“It feels like we both won.”
They looked at each other. A host of unanswered questions stretched between them, and Bennet was still too shaky to process it all. “I suppose we should talk about this.”
“Yes.” Then, sensitive to Bennet—or undergoing his own maelstrom of emotions—he added, “But perhaps we should sleep on it first?”
Bennet sighed in relief. “Well. We can’t have you acting before you think and speaking before you think.”
They shared amused smiles.
Bennet shrugged into his shirt. “I’d better be heading back anyway.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“No, really. Don’t worry. I need the fresh air.” And time to think.
Darcy stopped collecting tiles and stared at the board. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”
Bennet picked up the Q, the stowaway tile that’d started it all. He crouched and dropped it into Darcy’s hand. “Pick me up at eight?”
Their moment in the library had been slowly building for weeks. Ever since the email. Maybe before.
Exhausted from the walk and still nowhere near clarity on his feelings toward Darcy, Bennet quietly snuck himself into his guest bed.
He stopped himself from texting Darcy goodnight and switched the phone off for good measure. He’d sleep, and they’d figure this out in the morning.
He turned on his side, shut his eyes.
Turned on his other side, tried again.
He flopped onto his back and stared through the dark, trying to make out the ceiling but seeing only books and Darcy’s face as they came hard together.
He’d always inspired such physical awareness, and their mental connection was like a live wire that burned in his brain, stimulating, intriguing. And emotionally . . .
Toes curled in the sheets, Bennet swore softly.
Bennet woke late. After a night battling a million butterflies, it wasn’t a surprise he’d fallen into a deep slumber.
But crap. Twenty to eight and he’d yet to shower.
The cold floor bit the soles of his feet. He tiptoed to the bathroom in his boxers and a loose T-shirt.
“One minute,” Olivia called from inside.
Charlie clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him into the kitchen. A warm cup of coffee was pressed into his hands, and Charlie leaned against the counter and raised a brow.
“Charlie, do you have something you’d like to say?”
“You got home late last night.”
“I walked home.”
“How’s Darcy?”
Bennet sipped, and sipped some more.
Charlie laughed. “Are we heading to Port Ratapu Pride together?”
Bennet stilled. “How about I meet you there? I’m heading to the market this morning.”
“You forgot, didn’t you?”
“This is excellent coffee. What brand is it?”
“Bennet Keene. You are the proudest gay man I know. You’ve talked about Pride events every other week since you returned.”
“I’ve been more focused on Cubworthy’s. Port Ratapu’s wasn’t on my mind.”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.”
Olivia waltzed into the kitchen freshly dressed and glowing in a tailored rainbow pantsuit. “Would you mind dropping me off at Ask Austen Studios?” she said to Charlie. “I’m in charge of dressing everyone for our float.”
Charlie drained his coffee and patted his pockets. “Keys, good. Let’s go.”
His phone buzzed with a message on the counter, and Bennet passed it to him. “You’ll probably want that too.”
Charlie stuffed it into his back pocket and winked. “Have fun at the market, Bennet.”
Bennet, too late now to shower, cat-washed in the sink, brushed his teeth, and padded back to the guest room to redress. He squeezed into his jeans and turned his lifeless phone on.
He immediately received four notifications from Cubworthy’s forum.
What on Earth?
The doorbell rang and Bennet slid his arms into a shirt, taking his phone to the door. He read a concerned comment about “this child.” Someone was unhappy about the age difference.
His stomach twisted uncomfortably. He was afraid to click to the main thread.
A knock on the door. Bennet jumped. He’d been standing right before it.
He opened, frowning, distracted, barely taking in a smartly dressed and clean-shaven Darcy.
“Are you all right, Bennet?”
“Have you read this? On the forum?” Bennet clicked onto the main post. Shock punched him hard in the gut, making it impossible to catch his breath.
“I left my phone in the car.” Darcy stepped inside and touched Bennet’s arm. “You look . . . What happened?”
“Oh, God. I need to get home. Now. A bus. When does it leave?” Bennet was shaking.
Darcy steered him to the dining room. “Anywhere you need to go, I’ll drive you. But first sit a moment. Catch your breath. Tell me what’s going on?”
Darcy ushered him gently into a chair and knelt before him. “It’s . . . it’s Lyon.” He unlocked his phone and bile rose up his throat as he turned it to Darcy. “William Wickham and Lyon. Kissing.” He swallowed hard. “He’s only sixteen—”
He shuddered, unable to think about what else might have happened.
Darcy blanched and his expression hardened. “Have you called him?”
Bennet stared at him, then snatched his phone and with trembling fingers dialed Lyon. It went straight to voicemail. Bennet left a message telling him he’d be right there. If he needed anything—anything—to call. He was on his way.