Page 15 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“I’m sorry. It’s been... a lot today. I just meant you’re unattached. Er, professionally unattached. To Whitaker Seafood.” He forces himself to slow down. “You’re not connected to any of this and it seemed like yesterday… that you thought something was wrong. And it is. Something is very wrong. So I thought... I don’t know, maybe you were the person that could help.” He ducks his head, voice quieter now. “But if this was dumb, I get it. I can go.”
Ben braces for rejection.
Instead, Jackson’s posture shifts, some of the sharpness softening. “Hey. I’m not blowing you off, alright?”
And then, almost too casually, just rough enough, Jackson adds, “If anything, Mr. Whitaker, you’ve got my full attention.”
Ben swears the temperature spikes. Jackson’s gaze tracks over him, slow, deliberate, borderline indecent, before landing on the binder in his lap. Ben’s fingers twitch, instinctively drawing it closer.
Jackson gestures toward the bookstore. “Maybe we should take this inside?” he says, low and easy, like it’s just a suggestion and that everything that happens next is in Ben’s hands. Like the faint possibility, of what, Ben isn’t even sure, doesn’t spark a confusing mix of panic and excitement in his stomach.
Jackson steps back to give Ben room, rubbing his gloved hands briskly. “Before I lose my best typing fingers to frostbite, preferably.”
“Right. Yeah, sorry.” Ben scrambles out of the Jeep, heart thumping so loudly he’s convinced Jackson can hear it.
Outside, the wind stings. Jackson unlocks the narrow side door of Twice Told Tales; a skinny wooden staircase tilts upward, the boards dull and smooth with years of footsteps.
Ben follows Jackson up, feeling the steps groan under his boots. His breath keeps catching, not just from the steepness, but from the way Jackson’s scent keeps drifting back in little waves, all whiskey-warm and woody. Completely unfair.
“Historical building,” Jackson says as he unwinds his scarf. “Watch your?—”
Ben’s foot snags on an unexpectedly high riser. Jackson’s hand shoots back, clamping Ben’s elbow, firm and solid and absurdly reassuring for someone who’s been nothing but coolly sarcastic since they’ve met.
“—step,” Jackson finishes mildly, glancing over his shoulder. Behind his glasses, his eyes are amused, catching copper flecks in the light. It’s the kind of detail Ben absolutely should not be cataloguing while his entire professional life is actively imploding.
“Careful,” Jackson adds, deadpan. “We don’t have a lot of staff, so my editor makes me write all the obits. I’d hate to have extra work tomorrow. You already have me up past my bedtime.”
Ben is ninety-nine percent sure his soul has already left his body. “Perfect end to this day: ‘Seafood Heir Plummets to Death in Cursed Stairwell, Incriminating Evidence Clutched in Clammy Hands.’”
Jackson’s grin curls slow and sharp. “A little long. I’d tighten it to: ‘Late Night Visit to Local Reporter Knocks Seafood Heir Off His Feet.’”
Ben makes a sound he doesn’t mean to make. Not quite a laugh, not quite a gasp. His brain is static. Jackson’s hand is still there, solid and steady, and Ben has the brief, stupid thought that if Jackson lets go, he might actually fall for real.
And then he does. Let go, that is.
Ben resists the urge to grab him back.
“Come on,” Jackson says, already climbing. “It’s just up here.”
He pauses at his apartment door, key halfway to the lock. “Fair warning: I wasn’t expecting company tonight. So if you see socks on the couch, just pretend you didn’t.”
Ben gives a laugh that feels a little too high in his chest. “Trust me, your apartment could literally be on fire and it’d still be more relaxing than my day’s been, Mr. James.”
“Thank God, I was worried I’d have to pretend to be respectable.” Jackson turns the key. “I know I technically have two first names, but you can use the actual one.”
“Oh sure. I can do that. Jackson.”
“Thanks Ben. Ben is okay right? I assume you at least prefer it to Fish Prince?”
“Ben’s perfect,” he blurts before he can stop himself. “The name, I mean. Not…uh….” He winces inwardly.For once in your life, Ben Whitaker, please just shut up.
Jackson’s expression gives nothing away, but when he speaks, his voice is gentler than Ben expects. “Not you?”
“No. God, no.” The words come out unsteady, too fast. Ben clears his throat, but it doesn’t help. “Not right now.” He can hear the raw emotion in his own voice.
He doesn’t know how Jackson seems to push through every barrier he’s spent his whole life hiding behind like no one else he’s ever met. Somehow, that doesn’t feel abjectly terrifying.
It almost feels like relief.
