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“Lyon.”
“Nothing I couldn’t cope with.”
“He’s a good kid.”
“I know.”
Bennet swallowed down the tickle in his throat. “I wish he wouldn’t stay out late when I can’t help him if he needs it.”
Darcy slung himself on the untouched side of the bed and swiveled the computer around.
“Really? I’d never have guessed you’d be into this.”
“Then you don’t know me at all. I may not be good at romance, but I certainly enjoy it.” Darcy propped the pillows behind him, gaze riveted to the screen. Below his perpetual disdain for life, his face softened and his extraordinary mouth smiled gently, as brief as a shooting star. “I like how they fall in love without even realizing it. It starts out rocky, but then it grows bit by bit each time they meet. Until they can’t hold it in anymore and have to admit the truth of how they feel.”
“Ah,” Bennet said, nodding. “I can see why it calls to you.”
Without so much as a glance, Darcy whacked him lightly over the back of the head.
Bennet laughed—and started hacking up his lungs again.
Someone was making a ruckus in the kitchen.
Stiff and groaning, Bennet and a box of tissues made the journey from bed to couch. Lyon was bowed over a book, not even trying to hide it.
Bennet stared at Lyon and the book and Lyon again. “I must have crossed to the other side.”
“You’ve what?” Lyon asked, puzzled.
“This must be heaven.”
Lyon glanced around their sparse apartment, the dark clouds outside, the tissues between them. “If so, I don’t ever plan on joining you.” He paused. “Are you feeling better?”
“Definitely heaven.”
Darcy planted two bowls on the coffee table. “Nutrition, nutrition.”
His gaze flittered over Bennet’s face and, seeming satisfied, he walked back into the kitchen.
“This is all so strange.”
“Darcy coming over every day to feed us? I know.”
“Maybe this whole week has been a fever dream. Especially . . .” He rubbed his jaw. “Darcy.” Bennet croaked, and Darcy reappeared. “Why are you helping us?”
Panic flickered in the man’s eye.
Hurriedly, Bennet added, “It was very good of you to help. I was just wondering why. We’re not particularly close.”
Darcy processed that with a shimmer of . . . weariness? Disappointment? “You were sick. You’ve no other family. The village was worried for you.”
“The village was worried for me?”
Darcy inclined his head. “Others would have come, but it made sense for me to do it. Being off work and all.”
Bennet frowned. Darcy had cooked, cleaned, and watched films with him out of social obligation? “You’re Cubworthy’s representative?”
“It was the necessary thing to do.”
“Necessary?”
“Yes.” Darcy hesitated. “For me, as well.”
For him. Because half the town had heard about his atrocious behavior toward Will, and he needed to regain their admiration? Maybe even make them question whether the rumor was true?
Darcy abruptly returned to the kitchen and Bennet pulled his phone from his dressing gown pocket. There, on the forum. Someone had posted a picture of Darcy at the grocery store inspecting a pumpkin. Under, the caption: Off to make soup for sickly Bennet!
It was really quite cunning. A thick wave of disappointment washed to his toes, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at Darcy when he returned carrying a large plate of bread.
“Thank you for dinner,” Bennet said woodenly.
“Think nothing of it.” Darcy set the plate down and cleared his throat. “I really have to go. I was planning on driving back to Port Ratapu this morning.”
“Better hurry then,” Bennet said, staring at his soup. “You’ll be driving in the dark.”
“I hope—” Darcy stopped, and then restarted. “I hope you have a good Christmas.”
Bennet closed his eyes until he heard the front door snick gently shut.
He laughed hollowly, glancing at Lyon. “I was mistaken. This is not heaven, and I’ve definitely not crossed any bridges.”
The flu took another week to fully kick, and on Christmas Day Bennet and Lyon headed for the pub’s annual feast. Plenty of the itinerant shearers here for the season stayed over the holidays, and it was tradition for Cubworthy’s permanent residents to host a merry event for their transitory family.
“It’s been forever since I’ve seen William. He said he’d be here.”
Lyon opened the pub door, bubbly with nervousness and anticipation, and Bennet wondered why he didn’t feel the same. In fact, for the last week Bennet had felt less than jubilant.
“Oh, look, there by the jukebox, standing next to your Will. Ha. Like they’re waiting for us.”
Hardly. Bennet hadn’t heard anything from Will since he got sick—since their . . . coffee.
“Lickable perfection.” Lyon sighed dreamily.
“Whose Willy are you talking about? Yours or mine?”
A scandalized gasp came from beside them, and an elderly lady hurried out of the pub.
Bennet whisked around. “Oh no, it’s not what it—”
The door closed behind her.
“—sounds like.” He narrowed his eyes on Lyon, lips twitching. “Stop laughing.”
