Page 8 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
“Rattled? No,” I lie. At the dubious furrow of his brow, I amend by adding, “I mean, I wassurprised, that’s all. It’s been fourteen years.”
Is that too precise? Does it seem like I’ve been counting the days? I should’ve rounded up and gone with fifteen.
“Yeah. Wild coincidence, huh?” He casts a glance over his shoulder to where the manicured grass of the backyard gives way to the lush woods lining the property. “You up for a walk down to the lake?”
At the mere mention of the spot where we spent endless summer days—and nights—together, I’m assaulted with a forceful blow, as if I stepped off a curb and didn’t see the Mack truck headed my way.
“I’m barefoot,” I manage, regaining my bearings. “I can’t walk through the woods like this.”
Ben dips his head, eyes falling at my feet. “Right. Sorry. Stupid idea anyway.”
Somewhere off in the distance an owl hoots an urgent warning. I wonder if it’s intended for me. “Ben, why are you here?”
“I told you. I wanted to talk.”
“No, I mean, why are you in Hudson Springs? At my parents’ house? How’d you know I’d be here?”
He keeps his head downcast, blocking any view of his expression. “I came back to town a couple months ago to finally clean out Mom’s place. I’m staying there while I get it ready to sell.”
“Oh.” I’d heard that his mother, Charlotte, passed away a couple years ago. I didn’t know her well, at least not outside the parameters of “Ben’s mom.” While Ben was a staple at the Miller house, I don’t think my brothers were ever at his. I’d thought about reaching out when I’d heard the news from my mom, but I didn’t know how to go about it. I no longer had Ben’s number or knew where he lived. DMing my condolences via social media certainly hadn’t felt right, and from what I understood, there was no public funeral, only a private graveyard service for family. Ultimately, I’d decided he had long moved on, and my sympathies would be another added to the list he felt obligated to respond to. “Ben, I’m really,reallysorry about your mom.”
He lifts his chin, and I don’t miss the quick clench of his jaw, the brief grimace of unease. “Thank you.” Immediately, he clears his throat and changes the subject. “Anyway, I figured you might be around since it’s your birthday. Miller family traditions and all.”
The responsive quiver in my stomach is both unwelcome and illogical. Who cares if he remembers my birthday? “And what if you were wrong? What if the light in my bedroom was my father on his nightly walk-through to ensure the windows and doors are properly locked?”
“Then I would’ve run like hell.” Ben’s short, raspy laugh alleviates a bit of the tension between us. “Dr. Miller terrifies me, you know.”
“You and me both.” Unable to stop myself, I smile. And now we’re smiling together. Just like old—
Nope. Not going there.
My smile abruptly fades, and Ben’s follows close behind. Above us, the floodlight times out and plunges us into the dark of night. I suck in a deep breath as I startle.
“Shit. Hang on.” Ben quickly jogs down the side of the house and back, setting off the motion sensors once more and triggering the lights on both corners of the house. Returning to me, he asks, “You okay?”
I guess he does remember.
“I’m fine,” I manage.
In the triangle of artificial light, his green eyes shine as they search my face. “Look, to be honest, I just want to make sure you’re okay with this,” he says earnestly. “This isyourjob,yourcompany. I’m the outsider here. If you’re not comfortable with us covering this assignment together, I’ll drop out.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be comfortable?”
“Your face when I walked into Cal’s office today.”
“Cal?” I sputter. “He told you to call himCal?”
Ben’s expression shifts to one of confusion at the unexpected switch in topic. “Is that not what everyone calls him?”
I’m so screwed.
If Calvin’s chummy enough with Ben to let him call him Cal, he must be downright desperate to have Ben join the company. Which means mycomfort levelthat Ben is concerned about matters exactly nil. If Ben drops out atmyrequest, I won’t be going anywhere other than the Newark Pumpkin Pie Fest for the rest of the year. I can’t do it anymore. Food festival competitions are ruthless, the competitors deceivingly good-natured until you bite into an apple fritter where the sugar has been surreptitiously replaced with salt. I’ve suffered the acid reflux of BBQ spiked with seven too many shakes of the hot-sauce bottle.
The main takeaway: I need Iceland. And in order to get there, I need Ben.
“Uh, no, that’s not what everyone calls him,” I reply, shuddering at the thought of a future filled with fried Oreos and all-you-can-eat funnel cakes. “Like I said, I was surprised to see you, that’s all. I’m perfectly comfortable traveling together. No worries there.”
“Mona, come on.” Ben tilts his head, surveying me. “Iknowyou.”
