Page 37 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Friday
Chapter 20
Ben
Ben’s phone has more or less lived in his hand all day, his finger hovering over Jackson’s name. He’s almost texted him a dozen times. Not with anything of value, just:Are you still coming tonight?orETA?God help him he came pretty close to:About last night…
But now, without warning, the screen lights up:
Here.
He almost yelps.
Ben moves toward the door, trying to summon a calm he absolutely does not feel, as if he hasn’t spent the last thirty minutes roaming the floors of his father’s home, getting in every caterer’s way, muttering “Sorry, sorry, sorry” like an apologetic Roomba.
Through the beveled glass, he spots Jackson standing on the porch in the most ludicrously stylish suit he has ever seen. Rich oxblood, crisp white shirt, slim black tie, pocket square folded just so.
Ben’s knees go a little watery.Be cool. Be relaxed.
He opens the door. “Hi,” Ben says and then immediately winces as his voice cracks like he’s in the eighth grade.
Jackson’s grin sharpens. “Hi yourself.” He steps inside, and it’s even more overwhelming up close. Jackson smells incredible. Like cedar, cardamom and pure distilled confidence.
Ben trails behind him, conscious of how his own three-piece suit suddenly feels like a woolen coffin. “You look…I mean, you always look…but that suit is…” Oh God. He’s somehowworseat this now that they’ve kissed. He is dying. He is actively dying. “Wow.”
“Thank you,” Jackson says, with the easy cadence of a man who is extremely used to being given compliments. “And you look… formal.”
Ben fidgets with his cufflink. “Stiff, you mean.” He’s absolutely right, but it’s the only way Ben knows how to armor up for nights like this.
“Not exactly,” Jackson says, head tilting thoughtfully. “Traditional. Like someone whose family tree has a coat of arms.”
Ben snorts. “It does. It’s hanging in the upstairs hallway along with a sword I’m not allowed to touch.”
“You’re a grown man. Just touch the sword, Ben.” Jackson’s eyes flick toward him, and whatever’s in them makes Ben’s stomach do something that should require a seatbelt.
The memory of last night’s kiss picks that exact moment to stage a full-body ambush. Heat prickles across his skin. His brain, unhelpful as ever, starts running through a list of things he’d like to touch. None of them are cold metal swords. All of them are Jackson.
“And for the record,” Jackson adds, “I didn’t mean you don’t look good.”
Ben’s already overheating under the layers. “It’s just a suit,” he mutters, trying to sound composed and not like a man aboutto expire from being perceived. “My mom always liked when we dressed up for parties. She said if we looked the part, we’d feel like we belonged in the room.”
Jackson’s smile softens, just slightly. “Smart woman.”
“Yeah, well, her family was in textiles,” he says, shrugging. “I think she might’ve had a bias.”
Ben clears his throat, pointless, since it does absolutely nothing to steady him. “Thanks again for coming early,” he says, stumbling forward. “I thought we could… uh… strategize?” The word sounds ridiculous the second it leaves his mouth. Probably because it is.
Ben does not, in fact, want to strategize. He doesn’t want to think about Tom McKenna (whose office turned out to be aggressively un-incriminating, save for a truly surprising cabinet full of tiny glass dolphins, but tackiness was not really the crime in question.) or the forged signatures currently set to ruin Ben’s entire life.
What hewantsto do is drag Jackson upstairs, push the entire concept of family legacy out a second-story window along the way, and make out with him until he forgets his own name. Because now Ben knows how soft Jackson’s mouth is. How composed he can look even mid-kiss. How easily he can wreck a person’s sanity with a single thumb hooked into a collar.
“Or do you want the tour first?” Ben asks, a little too eager.
“Of course I want the tour,” Jackson replies, low and entirely too pleased with himself, like he’s reading exactly what’s on Ben’s mind and is having an excellent time doing it. “Lead the way.”
Ben does, falling back on playing tour guide. His mom had made him practically memorize the spiel years ago.
“This place is known as Hildebrandt Hall,” he says, gesturing around the foyer. “Built in 1842. It’s classic Cape Cod meets Greek Revival: big wraparound porch, widow’s walk, cedarshingles, fanlight windows. But modernized along the way. We, uh, enjoy indoor plumbing now.” He flashes a smile. “It’s a mix of keeping what’s good and adapting to the times.”
