“Darcy.” Immediately their meeting this morning, the off-kilter feeling of Darcy invading his special spot, knocked back into him. He laughed. “We must find other conversation starters.”
Caroline cleared her throat. “As you can see, right now is not the time to consider your request.”
Bennet’s attention swung back to Caroline. “We can arrange another time. To your liking.”
“I’m renovating. I have a very busy schedule.”
“I’m very flexible.”
A tight smile. “I’ll contact you.”
Bennet slid off the bench, noting the sharp way Darcy stepped back, and veered away from him.
“Unsuccessful?” Charlie asked as they crossed paths.
“Interrupted.”
Bennet slung himself onto a stool and took a large gulp of bubbly. Charlie delivered Darcy’s pint and sagged casually against the counter. “You’ll go to the Wool Ball, eh?”
Bennet raised his brows.
“Everyone will be there.”
Sure. He did so love the idea of going dateless to a ball.
Charlie murmured, “Darcy keeps looking at you.”
Bennet resisted the urge to turn his head. “I know.”
He felt it like he had that first evening. A prickle along his profile.
The pub door opened. A hoard of shearers. Behind them, Lyon.
Of course.
“What will you wear?” Bennet asked Charlie.
Charlie scoffed. “Slacks and Swanndri, like most of the guys. You?”
Bennet glanced at Darcy. “A fine author once said, ‘I must keep my own style and go on in my own way. I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other.’”
“Wearing wool is the only rule, eh?”
Lyon greeted them with a grin and perched next to Bennet at the bar.
He wore jeans and an open checked shirt over a white tank top, a kid dressed up like a farmer, his usual style when out of school uniform. Bennet wasn’t sure if it was truly Lyon’s style, or a symptom of his longing to fit in.
“A gaggle of men came out of the inn,” Lyon said, inching Bennet’s bubbly toward himself. “Before you know it, I’m following them here.”
“Like a sheep,” Bennet said with feigned delight. He fingered Lyon’s hair. “You are in need of shearing.”
“I’m in need of sex, and you can’t stop me. I’m sixteen in January. Legal age of consent.”
“You’re—”
“Don’t tell me I’m too young.”
Bennet plucked the glass from Lyon’s hand. “You’re not old enough.”
“What’s gonna change in a month?”
“One can hope for miracles.”
“One can hope for a cooler brother.”
“Then we’ll both be disappointed. Let’s go home.”
Lyon shrugged off Bennet’s hand.
Bennet sighed, wishing he couldn’t feel Darcy’s censure as he struggled to get Lyon out of the pub. It slid over his skin like a shiver.
He laughed to alleviate that awkward feeling of being watched and judged. He sure was well-equipped to handle the stubborn will of a teenager.
“Darcy keeps looking at us.” Lyon scowled across the room.
“Just ignore—”
“What the hell are you frowning at, Darcy? My brother’s ten times better than the likes of you.”
Bennet spilled his drink, horrified. The entire pub paused; the fading lyrics from the jukebox rang in the quiet.
“That’s enough.” Bennet’s heart thundered under his calm words.
Lyon snorted. “Like you don’t want to say the same.”
Be that as it may . . . “One takes the high road, Lyon. Especially in front of the rest of the village.”
Lyon threw up his hands and stormed out.
Bennet followed, meeting a mixture of curious and disapproving gazes. He smiled back at them all.
Outside, he told Lyon off.
Lyon shoved his hands into his pockets. “Whatever. I shouldn’t have cared.”
His shoulders slumped as he walked away, and Bennet ran a hand through his hair. A cool, wet breeze funneled up his shirtsleeves; he turned back for—
Darcy stepped outside, carrying his jacket.
Bennet blinked, unsure what to make of it. Had Darcy simply noticed he’d left it behind and thought to bring it to him? Perhaps he wanted to tell him in person how inappropriate Lyon had been?
Darcy extended his arm with the jacket. “Wouldn’t want to catch cold.”
“Lyon went too far.”
“He did. But, considering the fact I was staring rudely, I can’t blame him for wanting to protect you.”
“Protect me? Do I look like I need protecting?” Bennet arched his brow.
Light streaming from the window and the overhead signage shone warmly on Darcy’s curls. It stretched over his cheek, his jaw, half of him light, the other in shadow. His somber eyes tracked slowly over Bennet, from his face, to his pink shirt, to his boots. He met Bennet’s eyes. “Yes.”
Bennet didn’t know how much straighter he was supposed to stand. “I can take care of myself.”
He took his jacket and strode around the corner. Two steps out of sight, he sagged against the concrete wall to reorient himself.
Voices thickened as the door to the pub opened. Bennet pictured Darcy striding back inside, but froze at the sound of Caroline’s voice. She had rushed out to Darcy while he . . . stood there? Looking in the direction Bennet had left?
“I can guess what you’re thinking,” she said.