“You’ll have to find something else to occupy your time. Come riding with me.”
“And fall off and break my neck? Yeah, no thanks.”
“Then we’ll find something else to make you happy.”
“Yeah, right.” Lyon side-eyed him. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What would make you happy?”
“I am happy.”
“I mean, like, truly happy.”
Repairing us.
Love.
Belonging.
None of that felt particularly appropriate to bring up in the pub against a soundtrack of out-of-tune karaoke songs.
“Whatever.” Lyon stared forlornly at his lemonade. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Gently, Bennet bumped Lyon’s side and hooked his gaze. “I want someone to want me for who I am. No changing my appearance or philosophies or principles. I need a partner to be proud of me—in public and beyond—and proud of themselves.”
“Think you’ll find it?”
Bennet laughed. “Not anytime soon.”
“Will you be a monk until I graduate?”
“Can you imagine me in a monk’s robe?” Bennet paused. “Don’t answer that.” He ignored Lyon’s delighted snicker. “I might flirt and have fun. But I won’t find The One here.”
“Huh,” Lyon said. “Have you ever . . . you know. Thought you found the one?”
No. Well. “There was a boy, a few years before I left.”
He envisioned Finley Price, beautiful, laughing against a backdrop of glass and wild grapes. They’d been each other’s first crush; and then later, confidants via email. When his writing career took off, Bennet had become his editor. “But I know now I haven’t come close to love.”
A small voice, followed by a quick sip of lemonade, “What if we never find it?”
Bennet slumped onto his elbows on the bar and joined his brother staring wistfully at the promise of new romance on stage. Real love had haunted him since he was Lyon’s age. It had plagued his sleep, planting seeds of want every night. No one had ever lived up to the brightness of his dreams.
“I don’t know. I hope we will,” Bennet murmured.
A quiet moment passed between them, and Bennet hesitated. Maybe he could use this unexpected moment of honesty strategically. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here, Lyon. I’ll always listen.”
The air changed quality, tightened, and Bennet regretted speaking. He could feel Lyon throwing up his walls.
His brother shrugged. “I don’t care if I don’t find love. Lust is enough. The shearing crews are here for the season, and I’m gonna see how many will screw me.”
Oh, Lyon.
“Yeah,” Lyon continued, “I might try my chances tonight.”
“Start with the hipster with the pipe. He looks like a good match.”
“Ya think?”
Bennet nodded. “You might even out-silly him.”
Laughing, Lyon slid off his stool and headed instead for the karaoke crowd.
Finally free from bussing drinks, Charlie leaned his broad brown frame against the bar. His black T-shirt covered half the ink on his arms; a silver fern seemed to unfurl as he wiped his hands on his beer-stained apron.
He was out and proud, but he never flaunted it. He’d kept a low profile—and stuck to safe conversation, at least in public—for all his forty-five years. He and his father ran the pub together, and he’d been Bennet’s closest friend here since his return.
“Caroline’s arrived. She’s at the end booth, if you want to talk to her.”
Yes, excellent. She was the reason he was here tonight. Only . . . “What if we never find love?”
Charlie, unfazed by illogical outbursts, poured a beer, pondering. “I mean, we don’t all get happily ever afters, eh?”
“Right. Right. Well, on that cheerful note!” Bennet slid off his stool, laughing.
“Good luck with Caroline.”
Caroline was twirling the base of her wine glass, pinkie outstretched. A flurry of green intercepted him and slid into Caroline’s booth, talking animatedly.
Bennet halted. Wonderful. This was not the first time he’d tried to approach Caroline in the village. Every opportunity he’d taken, she’d slipped out of his reach.
He backed away from the table, slowly, hoping Green Flurry would leave so he could sweep in.
Bennet’s foot stomped on something; his back thumped against a wall of muscle. He let out a squeaky gasp and tried to correct his balance. Large, warm hands clasped his hips and breath skittered over the top of his ear. “Careful, there.”
Bennet whipped around at the deep English accent, stumbling over feet as he came face to face with his morning riding opponent. The hands that still braced Bennet flexed and the heat of those palms seeped into Bennet’s hips.
The delicious scent of pine and warm soil filled Bennet’s nose.
Bennet gulped. Standing so close, he was practically forced to admire the man’s athletically broad build, dark curls, and darker eyes. Heavy jaw, strong nose, a nick in one of his brows. No individual feature was overly remarkable, yet all together they possessed . . . something. Alluring and mysterious. The kind of je ne sais quoi that Bennet might enjoy spending a lifetime figuring out.
He dressed well too, albeit without much color. His navy cashmere sweater clung to his broad shoulders, tighter at his biceps, perfect over his tapered stomach, settling nicely at the top of his belted jeans.