The flower beds surrounding the house were an indulgence requiring a ton of work, but they were only the appetiser to a much larger horticultural feast I’d been working on for years. When I’d bought the property, it still had ten years left on a sixty-year lease, with the option of outright purchase at the end. This would bring the property in line with the others on the road that were now all privately owned. But when the lease came up at the beginning of the year, the council started backpedalling onthe option for me to buy, and I found myself caught in a battle for survival, not to mention drowning in legal fees.
At a little over a hectare, half the land was planted in gardens, a quarter left in native forest, and the remaining quarter filled with machinery and storage sheds, plus two large glasshouses that had been there for at least half a century. I ran a reasonably successful landscaping business from the site, while at the same time figuring out how to add another income stream from the glasshouses. Pretty much a pipedream, since the cost of running two massive greenhouses, including repairs, upgrades, and the maintenance needed to make them commercially competitive, was daunting, to say the least.
If it wasn’t the heating system breaking down, it was the irrigation, or the power network, or the automated window venting that controlled the temperature. Most days, the latter didn’t work at all, and I’d come home from work to find my plants quietly cooking in their pots. I’d lost more money than I’d earned from the antiquated glass monstrosities, but a man could dream.
I walked the narrow path leading through the individually themed garden rooms, my gaze roaming back and forth, searching for Ziggy. The native garden. The sensory one. The French formal. The walled garden with its raised vegetable beds. The orchard. And finally, the water garden, which drew both inspirationandcontent from the Korimako River that ran through the property. A piping system filled the ponds and provided most of my greenhouses’ power needs ... when it worked.
I called repeatedly as I walked, but to no avail. Ziggy was nowhere to be seen, and the unease I felt in my chest was growing into a full-blown panic. Ziggy never ignored me. Never. He could be lazy or distracted, or he might take his good timeresponding if he was in a mood, but he always came.Always.Especially when food was on offer.
When I reached the water garden and found it empty as well, I kept going, passing through a gate hidden behind a stand of bamboo next to the waterlily pond and into the property’s service area. This space was home to a couple of tool sheds, the chicken shed, the two glasshouses, my tree nursery, a large machinery shed, and a compost system at the back. The second the latch on the gate snicked shut, the chickens started a ruckus, expecting to be fed.
“Give it up,” I grumbled, making my way around the shed that housed them to the huge, enclosed outdoor run at the back, complete with various resting perches, scratching options, enrichment equipment, such as hanging balls and swings, mirrors, ladders and logs, and a shaded resort-style relaxation area. All of which made me the laughingstock of my entire group of family and friends the moment they saw the finished coop.
“So, what have you done with your nemesis, huh?” I peered through the chicken wire, and a half dozen sets of beady eyes peered back. “You finally ate him, didn’t you?” I fired an accusatory look at the indisputable queen of the coop, Fertile Myrtle, a sassy brown shaver who took no prisoners when it came to laying down the law in her little fiefdom. That included nosey little dachshunds who should know better. Ziggy had more than one scar on the end of his nose for daring to poke it under the wire when he hadn’t been invited. Me too, as it happened, although that was a story for another day and involved far too much alcohol.
Fertile Myrtle stomped her long-toed feet and glared back at me. The rest of the troop gathered behind her in a spear-like formation as if readying for an All Black haka. “All right, all right.” I raised both hands in surrender and eyed Fertile Myrtle in pointed fashion. “Breakfast first. I get it. But just so you know,the scrambled eggs are going to be as cold as your tiny, wicked heart by the time I get back to them.Youreggs, as it happens. Thank you for your service.”
Myrtle’s creepy stare narrowed indignantly, and I figured I’d just climbed above Ziggy on her shitlist, which was no mean feat.
“Hold on to your tail feathers, Mama,” I soothed the pissed-off shaver. “I’ll be back in a minute.” I retraced my steps to the storeroom side of the shed, opened the door, and... stopped in my tracks, blinking at the sight of a pale, handsome, wide-eyed, and partly dressed man staring back at me. “Who the hell are you?” My hands fisted at my sides, ready for anything. “And what the fuck are you doing in my shed?”
