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Bennet peeked into Cubworthy’s ‘mobile’ library at the two gossiping women and glanced back at Charlie, who voluntarily ran the library Tuesdays and Thursdays. The old teal caravan wasn’t as mobile as it appeared. In fact, Bennet was sure it hadn’t moved from its spot next to the tearooms since he was a teen.
“How puzzling. Two very different accounts of Darcy. One makes him quite the hero, the other—”
“The villain?”
“—human,” Bennet finished.
“Human?” Lyon’s voice startled Bennet and he swung around. Lyon’s uniform sleeves were shoved up to his elbows; he dropped his school bag to the base of a romance-book crate. “After the way he treated you last night?”
“You mean after you refused me first?” Bennet added a wink.
“Duh—told you, I’m not that kinky.”
“How disappointing. I was hoping you could give me some pointers.”
Lyon rolled his eyes and turned towards Charlie.
Charlie, balancing a small whiteboard against a crate of mystery books and writing up a literary quote, looked up and nodded to Lyon. He seemed less surprised to see him there than Bennet was. “He could have sung with you, Bennet.”
The two gossips approached Charlie, stacks of books piled in their arms. Bennet ducked inside and breathed in the intoxicating scent of aged paper.
Lyon scrambled in after him. “If he ever finds himself in need of a karaoke partner, you should refuse to sing with him.”
Bennet laughed. “I think, Lyon, I can absolutely promise never to sing with him.”
“How’d he have the balls to sing after that? How’d you not want to kick him in the nuts?”
“Who says I didn’t want to?”
“But you . . .” Lyon peeked at him. “You were, like, so smiley and calm.”
“I was praying he’d croak every time his deep voice reached up an octave.”
“It’s unfair that he sings like an angel.” Lyon scowled, and every wrinkle of it warmed Bennet.
He patted Lyon’s shoulder. “Men like that are never truly happy. Let him have his songs. Besides, a lot of good came from last night.”
“Like what?”
Bennet grinned and trailed a finger along book spines, remembering his chat with the farmer—Dean—and his wife Moira after they’d finished their song.
“I think I managed to convince enough people that ‘fairy’ is offensive, so the rest of the village should be updated by now.”
Lyon grunted and frowned. “What are we even doing in here? You have a Kindle.”
“I need something I can’t find online.”
“For one of the books you’re editing?”
No, nothing to do with his job. “Aha, here we go.”
Lyon peered over his shoulder. “The Best of Cubworthy in the Kitchen. A recipe book?”
“It’s high time we ate more than nachos from the pub or microwave dinners. Tonight, I’m making Cubworthy’s classic lamb chops.”
“Really?” Lyon sounded suspicious. “That’s my favorite.”
“I know.” Bennet grinned at Lyon. “It used to be mine, too.”
Lyon lingered inside the caravan while Charlie loaned the cookbook out to him, writing on a lined card pulled from the pocket at the back. “For what it’s worth, sorry about last night, eh. Come round to the pub later. First drink is on me, and you can diss Darcy as much as you like.”
Bennet tapped the book. “I have plans tonight—none of which involve thinking about rude, angry men.”
Charlie shook his head. “He’s not living up to his title as pride of the village.”
“For all his airs and privilege, he has very little pride in himself.”
Charlie raised a confused brow.
“He looked proud enough to me,” Lyon muttered, approaching Bennet’s side, a Jane Austen novel peeking from his back pocket. “Thinks he’s better than us, anyway.”
While that might be true, Bennet thought, he’d seen the glimmer of attraction in Darcy’s eye. And the stubborn resistance of it. “He’s just a rich man who has most of this village running his farm and who comes for weekends and summer trips to play lord over us all. I think we can safely ignore him.” Bennet tucked the cookbook into his satchel. “Now for meat I actually care about.”
A week passed. Despite the rain, Bennet went riding every morning, and despite the rain, Lyon waited for him at the stables.
A small gesture, but it meant everything to Bennet.
They walked together toward the school bus stop until the road forked.
Then, like he did every morning, Bennet cut through the church grounds, threading his way between pines at the back of his family’s property. He’d sold the cottage he grew up in, but he’d held on to the old greenhouse, separated from his childhood home by a large backyard and surrounded by a meadow of tall grass.
A glass and iron jumble of Victorian flourishes—peaked arches, gridded windows and lattice, most of the frame reddened with rust; vines climbed over the sides, and pink clematis blossoms shivered along the roof.
He skirted the tree line, flirting with getting closer.
Every angle sparked another memory of Finley—that rush of falling for someone.
