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“You have a choice, Mary. You can let us get down to business. Or you can come in and watch.”
The door thunked shut. “Thought so.”
Elliot laugh-groaned, coming back down the hall. “She thinks you were talking about banging me.”
Wentworth flashed him a grin. “I know. I had fun teasing her.” His gaze darted over Elliot once more, and then clouded. Like he’d forgotten himself. He frowned and strode past. “I’ll turn off the water at the main and have another look . . .”
Elliot stared after him, and sighed.
Once he was fully dressed in jeans and T-shirt, he tentatively entered the bathroom again.
Wentworth carried on tinkering, but his frown increased.
“How are the pipes?” Elliot asked.
Wentworth shook his head. “I have no idea how to fix them.”
“Probably need replacing. They’re probably too broken to repair.”
Wentworth looked at him, mouth twisting in such a way that Elliot wasn’t sure they were talking about pipes anymore. “Probably.”
Something panicky gripped Elliot’s stomach and he looked directly into Wentworth’s eyes. “If only pipes could talk. They might tell me exactly where the problem is.”
“Doesn’t mean they’ll be any easier to fix.”
“It’s a start, though.” Elliot cleared his throat. “Maybe there’s enough good material left to build something new onto? They might not work the same as they did, but if bits could be . . . salvaged. It could anchor something else.”
“Maybe.”
It was an uncertain maybe, but it was maybe all the same.
Wentworth turned away, a wall being thrown up. A plea for Elliot to stop.
He nodded to Wentworth’s broad, muscular back.
“So. Benny,” Elliot said. “He seems lovely. Sad. And was it my imagination or did he and Louisa—”
“Spend an hour reciting poetry to one another? Yes. They’re fans of the classics. They want me to adapt some into lyrics.”
“Will you?”
“I’m not sure I can get away with another deeply depressing song.”
“I was sorry to hear that his girlfriend died.”
“A car accident. She came in while he was working in the ER. He wasn’t supposed to operate—too emotionally involved—but they were short staffed and he had to. He couldn’t save her. He blames himself.”
“Traumatic.”
“His family are very close, very loving. They’ve been there for him, and now I’m back I invite him to dinner a couple nights a week.” The dryer beeped. His clothes were done. Wentworth passed him and their eyes clashed. “It feels good to be there when someone you care about needs you.”
Elliot sagged against the wall and stared up at the ceiling as Wentworth mucked about in the adjacent room.
The bell chimed a third time.
Elliot opened to Finley and Ethan stealing a kiss, Noah staring wistfully behind them. He gestured them inside and they came in glowing, eyebrows shooting up their foreheads as Wentworth made an appearance.
“Wentworth?”
Elliot watched the mask come down over whatever Wentworth was feeling; instantly the air around him sparked with enthusiasm and life. They chatted and laughed, and Wentworth excused himself—he couldn’t join them for brunch but maybe they could catch up over coffee soon?
Finley kept glancing at Elliot in a way that clearly meant he wanted to hear all about this.
“Hey guys, would you maybe put the coffee on?”
“Sure.” They were smart. They jumped to the task, leaving Elliot and Wentworth alone.
Wentworth toed into his boots, thrust his limbs into his jacket, and opened the door. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Elliot crossed over, close. He looked up into Wentworth’s troubled eyes. “Thank you for attempting to fix the pipes.”
An acknowledging incline of his head.
“I think you came here for another reason though?”
Realization jolted over Wentworth’s face; he dug his hands into his jacket pocket and withdrew Elliot’s phone.
Their fingers brushed as Elliot took it. He shivered, but he didn’t look away from the constant shifts in Wentworth’s expression. He wanted to say something; he didn’t dare.
Elliot spoke for him. “I couldn’t help myself. Your cabin was right there . . . Feelings overcame me. I’m sorry.”
“Feel—” Wentworth halted himself; his jaw twitched, like it took a lot of effort. “It’s fine. I . . . It’s fine.”
He grimaced, nodded, and backed over the threshold.
Elliot started, reluctantly, to push the door shut, but Wentworth shoved a hand against the wood.
“You want words, Elliot?” His voice was soft. Quiet. Elliot recalled the statement he’d given the journalist.
Wentworth dropped his hand slowly. “I would have done anything for you. What you never understood was” —he swallowed— “then. Back then, I would have gladly died for you.”
Elliot wanted to say something, acknowledge that, but his mouth was dry.
“You were here with her alone, grieving, while I was drowning in self-pity, making sure the world knew it.”
“Wentworth . . .”
Gaze glistening, Wentworth whirled away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Elliot stared at the path, letting Wentworth’s words roll through him. His stomach see-sawed at the prospect of tomorrow. Was he looking forward to it, now Wentworth was starting to communicate? Or was he dreading learning the certainty of their never . . . moving on?
