Page 22 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
The doors ofThe Twisted Anchorare a relief. The world warms, at least externally. Jackson reaches over to brush the snow from Ben’s shoulder. It’s over in a second, but Ben feels it long after.
Some needs just don’t go away.
A waitress nods hello from across the restaurant as Jackson leads Ben toward a booth in the front corner. Ben drops into one side, tugging off his gloves and wiggling his fingers. He barely has time to process the warmth returning before Jackson slides in right beside him, same side of the booth, hip to hip.
Jackson meets his startled glance with a smile. “Strategic positioning. Easier to talk like this without being overheard.”
By who?They’re the only ones here except for the staff and a trio of monosyllabic fishermen at the counter.
Jackson’s thigh is warm and solid against his. Ben, unraveled and sleep-deprived and hungover and still a little cracked around the edges, feels himself leaning into the contact. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s stupidly perfect and therefore probably a trap.
He pulls out the binder from his bag and sets it on the table with a little too much purpose.
Right then, the waitress swings by the table, notepad and pen at the ready. “Morning, boys. Drinks to start?”
“Tea, please,” Ben says, “with milk.”
“Coffee for me,” Jackson adds.
When she’s safely out of earshot, Ben risks another glance at Jackson. “You know the coffee here is famously terrible, right?”
His laugh is immediate, low and delighted. “Oh, absolutely. Tastes like it was brewed in a tire fire then filtered through an old gym sock. But caffeine is caffeine.”
Jackson angles toward him, voice dropping. “Anyway, I’ve always had a soft spot for things that are imperfect. They’re usually more interesting.”
Ben’s heart stumbles, and he hates how reflexive it is. From anyone else it might be cheesy, but Jackson sells it effortlessly. The flirting might be less about Ben and more about the sport of it.
Ben picks at the peeling menu edge with his thumbnail, trying not to say something defensive or, God forbid, earnest. The waitress returns with their drinks at that moment like a beautiful chain-smoking guardian angel, saving him from himself.
“Ready to order?”
“Mushroom omelet,” Jackson says, handing his menu back. “Sourdough toast, please.”
She turns to Ben with her pen still poised.
“I’ll have the Angler’s Platter: eggs over hard, sausage, hash browns, rye toast. And…” He hesitates, then adds, “the short stack. With maple syrup.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.” The waitress nods and heads off, and Ben doesn’t need to look up to know that Jackson’s watching him.
“What?” Ben says, defensively. “I’m really hungry.”
“Of course.” Jackson’s smile is sharkish. “Now, important follow-up question regarding that breakfast order… for my readers, of course: when it comes to pancakes, would you say you’re more into pouring the syrup or do you like to be on the receiving end, even if you end up sticky? Personally, I see the appeal of both.”
Ben makes a strangled sound. “Oh my God. Are you always this inappropriate with your sources?”
“I could tone it down,” Jackson offers, in a voice that makes it abundantly clear he has absolutely no intention of doing so.
Ben glares at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Okay. This is a professional meeting now.”
Jackson beams, clearly having the time of his life. “By all means, Ben. Take us there.”
Ben flips open the binder between them a little too briskly. “Here, look. I wanted to show you these waivers.”
Jackson leans in, a small serious furrow appearing in his brow. He’s close enough to read the pages, close enough that their shoulders touch, close enough to make coherent thought evaporate.
Ben tries to concentrate. He really does. But something about watching Jackson’s mind at work is hotter than all the innuendos in the world.
Jackson lifts the sheets toward the light, tilting them. “No pressure variation on the signatures. And see here? Same loops. Overlay them and they match up perfectly. Copied from a single source.” He taps the margin. “Nobody signs their name the exact same way twice, let alone across a whole stack of forms.”
