“You’re gay.”
“She’s aware of that.”
“So why do you want to offer a straight woman a comfortable room and conversation?” Bennet paused, hearing his words, and waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re judging me.”
“No! I mean, if you’re bisexual then it’s fine. You do you.”
“I’m not bisexual.”
“Then . . .”
Charlie sighed. “I’m lonely, Bennet. I think she might be too. She mentioned she wants to have kids, but she’s running out of time. She not-quite-jokingly said she was looking for a co-parent.”
“It’s been two hours!”
“It was casually mentioned—and I want to talk with her more, eh?”
Bennet didn’t know how to gather the pieces after that bombshell. Charlie sighed. “Not everyone’s happily-ever-after looks the same, Bennet.”
“Charlie—”
Olivia waltzed in with a fresh smile and pinked cheeks. “What are we talking about?”
Her kind, twinkling eyes jumped from him to Charlie. Disappointment sank his stomach to his knees. Would Charlie seriously consider settling? He was only forty-five.
“Oh dear,” Olivia said. “You’ve gone pale.”
“Suddenly feeling a bit off,” he stammered. “Probably . . . I mean, I wouldn’t want you to catch it. Charlie . . .”
Charlie jumped in, offering her his spare room.
Bennet nodded and nodded and pushed out of the kitchen. “Sorry. Need some fresh air.”
Lyon found Bennet sitting at the base of a pine, staring at the darkened form of the greenhouse.
“How’d you know I was here?” Bennet asked, taking the parka Lyon had brought for him.
“Like, duh. You always come here. Especially when I’ve been particularly pratty, or something’s on your mind.”
“It’s . . . preposterous.”
Lyon hunkered down next to him, warming his side. “What is?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” It was probably one of those off-the-cuff ideas people mused about and forgot the next morning. Nothing to take seriously. Maybe it was the wine talking.
Charlie would laugh about this tomorrow . . .
Lyon bumped his shoulder. “What’s preposterous?”
Bennet glanced at him and laughed. “Me. I’m being silly.”
“Finally! I’m rubbing off on you.”
Bennet barked out another laugh.
“Why didn’t you sell this off?” Lyon asked, gesturing to the greenhouse. “It’s basically a junkyard.”
“Am I allowed to share one story with you? About before?”
Lyon stiffened. “I don’t . . . fine, one.”
“The greenhouse used to be in good shape. Delicious grapes growing everywhere. It was beautifully warm and my favorite place to study, to read. When Mum needed time out, I’d bring you out here. One day we found our neighbor in there crying.”
“Which neighbor?”
“He doesn’t live here anymore, you were just a newborn then. Finley Price. It was the anniversary of his dad’s death. You went to sleep on my shoulder and Finley and I just sort of sat together. Talked a little bit. He kept coming around after that. Every day. More and more often . . .”
“You made a best friend.”
“Something a little more.” Bennet smiled. “I couldn’t sell this place because it reminds me of what I’m so desperate for.”
Pink petals rained with a breeze. Bennet was slammed with a shiver and the involuntary memory of Darcy rounding the side of it.
Lyon frowned. “Why is it in such bad shape then? Why don’t you go inside?”
“Because Mum found me in here with Finley. Found us kissing. She never looked at me the same, and right after, Finley left. I’ve never been able to go inside again.”
“Oh, Bennet.” Lyon sighed and whacked him around the back of the head. “You really are silly.”
Lyon pushed himself up and tugged Bennet to rise as well. They walked toward home, Lyon dragging him to the side of the street closest to the inn.
“. . . and you know how Wednesday is the last day of school? We’re out at twelve, and it’s just in time for Shear-A-Sheep Day at the Bingley farm. Which we should absolutely go to.”
“We?”
“I mean, I’m happy to admire all those shirtless men on my own . . .”
“Well played, brother.”
Lyon’s smirk glittered under the streetlight, and an amused snort came from behind him. A man was sitting on a bench outside the inn, silver-bearded face lit up by a Kindle. He wasn’t reading, though; he was peering over it, grinning at them. He’d overheard. Not surprising, considering their combined volume.
“Who’s this one?” Bennet asked Lyon under his tongue.
“First time I’ve seen him. Whaddyathink? Mr. Silver Fox-me-please?”
“I usually go by Will,” the man said, spryly leaping to his feet. “But I’m not wedded to it.”
“Good,” Lyon said. “Willy it is.”
There was something charming about Will’s easy, extraverted manner. The carefree way he joined them and engaged in conversation. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He was in his forties, to be sure, but he exuded such youthfulness. He felt closer to Bennet in age. They shared names and a few details, like where Will was from and how much he liked Cubworthy and yes, he’d been to both the pub and the tearooms—excellent sausage rolls.