ball of fire all morning, frying my brain and my patience along with it.
“Can’t we open a window or something? How do you work in here?
” My gaze roamed south, and I groaned. “And could you please put a damn shirt on? I need my blood in my brain, not, you know, elsewhere.”
Ryder set the tray on the bench. “As you’ve so succinctly pointed out, it’s hot.
” He pushed the tape back my way. “Come on. You can do this, Thaddeus.” He handed me a coffee.
“And no, we can’t open the roof until we fix the hole.
But—” He walked to the side of the glasshouse and slid open a door I hadn’t even noticed.
The tiniest of breezes licked at my face, and I groaned in relief. “Thank you, God. I was starting to melt.” I swallowed a mouthful of coffee and practically purred. “Mmm. This is good.”
He smiled at whatever he saw on my face. “Glad you approve.”
I took another mouthful and closed my eyes to savour the bliss, as well as block out the man’s naked chest. But when I opened them again, he was still shirtless. Aiming for safe territory, I pointed to his arm. “I forgot to ask what tree it is?”
“A kauri,” he answered, running his hand over the tattoo. “I got it after James left. A reminder that healthy growth needs solid roots.” He looked up, red staining his cheeks. “Corny, right?”
“Not at all,” I said quickly, then smiled. “Well, maybe a little. But if it works, who cares? It’s a beautiful tattoo.”
He ran his hand over it again. “Yeah, it is. The artist is a bit of a hermit. He lives off-grid on the West Coast. He’s kind of weird, but he does amazing work.”
“What about the one on your back?” I indicated the geometric pattern that covered Ryder’s entire back from neck to waist.
“Oh—” Ryder glanced over his shoulder as if he could see it.
“—that’s based on the design of one of Versailles’ formal gardens.
In my early twenties, I spent a year travelling Europe and the UK and saw all the famous gardens.
Heligan Cottage is named after The Lost Gardens of Heligan, in Cornwall.
It’s a magical place. Visiting it made me realise that you can create spaces for plants to thrive, even in places where you wouldn’t expect to see them.
Like using tropical plants in gardens in and around Wellington. ”
“Like you’ve done here?” I observed, somewhat surprised by the idea of Ryder—a man rooted in the land and his immediate environment—spending a year unplugged and travelling overseas. I’d yet to make it further than Australia.
Ryder’s eyes lit up. “Exactly.”
“Is that what you’re trying to do?” I pressed, making a mental note to read up on this Heligan place. “Push the boundaries with your gardens?”
“To a degree,” he hedged. “I like the challenge, or the idea of it, anyway. It doesn’t always work, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth giving it a go.” He considered me for a moment. “You looked surprised when I said I’d travelled for a year.”
“I suppose I was,” I admitted. “I mean, well, you don’t give off world-adventurer vibes, if I’m being honest.”