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No thank you.
Instead, I walk on my creaky dock, untie my boat, and carefully climb down, praying it doesn’t collapse—the dock, I mean.
And I drive across the lake to Benson’s beast of a home. He has five extra rooms, and all of them have comfy beds. He has family come once a year, but I never see them.
No one does.
They stay at the cabin, and Benson doesn’t invite anyone over. The lake is big enough that you can’t see faces from across it either, at least not without the help of binoculars.
Yes, I’ve used them. I’m curious, so what?
Never seen more than a glimpse of the elusive Nolans family since I never know the exact time of their arrival. Benson just goes dark, and the town knows his family is in.
He even ignores me when they’re here, and I’m his best friend. The second they’re gone, he’s at my house, picking me up, and taking me fishing or something. And he never talks about them at all. Trust me, I’ve tried to pry.
It makes me suspicious…sort of like everything.
I dock my boat, tie it off, and walk up the fifteen steps to his door. I bang on it for several minutes before it swings open, and Benson arches an eyebrow when he sees me.
“What have they done now?” he asks.
I love his voice. It’s always so smooth and deep, but not creepy deep. In fact, it’s that sexy deep that I used to react to. Total voice porn. I’ve trained my body against it. Mostly.
Because it’s Benson. My mysterious friend Benson.
The guy I need in my life to keep me sane and doesn’t mind being in my corner of crazy.
“My bed’s too big for my mattress, and my couch isn’t any more comfortable than it has been all week. If I don’t get some quality sleep, I may kill someone, starting with the two anus leeches who caused this debacle. Can I borrow a room for the night?”
He steps back.
“You know you can. You should have come sooner.”
He’s in a T-shirt and sweat pants. The sweats look like quality sweats too. As though he went high-end. He always looks so different at home than when he’s outside with all our friends.
Obviously I don’t mention it aloud. As I said, he never tells me anything.
“I’ll come fix your bed tomorrow. They’re just doing it to irk you now,” he goes on.
“No need,” I say sleepily. “I’ve got something planned. Something major. I’ll be staying here after I do it, because I’ll need your protection.”
He laughs under his breath. “My protection?”
I nod as he follows me up the stairs. “Which room?” I ask as he pulls me away from the wall I’ve leaned against and started falling asleep on.
His arms reach down and lift me like I’m weightless, and he cradles me to him as he finishes carrying me up the stairs. I really love how he smells.
Always have.
It’s comforting and refreshing, and…Benson.
I’m really tired.
The last thing I remember is touching something soft, my body being covered, and something suspiciously resembling a tickling kiss is pressed to my head.
The next thing I know, I’m waking up to bright sunshine and the sound of pans rattling. My body feels as rejuvenated as I feel. I don’t know why I didn’t crash here sooner.
What has me stumbling over my feet as I head downstairs and into the kitchen, is the sight of Benson in a tight, black tank. Holy shit. Where’s he been hiding that body?
His shoulders are broad and sculpted. His waist is tapered perfectly, which is showcased by the tight-fitted shirt. All that arm porn is twice as sexy today, because you can see more of it.
Suddenly, I feel self-conscious, because my hair is a mess, my flannel bottoms are five years old, and my T-shirt has a picture of a pink mammoth on it.
He’s cooking. A body like that is already distracting. And he’s cooking.
“Hungry?” he asks, and I debate the meaning of that word.
I am not gawking at Benson like I want a bite. No way.
Where’s his oversized T-shirt?!
My eyes snap up to meet his, but he’s just staring at me blankly, like he didn’t notice I was practically wetting my non-existent panties for him.
“Very,” I say tightly.
Apparently my sex drought is fucking with my head.
“So what’s this plan of revenge you need my protection for? You passed out before giving me answers,” he says, cracking some eggs in a skillet.
I move in beside him to take over frying the bacon, acting like this is our normal routine.
When my arm brushes his, I shudder. What is wrong with me?
I’m reacting more to him than I did the pretty boy. Surely I’m not being conditioned to overlook the unruly beard. Is this brainwash or something?
“Can’t tell you. You might stop me.”
I feel his smile.
