“What kind?” a deep male voice booms back.
She looks at me, silently forwarding the question.
“This one,” I say.
“Steak,” she calls out.
“Chips or mash?” the man says.
“Chips,” I reply, which Daisy repeats.
Chips or mash, what sort of fucking question is that?
“’Bout twenty minutes, okay?” says the hidden chef.
“It’ll be about twenty minutes,” Daisy parrots, her smile sliding impossibly wider over her cheeks.
I blow out a long breath and nod, letting her—and the other patrons—know I’ve understood the wait time but am under no circumstances inviting further conversation.
Someone behind me clears their throat. These strangers are probably my new neighbours, but I’m not ready to meet any of them, let alone answer their questions. No doubt the very first thing they’ll bring up is Bath Centurion legend Owen Bosley and his leg. Or his seventeen year rugby career.
Or how I ended both those things in under two minutes.
I ignore them. I ignore Daisy too, who seems to be having a silent conversation over my shoulder.
“’Ere, Daze, can we get another two pints?” A heavyset man in his fifties approaches the bar. He’s wearing Barbour wellies and a gillet, and he smells like musty once-wet parka jackets.
Daisy salutes the newcomer and begins filling up glasses from the Loosehead’s Load tap—a 4.5% ABV pale ale.
He turns to me. “You must be the new FernbankCottage tenant?”
I nod and take a swig of my pint to avoid talking to him. Instead, I train my focus on the open doorway.
There’s some kind of chest-height storage thing or oven or whatever, with the front panelled in darkened glass. A pair of jean-clad legs cross in front of its reflection and then disappear.
Presumably, the leg owner is “Dad.” My new landlord, and the man who Daisy said she couldn’t wait to tell about me. I wonder if she already has. Wonder if he’s spitting into my gravy right now.
The older man continues as though I’m not pointedly ignoring him. “Heard about the contract. Couldn’t’ve come at a better time. Cents have had nothing but a string of shit kickers for years.” He grabs his drinks, one in each hand. “Daze, does Boss know?” he asks, jerking his head towards me.
Daisy’s smile reappears. Bigger than ever. “No,” she says, practically giddy with what I can only assume is excitement. “He’s in for such a treat.”
Oh, god.
“Hey, Daisy, can I get another round too?” someone else behind me says. A masculine woman in her fifties with a gorgeous Irish setter at her feet. “I’m not missing this for the world.”
Daisy continues pulling pints, and I continue to keep my gaze trained forward. I have no plans to get to know anyone in this tiny cluster of hobbit houses. I’m simply here to eat and sleep, maybe watch YouTube while I’m not at training.
The legs still dance in front of the reflective panel. Thick legs, slim-cut jeans. The owner of said legs and jeans has a black pinny on that covers his crotch . . . but his ass . . .
Damn, that’s a good ass.
A rugby ass, for sure.
The thighs are top tier too.
I remember Simone saying something about my new landlord running a local sevens team and it all makes sense now.
My mind is already wandering. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get to know a couple of my new neighbours. One in particular. Maybe this guy could be the saving grace of this whole Centurions emergency-signing shit soup.
