Bennet, Pride Before the Fall (Love Austen 3)

Lyon felt so strongly about it, he practically dragged Bennet to Sefina, the tall Samoan woman who ran the tearooms and was in charge of renting out the town hall.

She winced as they tried to pay. “For the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry but the hall is already booked.”

Bennet explained that it was his booking, but he’d transferred the payment to Caroline and now wished to make the payment himself.

She shook her head, slowly. “I’m sorry. Caroline convinced me you’d changed the dates. She booked it for a family reunion. We could offer you next Saturday?”

Caroline had really done it. She was holding the hall hostage.

He and Lyon blindly made their way home. They showered and redressed. Lyon wore the blue Liberty shirt Bennet had bought him for his birthday, and Bennet almost matched him in blues and turquoise. They headed to the pub.

All eighty-odd eyes flickered toward them as they entered, and Bennet was gratified to see at least half were smiling. The other half looked on the cusp of it.

Bennet and Lyon had made so much progress. They couldn’t regress now.

Lyon swung onto a free stool, frustration thick. “Maybe we should do next Saturday?”

All the details had already been sent out. The sausages, steaks, and bread rolls ordered. Changing dates would be an organizational mess and confuse people. He shook his head.

“What will you do?” Lyon said once they’d ordered their nachos, scowling toward the corner booth where Caroline and two prettily dressed women were conversing.

Bennet hummed. “The thing is, I’ve made mistakes with Darcy, and I’m not sure we can recover from them.”

“What are you saying? You’re not going to agree to her demands, are you?”

“No. We are going to show the town that we are here, that we are part of this town, and we are going to make it without her help.

The busy pub erupted into applause when the two singles on stage finished singing.

“Wiremu is on the hunt for singers. Tell him we’ll sing next.”

Lyon groaned. “Aw, creepy brother love, you know—”

“Yeah, yeah, too kinky for you. Pull on your big boy pants and do it. I won’t hump you on stage.”

“Why did you have to put that picture in my brain? Where are you going?”

“Line us up a spot.” Bennet pushed off his stool. He wanted to remind the village he could be fun. That he participated in local traditions. That he was one of them. But first . . .

Wiremu was scanning the room eagerly for him. Bennet wove around tables and stopped at Caroline’s booth. Her eyes cut to his sharply.

Caroline sipped her wine. “Are you here to agree with me?”

Her righteousness rankled, but he reminded himself she was grieving—if inelegantly. “I’m here to wish you all the best for your family reunion.”

Her wine glass clunked on the table, her cheeks mirroring the red liquid, and Bennet strode to Wiremu.

They’d be up next. Wiremu ushered him toward the stage. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to sing after the last time . . .”

Lyon cleared his throat and slapped an arm on Bennet’s shoulder. “I’m singing with him.”

Wiremu smiled proudly, and Bennet stared warmly back at him, thankful for all the man did in the community. Had been doing with his brother.

“Here, scan this list,” Wiremu said. “We’ve got a bunch of new songs to choose from.”

Lyon grabbed the clipboard and scanned. “I mean, I love you, Benny, but I’m not sure I wanna be serenading you, you know?”

Bennet smirked and pointed down the list. “How about that one?”

“‘You Are The Reason’? That’s totally a love song!”

“They all are. But at least those three words aren’t in the lyrics—and we can pretend we don’t hear the subtext.”

“Fine. That one. But no looking at one another when we sing.”

“Fair enough, I see your ugly mug often enough.” Bennet winked.

“Ohmygodtwelveo’clock.” Lyon elbowed him hard in the ribs and Bennet oofed out a breath.

Bennet’s body thrummed. His lower back and arm—the last spots Darcy had touched—grew especially warm, as if Darcy still had his arm around him. Bennet let out a gurgled breath. Darcy’s scanning eyes fell on him and stilled, and butterflies congested Bennet’s chest.

He stood near the door in suit pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up mid-arm, as if he’d driven there straight from court.

Lyon whispered it was their turn, and Bennet moved awkwardly, unable to tear his gaze away from Darcy. He catalogued every part of him as if he hadn’t seen him in months, not days. Dark curls, darker eyes. Heavy jaw—shaven—sharp nose. His expression was . . . God, Bennet couldn’t figure it out, but it made his pulse thump double-time. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hard, either. He, too, was undecided how he felt.

His stomach knotted, as rigid as the microphone being pressed into his hand.

Darcy wasn’t the man to leave things in limbo or pretend they didn’t exist. He’d come here to talk. But what would he say?