Page 42 of A Box of Wishes
Ryan stared after him, touched by Ben’s declaration. He was messing up a good thing, and he didn’t know what to do. Running after Ben wouldn’t help. Not if he couldn’t accept his invitation or offer one of his own. He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing Ben again. He’d become as much a fixture in the coffeehouse as his cat, and Ryan looked forward to Ben walking through the doors first thing in the morning and last thing at night.
“See you Monday morning,” he whispered to the disappearing taillights of Ben’s car. “And I truly am sorry.”
The year had started with hope and kisses. Now, ten days later, the hope was turning to so much misery it was giving him a headache. More than a headache, even. His knees and shoulders had been aching all day, and the headache was just the icing on a crappy cake.
If he didn’t want to lose Ben, he had to convince him that the reason he kept bottling out was nothing more than a lack of time. Or maybe… maybe he needed to say no to requests for help now and then. Make time for himself.
He would think about it after he’d slept.
Ryan donned his leathers and locked up the coffeehouse. His bike stood in its usual parking space, but something fluttered on the seat. Half a brick weighed down a scruffy piece of paper.
Another advert or offer he shouldn’t refuse? They’d turned up once or twice before, and Ryan had binned each one. What was wrong with people that they couldn’t come into the coffeehouse and talk to him? He wasn’t an ogre. He even had a letterbox.
Ryan set the brick aside and unfolded the sheet.
WHERE IS THE RECIPE?read the message in an untidy scrawl.
What the fuck? What recipe? Once or twice a year, a bunch of local chefs got together to chat about food and trade tips, but Ryan wasn’t aware that he’d promised anyone a recipe he’d not sent. Even if he had, why not call him or email? This was a ludicrous way to get information.
Ryan shoved the paper into his jacket pocket, too done to bother with it. Time to take his headache home and feed it aspirin. With any luck, the stupid message was a prank. Or maybe he’d remember something later, when his head wasn’t pounding.
Ben stroked Morris’s soft coat and scratched around the base of the cat’s silky ears. Ryan’s bag of food sat on the kitchen counter. Everything it held would be delicious, but Ben couldn’t bring himself to open it and check.
“Do you think I made a mistake asking him out again?” he asked the cat. “I want to spend more time with him, but—”
Ryan had been dead on his feet. He needed a good night’s sleep and a weekend of someone else taking care of him for a change. And he wasn’t going to get it.
“He’ll open the coffeehouse tomorrow morning as if it’s a workday. And once he’s assured himself that Rebecca has everything under control, he’ll head to his parents’ place and work a long day in a busy restaurant. And all for what? To earn the gratitude of people who already love and appreciate him?”
Ben had wanted to wrap Ryan in a hug and tell him he could stop and rest.
He’d known officers so desperate for approval they’d sacrificed relationships with partners and families to their work. Ben understood that need. Keith had loved nothing more than to make Ben feel inadequate, and it had taken a long time for Ben to see it and do something about it. Without Tarbert as his boss, he might have lost everything he’d worked for since joining the police force.
Tarbert wasn’t just an excellent detective. He was a wonderful mentor, even if Ben had forgotten it for months. Ben had clung to the parameters of his job until he’d recovered enough of himself to step out of the fog he’d wallowed in. He didn’t want the same to happen to Ryan, but—
“Tell me, big boy… what can I do that Ryan’s family can’t?” Morris squirmed to get down. Ben set him on his feet and poured kibble into his dish. “Not fair asking you, I know.”
Cara had warned him that Ryan didn’t take kindly to being stopped when he tried to help. But Ben had done just that. When he saw Ryan again, Ryan might send him packing.
“And that would hurt, you know? But always taking second billing to some other task? I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again.”
Ben took a deep breath and blew it out. He’d been honest with his feelings and had said what he’d needed to say. The next step was up to Ryan.
Samaritan
“Hobart,” Ben juggled the phone and a shopping basket, dodging people left and right. It was Saturday morning, the store was a scramble, and Ben wished for working hours that lent themselves to online deliveries.
“Ben? Are you there?”
He finally recognised the number Ryan’s sister had added to his phone on New Year’s Day. “Hi, Cara. Yes, I’m here. Just had to get out of the scrum.”
“Rugby?”
“Food shopping, but you’d hardly know the difference. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Actually, there is. Could you… This will sound weird.”
“I’m good with weird. I’m the police.”
