Ah. Okay. He nodded to her once, acceptance of her boundaries, and let Louisa drag him to the stern. Wentworth leaned against the rail, conversing with an Indian man—very short black hair, zipped into a bright orange windbreaker. Wentworth caught sight of Elliot and straightened. “Benny, this is Elliot, my . . . from the studios. The one with the sore foot.” Wentworth gestured to Benny. “This is Dr Benwick Singh, a good friend.”
“Benny,” he said. “P-p-pleased to meet you.”
Wentworth clasped the man’s shoulder, smiling warmly. Then under his breath, “It’s his left foot.”
“It’s really fine,” Elliot assured them.
Wentworth rubbed his jaw. “Benny is the best doctor around . . .”
Benny swallowed, darting his eyes toward the ocean. “Not sure about that.”
Wentworth rubbed his shoulder.
Elliot eyed the two, and stirred at the gentle concern for Benny in Wentworth’s eye. He’d thought, briefly, perhaps Wentworth had lured Elliot to the doctor out of concern for him, but . . . perhaps it was more out of concern for Benny.
“I mean, it is a little tender,” Elliot said. “How long would a sprain last? When should I seek medical advice?”
“How long since you hurt it?”
“Last Saturday,” Wentworth answered.
“Is there much bruising?”
“No bruising.” Again, Wentworth.
“Swelling?”
“Not anymore. But he still seems to favour it.”
Elliot just stared at Wentworth. He’d . . . he’d paid so much attention. “That’s all correct,” he murmured. “But it feels much better today.”
Benny nodded. “Some sport tape should offer some support. If it’s still playing up in a week, some physical therapy.”
Elliot smiled and thanked him.
“Excuse me,” Wentworth said suddenly. “I have to tell some idiots not to play on the masthead.”
He left abruptly and a curious Louisa followed him, leaving Elliot and Benny alone.
Elliot was used to meeting new people. It was his job to quickly gauge another’s needs, what their capacity was in that moment to open up. Easier to do with someone his own emotions weren’t caught up in, of course. Benny looked like he was having a rough time, probably not to do with the slightly swaying boat. His body language spoke sadness, but the way he kept glancing at Elliot suggested he wanted to talk.
“So, Benny,” Elliot said. “Are you as big a fan of Wentworth as he is of you?”
Benny laughed. “B-bigger, I’m sure. Wentworth has been especially kind to me since my girlfriend . . .” He stopped abruptly. “Um, she died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Benny.”
He nodded. “Wentworth’s texted me every day since it happened a year ago.”
“Sounds like he’s a good friend to have.”
“He is.”
“How did you two meet?”
“Oh, well. I s-sort of saved his life.”
Elliot gripped his juice so hard the tapered glass popped out of his hand and thunked to the deck. He ignored it.
“I live just there” —Benny pointed down the pier— “and I was just starting in the ER then. Anyway, that night I’m heading in for my shift and I hear a splash and there’s a body in the water.”
I’m one of his fans, Wentworth had said. A shiver crept up his spine.
“I dove in immediately and helped the poor guy out. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.”
Elliot closed his eyes. “What’d happened?”
“Bad breakup, I think. He’d d-drunk too much, accidentally knocked himself unconscious and fell into the water. I performed CPR and then we took him to the ER.”
CPR—Elliot hiccupped on the horror washing through him. Wentworth had—had almost— “Died. He could have died.”
“I s-suspect that’s why he’s a fan of mine.”
Wentworth cleared his throat. “He also makes the best potato salad.”
Elliot startled, glancing at Wentworth at his side, and then to the mess he’d made. He crouched quickly, picking up the glass. Unbroken, luckily.
Wentworth crouched too and took it from him, their fingers brushing, like a zap from a socket. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
Elliot stared at the puddle. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s just spilled juice.”
Lifting his head, Elliot met his eye. “That’s not what I’m sorry about.”
Wentworth’s dark gaze clashed with his, like a strike of lightning. Every nerve ending tingled through it.
Louisa’s bright voice sounded above them. “What are we talking about?”
Wentworth surged to his feet, flustered, jaw twitching, overwhelmed; Elliot followed, smoothing the moment for him. “Wentworth is a big fan of Benny’s potato salad, and Benny here is a fan of Wentworth’s . . .” Elliot looked to him.
“Wentworth’s ‘Bumblebee Breakup’ of course.” Benny might be sad, but he sure wasn’t shy. He pressed a hand against his heart and sang. Louisa hummed along with him, delighted.
Elliot winced.
“There you have it,” Wentworth said, cutting over the last of the lyrics.
“What about you, Elliot?” Louisa raised a brow. “You must have a favourite.”
Elliot was quiet a moment. Then, “And there he was. Arms crossed, amused. Friend and future. My favourite bumblebee.”
She frowned. “I don’t know that one. Wentworth? Is it one of yours?”