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“Then there was the time Dad—”
“Pass me the bread, would you, Henry.”
“—in Italy, when Dad sat at this cute little cafe and ordered a latte—”
“And the butter, too.”
“Is there anything else you want?”
“You to stop telling humiliating stories about me? Poor Bennet must be cringing.”
Henry’s lips quirked at the edges.
“And if he’s not cringing,” Bennet murmured, “may he continue?”
“If you’re not,” Darcy said, meeting his eye with a twinkle that jolted to Bennet’s heels, “you soon will be.”
Henry laughed. “What are stories for, if not to share them?”
“If it helps,” Cameron offered Darcy, “I can share a few funny Henry blunders.”
“Blunders? Me? Never.”
“Don’t forget the ice cream incident at the beach, love.”
Henry colored. “On second thoughts, maybe it’s time to prepare dessert. Cameron?”
Smiling, they left Darcy, Bennet, and quiet, watchful Georgie alone.
Bennet let out a long breath and busied himself with the butter. His body was taut with energy. He felt like he’d been on display all evening. He wanted Darcy’s kids and Cameron to like what they saw.
“Henry and Cameron are charming. Very,” he cleared his throat, “very much in love.”
Georgie sighed dreamily. “It’s amazing. You can see it in all the little actions between them. Passing the salt without having been asked. Buttering one another’s bread. Little smiles when they don’t think the other is looking.”
Bennet stared at the buttered bread on the small plate between him and Darcy and quietly set down the knife. “How are the penguins?” he asked with extra cheer, heart pounding heavily under it.
Georgie settled twinkling dark eyes—very much like her dad’s—on him. “There’s these adorable gay penguins who adopted a young orphan and are raising it together. It makes me swoon.”
Bennet stared at her, and then slowly looked at Darcy. “And you think I layer every sentence with subtext.”
Darcy boomed nervous laughter that brought Henry and Cameron hurrying back. “What did we miss?”
Darcy was still chuckling. “Henry, Cameron, Georgie. I’m sure you’re all wondering about Bennet. I know I’ve talked about him a bit—”
“Incessantly,” Henry corrected.
“—since coming back from the farm, and in conjunction with coming out to you and inviting him for dinner . . . You’re all far too smart not to put together a perfectly reasonable conclusion. But he’s just a friend.”
Bennet’s stomach dipped and it took tremendous effort to maintain his smile.
“A friend I have a lot of respect for.”
“Oh, I know what comes next,” Henry said, ticking off his fingers. “He’s given up his life to move to a small village to raise his teenage brother alone; he provides financial and emotional support to Lyon, volunteers at the library, strives to make the LGBTQ community feel welcome. He’s committed to making Cubworthy a better place, and you couldn’t be happier to know him.”
Darcy opened his mouth and shut it. “He has an amazing seat and could outride any one of us. He is also the only person other than you, Henry, who has managed to one-up me at Scrabble.”
The pride in Darcy’s eyes overwhelmed him. “Your dad has made me out to be far better than I am.” He met those soft, deep eyes. Couldn’t for the life of him look away. “I’m stubborn. I make hasty judgments. I’m constantly failing as a big brother. I only overtook the volunteer position since Charlie was leaving. As for my seat . . . we’ve only had one true race, and you well and truly beat me. No. You are the friend worth having. Overlooking my faults, caring for me when I was sick, helping me with Lyon, teaching him how to ride. You’re kind, and generous, and—where are your kids going?”
Henry and Cameron were at the door, and Georgie was rolling toward them.
“The dessert’s about to burn.”
“I need to prepare my Pride costume.”
“Oh, that one! Me too.”
They rushed out of the room, and Bennet and Darcy shared a quiet look until their laughter dissipated down the hall.
Bennet grimaced. “I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”
Darcy stared at the buttered bread between them a long while, and said softly, “I don’t think so.” He looked hopeful, yet cautious. “Would you like to go to the market with me tomorrow?”
Bennet pushed up on trembling legs. “Yes. Would you like a chance to lose at another round of Scrabble?”
A warm, heavy laugh. “Just you wait.”
The library door clicked as Darcy turned the lock.
Bennet raised a brow.
“Privacy. I don’t want them waltzing in here and”—Darcy gestured to the floor pillows and the Scrabble board—“seeing you beat me.”
Bennet imagined a few other reasons for the privacy, too. After the intense afternoon and evening they’d had, they needed time to themselves without others trying to figure out what they were . . .
“I love that me beating you is a foregone conclusion.” Darcy turned back for the door, and Bennet stopped him, a hand to his broad shoulder. “I’m kidding. How about making me eat my words?”
