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The exquisite coat molded to his shoulders and cinched perfectly down his tapering torso. He’d never worn anything so beautiful. Olivia was a master seamstress. “This is incredible. It fits perfectly.”
“You have Lyon to thank for that. He stole one of your jackets for me to work with.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Never mind that. Consider it a gift for introducing me to Charlie.” She smiled, and Bennet’s stomach warbled. “Right. I’m off for a walk.”
Charlie waved, saying he’d follow shortly, and Bennet thanked her again.
Around them the hum of patrons and the tinkling of jukebox music filled the silence. Charlie looked at Bennet, waiting.
“Are you two planning—don’t answer that.” Bennet blew out a breath. “All I want to understand is if, why?”
“I want a family, and let’s be frank . . . there aren’t many options and you weren’t interested.”
Oh.
Guilt and awkwardness competed for precedence. “Charlie, I . . .”
Charlie held up a hand. “Don’t worry about it, eh.”
“I like you very much.”
“But I’m not the one.”
Bennet bowed his head. He wished he could find some spark in him for Charlie’s sake, but he’d never thought of him as more than a close friend.
“Let me say something else, though.” Charlie pushed off the counter and set his sights on the exit. “If you only ever judge someone by their first impression, if you don’t sometimes let a relationship grow . . . you may miss out on what you’re looking for.”
Half the village milled in the sprawling grounds outside the town hall, helping themselves to a feast of barbecued meats and salads while the other half mingled inside, showing off their outfits, all stunning shades of wool.
True to the village spirit, karaoke replaced a live band. Poor Wiremu was running around with a clipboard trying to convince guests to volunteer.
“Smells like a perfume bomb went off in here.” Lyon hacked out an exaggerated cough.
“My brother, everyone. Belle of the ball.”
Lyon coughed some more. “Wow, once you start it’s hard to stop.”
“Drinking water will help.”
“So will drinking William.” Lyon’s gaze locked on his smartly dressed prize and he took off.
Bennet scanned the crowd for his own Will, nervously flattening his beautifully-fitted red coat. He rounded a cluster of yellow-and-black checked Swanndris, belly hopping in anticipation.
Where was he hiding?
He and Lyon had taken their time getting ready. They were surely some of the last guests to arrive. Will should be here. Unless . . .
Unless he’d had second thoughts. All the villagers were invited. Darcy . . .
Another round of the garden; his suspicion—and disappointment—grew.
He headed over the grass toward the double doors. The sun, slowly sinking behind him, cloaked the picturesque white hall in soft pinks.
He hiked up the steps and was about to enter the warmly lit hall when the air stirred behind him. Suddenly, Darcy was there, wearing a dark merino wool sweater and a—grim? Nervous?—smile.
Darcy gestured behind them, toward the garden. “I, ah, saw you.”
“I didn’t notice.” Nor did he particularly want to.
“Who are you looking for?”
Bennet spared him an impatient laugh. “The perfect boyfriend.”
Darcy rocked back on his heels, and Bennet almost reached out to stop him rocking so far he stumbled down the steps. They both managed not to make fools of themselves.
“Don’t worry,” Bennet stepped inside and scanned the crowd. “I’m sure I’ll find him.”
He strode away, quickly losing Darcy in the tittering crowd.
Lyon stood casually cool against the wall, arms folded as he chatted—to William, presumably. A couple yards away, the drunken man his Will had helped—Denny or something—stole his attention.
The noxious fumes emanating from him made it clear he wasn’t far off a repeat of that night. Bennet waved a hand in front of his face and asked where Will was.
“He’s not coming.”
“Did he say why?”
“Something about ghosts of the past.” Denny belched, and Bennet gave up on getting any more information from him. He moved away, disappointed. Frustrated. Even more upset at Darcy for ruining what could have been a fun evening.
God, he didn’t want to see the man again tonight.
He threaded through slow-dancers toward the bar and whisked around, hopeful for a second, when a tap came to his shoulder.
Charlie smiled warmly at him.
Never good at holding on to frustration, Bennet grinned. “You look nice, Charlie.”
Charlie scrubbed the scruff on his jaw. “Bit fancier than what I’d picked out.”
“Olivia made the vest for you?”
He nodded and his eyes darted toward the slow-dancers. “Want to? As friends.”
The offer was hesitant, as if he was unsure Bennet would accept. A lump formed in Bennet’s throat. Charlie might not be the one, romantically. But he sure was the one, platonically. They talked every day. Mindless nonsense, some of it. Most of it, meaningful dialogue. He offered perspectives that Bennet had never considered. He was the most thoughtful friend.
Bennet held out his hand. “I’d love to, Charlie. But I have to tell you, I should come with a warning label.”
