Page 42 of What We Had

I wanted to stay and talk, to ask her why my uncle really wanted the house so desperately. I knew she wasn’tactuallytired and only tried to shoo me away, so I obeyed like an obedient son. I spent time in the kitchen while I considered how attached I was to the house. My initial thought was that if James wanted it, he could have it.

But then I remembered that my father created the Garrett-Clarke Trust to ensure the safety of the house through me. He didn’t know I would turn out gay, didn’t know if I would keep the Clarke line alive and thriving. He and my mother created the trust after she revealed her pregnancy. By then, despite James’s younger age, he already had two toddlers and more on the way. The family naturally assumed the house would pass to him.

I rubbed my face in my hands. Rachel would arrive soon and Bennett would be waking up in two hours. I needed to get ready. We had a date planned for his house. He told me he was having trouble sleeping with everything going on. He wanted a peaceful night where he could drift in and out of sleep while lying in my arms on the couch. I had no problem with that.

Two weeks had passed since he pulled me over. So much had happened since two in the morning on that day. How much more would happen in the next two weeks?

?

Myphone was out the moment I put my car into Park in Bennett’s driveway. I blasted a text to Deacon to give him an update. I had spotted the Jersey plates on my way to Bennett’s house. The car was traveling from the opposite direction, windows tinted enough that I couldn’t see the driver. A spike of adrenaline shot a dose of fear into me. I didn’t wait for a response before I got out of the car and pocketed my phone.

Who the fuck was this guy? I considered briefly if someone had finally clued the paparazzi about my sexuality and sent some greasy serpent to slither his way into my life for some lewd photos. My name had been off Hollywood’s list for two years, though. Who the hell cared what a former television star did in his free time?

Bennett had the door open before I could knock. Jazz poured out through the open door and the mouthwatering scent of baking bread hit me. Low, candlelight backlit Bennett who, to my sudden shock, wasnotdressed up as I was. He stood barefoot, in loose black sweatpants, a navy blue hoodie, and that backward red ball cap.

My mouth fell open as I looked myself up and down. Designer jeans, Coach loafers, white Luca Faloni button-down. My most expensive watch hung on my wrist, the timepiece worth as much as a moderately priced car. The one-hundred-fifty-dollar bottle of wine in my hand paled in price comparison.

“So I guess I’m overdressed,” I said.

Bennett stepped back to let me in and shut the door behind me. “Maybe I’m underdressed?” He gave me a tender kiss on my cheek.

“I keep thinking of these get-togethers as dates. You know,date-dates.”

“Well, I mean, we could go out?” Bennett looked around, his eyes targeting the kitchen. “Yeah. I think we can do that. Let me kill the oven and I can change into something—”

My hand went to his shoulder, guided him gently toward me, and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. “This is fine. I’ll be that fancy guy you think I am while you hang out in comfortable clothing.”

Bennett stepped back and looked me up and down. “That’s not comfortable?”

I dipped my hips and adjusted the waistband. “God, no. Nothing designer is ever comfortable.”

He flicked the wine bottle with his fingers. “Get that open. I’ll lay out something for you to change into.” Again, he looked me up and down. “All my sweatpants will be too short on you. I might have an oversized sweatshirt, though.”

I stripped down in Bennett’s bedroom. Sadly, he was not there to see it but, hopefully, one day he would be. He laid out a pair of red basketball shorts that trailed to my knees. I pulled on a hooded sweatshirt that I zipped up only to my sternum, exposing the pelt of my chest. The watch felt silly with the outfit, so I unbuckled it and placed it on Bennett’s nightstand.

I found him in the kitchen as he pulled out a tray of freshly baked pretzels from the oven. The smell found a hollow home in my stomach and forced a rumble to call out louder than the jazz from the vinyl. Bennett slid the tray onto the stovetop and nodded appreciatively.

“I’m hungry, too,” he said.

I slapped my stomach and sat on a stool along the kitchen’s peninsula. “All right, I have to ask. What is all this? Scones by the river. Now homemade pretzels? Do you like to bake?”

Bennett glided easily a few steps to the corner of the kitchen, where he whisked together a bowl of something yellow. Mustard? I could smell honey, too. “I do, yeah. It’s kind of a hobby.”

“Thebestkind of hobby, by the smell of it.”

He set down the bowl, picked up a second one, and mixed with a spoon to stir up its creamy contents. “Suggestion from my therapist, actually. She said I should take up a hobby that didn’t focus on my body like I do with working out. She said to find something methodical, something that keeps my hands and mind busy.” He dipped his fingers into a bowl of thick salt and sprinkled it over the pretzels. “I bake a cake for the station at least once a week. People love it.”

I love it. I loveyou,I thought, but kept it to myself. “You continue to surprise me, Officer Dubois.”

He slid the pretzels onto a wooden cutting board and transferred the tray to the counter in front of me. “Just wait until you actually try these. Then you’llreallybe surprised.”

That childlike hope in his eyes. He was something beautiful. Full of life and exuberance when you could get through his frosty exterior. The man standing before me presented himself like another person compared to the man who pulled me over two weeks ago. There was Bennett, the one he showed the world, and then Benny, the sweet, loving individual he let me see.

Something that sounded like the cross between rusty hinges on a door and a malfunctioning kazoo came from under my feet. I leaned back in the stool to see a shorthair gray cat with black spots rub against the legs. Patches. Blind, deaf, incontinent Patches. I reached down to pet her.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Bennett warned. “She gets feisty if someone touches her. She has to come to you in order to pet her.”

I looked down at Patches, who still rubbed up against the legs of the stool. “But she did.”

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