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He let Charlie lead him into the crowd. Many pairs of eyes watched them as they stumbled around awkwardly to the music. “We seem to be quite the attraction.”
Charlie grimaced. “They’re counting how many times one of us steps on the other’s feet—Ow.”
“Oops.” Bennet laughed, and Charlie chuckled too.
A couple close to them leaned in. “We run dancing lessons if you’re interested. Here at the town hall, every Tuesday night.”
They whirled away gracefully, and Bennet laughed harder as he and Charlie both tried to spin at the same time. “Maybe we really should consider those lessons!”
His stomach hurt from laughing, and he didn’t stop—laughing or dancing—until Olivia, in a beautiful blue wool dress, waved from where she stood alone at the side of the hall.
Charlie came to a stop. “I think I ought to . . .”
Bennet momentarily tightened his grip, and at Charlie’s look, released him. “You’ll both be better off if you let her lead. As will be the people around you.”
Unsettled, he forced his lips to maintain a smile. Olivia beamed at Charlie, and Bennet chastised himself. Charlie knew what he was doing.
He turned for the bar—
Darcy. Perched on a high stool, one elbow on the counter. Their eyes met. How long had Darcy been watching him?
Darcy waited, as if convinced Bennet would be the first to look away. Well. He wouldn’t be intimidated. He restrained his cold feelings toward Darcy and approached the bar. In much need of a drink.
The server winced apologetically and rushed off to finish a tray of beers for the rugby team.
Fine. He could wait.
He shivered at the heat of Darcy’s studious gaze on his profile. Smiling, he faced him. “Do I have something on my face?”
Darcy’s eyes flickered away. “No. You look . . .” He took too long to finish.
“Tired?”
“Wasn’t going to say tired.”
“Well, I am tired. Didn’t sleep very well.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t stop wondering why some people act the way they do.”
Darcy’s gaze drifted, locating Lyon across the hall, completely missing his meaning. “I said it once, I’ll say it again.” Darcy returned his focus to Bennet. “He’ll turn out just fine.”
Lyon was a much safer topic. “He met a boy, at Shear-A-Sheep Day.”
“Are you worried?”
“Come, Darcy. You’re a father of three. Do you think I’m worried?”
A shallow smirk startled Bennet. “I have something for that.” Darcy slid his whiskey along the counter.
Hesitantly, Bennet sipped. “Pretty sure this is only a Band-Aid.”
Darcy leaned in slightly, dark eyes twinkling. “A good one.”
Bennet scolded himself for the laughter that shot out of him, and returned Darcy’s drink.
Darcy noted it with a furrowed brow.
“Was Lyon the only one who met someone at the fair?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Darcy leaned both forearms against the counter and stared deep into the whiskey, like it might contain guidance how to continue this conversation. In the stuffy warmth of the room, his cheeks were gently flushed. His foot jiggled for a few beats as he seemed to contain some kind of struggle.
Bennet’s curiosity deepened. He couldn’t hold back. “I spent some time with Will Wickham.”
Darcy’s jaw twitched. A long silence stretched before he spoke. “I’m sure he charmed you. He tends to make friends easily. Has trouble keeping them, however.”
“Keeping them is a two-way street. Requiring kindness and honesty. Trust.”
Darcy’s gaze snapped to his, but before he could respond Wiremu and his clipboard wriggled between them. He puffed out an exhausted breath. “Say, either of you willing to sing? I’ve got two lined up and I’d love a third. Give me time to take a ten-minute break.”
They were still staring at one another. Darcy slowly shifted his gaze.
“I’ll do it,” Darcy said, startling Bennet.
“You’ll sing?” Wiremu sounded pleased and clicked his pen.
“If Bennet will join me.”
“Bennet?” Wiremu asked hopefully.
He could see Darcy out the corner of his eye, observing him, waiting. “I—” There was so much noise, it was crowding his head. Bennet’s ears felt like they were on fire. He couldn’t think. “I—yes. Yes.”
Bennet’s stomach crashed to his knees. What had he agreed to? He’d promised himself never to sing with Darcy, yet when asked point-blank like that . . . he’d offered himself like a lamb to slaughter. Saying no felt wrong. More than impolite—mean-spirited, like throwing the past in Darcy’s face. He didn’t want to be that person.
“Great.” Wiremu nodded enthusiastically to something Darcy had said. “You’ll go on after”—he checked his board—“‘Love Shack.’ Do you have a song preference?”
“‘Opposites Attract,’” Darcy said swiftly. “Paula Abdul. Unless,” He looked at Bennet, “you’re unfamiliar?”
“I know it.” When Wiremu retreated, Bennet raised a brow. “‘Opposites Attract’? I never would have thought that was your jam.”
“I like a fast-paced beat as much as a slow one.” Darcy’s attention remained steady on him, until Bennet broke away, stole Darcy’s drink back and drained it.
Silence settled between them, not as reassuring as Bennet would have hoped. To his surprise, Darcy broke it first.