The stranger squinted into the sunlight streaming through the open door, striping his face. He looked about as shocked as I felt, which was somewhat reassuring, and if I had to describe his demeanour, I’d say he was about ready to bolt. From what I could see, he didn’t appear to have any kind of weapon on his body or close by, but as isolated as my property was, the cautionary phrase,no one will hear you scream,was foremost in my mind.
“I’m sorry.” The man’s hands rose slowly in front of him. “I didn’t mean any harm. I was just about to leave.” In his late twenties, at a guess, the man had dark brown hair cut in a chic messy style, a tidily groomed and intriguing moustache that looked a little old on him, and a light scruff I wouldn’t mind running my fingers through if given the opportunity. That particular random thought was startling in and of itself, considering I rarely thought twice about any man other than whether I could hook up with him and still be home in time to close the greenhouse vents. Which pretty much summed up the excitement of my romantic life, or lack thereof.
Before I could reply to his apology, a sharp yap broke the silence, and a familiar face poked out from under the tarp next to the man’s thigh.
“Ziggy?” I glared at the little miscreant, then strode into the room and scooped him into my arms before quickly retreating back to the open door. “What did you do to him?” I gave Ziggy a worried once-over, but he seemed fine.
The man rolled his eyes. “I didn’t doanythingto him. What kind of arsehole do you think I am?”
I said nothing, just raised my eyebrows.
A red stain crept over the young man’s cheeks, and he visibly squirmed, which led me to give him a second and much longer once-over. Sitting on a straw bale, with the tarp pulled over his lap, and two slender, hairy legs sticking out beneath—nice legs, not that I was looking—the man made an unexpected but not unpleasant sight in my chicken shed. A pair of muddy suit pants lay in a puddle on the floor, an equally filthy matching jacket hung from the rafters, looking like it had seen better days, and a battered, soggy briefcase sat by the shed door.
I stared at the latter for a long moment, puzzled and wondering what fucking rabbit hole I’d just fallen down.Who the hell takes a briefcase into a forest?What kind of nutjob am I dealing with here?
My gaze snapped back to his. “What kind of arsehole do I think you are?” I huffed and shook my head. “For all I know, you could be the very worst kind. So, maybe you can start with those questions you’ve yet to answer,” I warned. “Who are you, and why the hell are you in my chicken shed? Like right fucking now.”
A deep crease formed between the man’s brows but he met my gaze unflinchingly. “Wow, and I thought I was grumpy in the morning.”
I blinked, somewhat taken aback. I might’ve even laughed if I wasn’t so pissed. “I’m sorry. Am I not making myself clear? You aretrespassingon my property, and if you don’t give me some kind of explanation, I’m going to call the police.”
He held my gaze for a moment, then sighed. “Fine.” He leaned forward to grab his suit pants and started pulling them on. “Pass me my jacket, would you?”
I’d reached for it before I could stop myself. Irritated at my stupidity, I ignored his outstretched hand and threw it on the bed. A foul odour wafted through the room, and I lifted my hands to my face. “Oh my God. Is that?—”
The man’s cheeks pinked. “Manure? Yes. At least I think that’s what it is. I didn’t investigate too closely. It’s been a long crappy night—forgive the pun. Your dog has been the best part of the whole experience.”
Ziggy yipped happily, his tail banging feverishly against my ribs, the little traitor. He was an infallible judge of character when it came to strangers, which only served to irritate me more.
“So, why did you lock him in here?” I demanded.
The man left his trousers sitting around his thighs and looked up, his golden-brown eyes gleaming in the sunlight coming over my shoulder. He squinted and leaned sideways into shadow. “I didn’t lock him in... as such. I simply... closed the door.” He smiled winningly.
It was a struggle, but I managed to ignore its charm. “Riiiight. You shut him in.”
The man’s cheeks darkened once again. “Fine, but I wouldn’t have even let him in if he hadn’t kept barking and scratching at the door. He wouldn’t go away.”
