“Dinner was delicious,” Darcy said as they trucked their plates to the sink.
“Next time you’re cooking.”
“Next time,” Darcy murmured.
Bennet collected the remaining dishes, head pounding with unspoken words he wanted to say.
But perhaps Darcy’s mind was equally stuck in the past.
Bennet whirled toward him, steadying himself against the sink. “About the kiss.”
Darcy froze. “Oh, God. Do we have to?”
“Yes.”
A tight, firm nod. “Go on, then.”
Darcy folded his arms, bracing himself, and Bennet clasped his tense shoulder and rubbed down the curve of it.
“Relax. I promise what I have to say is not about your part in that moment. Rather my own.” Bennet met his eyes somberly. “I wanted to say again that I’m sorry. If I hurt you.”
“By not wanting more with me?”
Bennet paused. He hadn’t fully considered Darcy being in pain after his rejection. He thought there was embarrassment, yes, but never sadness they couldn’t be more.
His hand dragged down Darcy’s arm and fell to his side. Darcy carefully schooled his face. His arms remained protectively crossed over his chest.
“Oh.” He rubbed his nape. “I’m sorry for that, too.”
Darcy stiffened, eyes flashing away from Bennet’s. “What are you sorry for? I can’t think of anything you should be.”
“I’m sorry if my accusations about Will hurt you.”
“Ah.”
“I had no idea, and I bowled on with the conviction you were the bad guy. It was completely undeserved.”
“If I had only heard what Will had said, I would have thought the same.”
“But you would never have attacked my character until you were sure.”
“You give me a lot of credit.”
“Not unfounded. You are forthright and honest. You like to think before you say and do things.”
“I didn’t think before I kissed you.”
“Now that is the first lie you’ve told.”
Darcy looked away again. “How can you be so sure?”
“I’ve replayed that moment a million times in my head. All that pacing, Darcy. You knew what you wanted to do. Not solely at that lookout, either. Those flowers at the market. You’d bought them for me, hadn’t you? You were nervous about asking to drop me off at home. For such a commanding, confident, assertive man, when it comes to matters of the heart, you are touchingly shy.”
“I . . . Yes.” A pause and clarification. “To being somewhat shy. To the rest of it.”
“Then I’m right. Had we been in one another’s shoes, you’d have acted better. You’d never have caused me pain.”
Darcy rocked on his heels. “Shall we agree we both made mistakes and move on? I’d like that.”
Bennet had the urge to hug him, but he didn’t want to confuse the fragile connection building between them. He smiled widely instead. “I’d like that too.”
“Good. Now. How do I prove I’ll make a decent friend?”
“You don’t have to.” Bennet passed him the dishwashing gloves. “Now, dishes.”
Bennet picked up a dishtowel and dried the dinner dishes. Conversation ebbed and flowed, and only grew charmingly stilted when Bennet brought up the mystery books Darcy had donated.
“They were an interesting mix. Have you read them all?”
“Not all. I don’t tend to read mysteries. But you mentioned needing more for the library, and Cameron—”
“Cameron? Your son’s boyfriend?”
Darcy scrubbed at invisible specks on a china plate. “He recommended them.”
Smiling, Bennet rubbed the plate dry. “What’s your favorite genre?
“Literary fiction.”
Bennet scoffed. “Lit-fic is not your favorite.”
Darcy raised a brow. “Don’t I get to determine what my favorite reads are?”
“Name a specific book, and I might accept it. But I will not accept a broad fault-ridden term.”
“Fault-ridden?”
“What do you think lit-fic means?” Bennet raised a finger. “If you start up about the story giving you an emotional journey, then let me educate you: genre fiction has that in equal measure.”
“Lit-fic has substance. It’s heavier. Thought-provoking. An intellectual challenge.”
“Sounds pretentious to me. A good book is a good book, and some of the most thought-provoking reads I’ve experienced were romances.”
Darcy’s lips tightened at the edges.
Bennet shook a spatula at him. “Don’t be too quick to judge romance. You might miss out.”
Darcy sank his hands into soapy water. “I wouldn’t want that.”
“I’ll send you a list of my favorites.”
“I’d like to read the one you were editing when you were last here.”
Finley’s story? “You’d have to wait until it’s released, but . . . you would?”
“It made you tear up. It made you laugh. I want to know why.”
Darcy’s eyes twinkled fondly, pulling a belly-dancing laugh from Bennet. “I could arrange that.”
The doorbell chimed.
Darcy wiped his hands on the towel draped on Bennet’s shoulders, knuckles bumping Bennet’s chest. “Caroline, probably. She said she might drop by.”
Grumpily, he followed Darcy to the door. Just when things were going so well. Did Caroline never call first?
Fresh air funneled into the house. “Lyon,” Darcy said, surprised.
Lyon was dressed in a baggy flannel shirt and jeans with a backpack hitched over one shoulder. He looked scathingly at Darcy and then more resignedly to Bennet. “I came. See?”