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“Does it matter?” Simon asked stiffly.
Hudson ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “It might. So tell me. Is Ben the first? Is that’s what’s got you all riled up?”
“I am not in any way riled.”
“Oh, really?” Hudson gave Simon an impatient look. “So it was your not-riled self who flirted, cuddled, and then ran down that kid? Who is a guest in your house, I might add. That was someone else?”
Simon glared at Hudson.
“That’s what I thought,” Hudson said. “What were you planning to do with the kid, anyway? Actually, never mind. I don’t need details. Were you planning to f—have sex with him, and then had some sort of big gay freak out?”
Simon thought of Ben lying on his bed, sprawled out, and how he’d had an overwhelming urge to… he wasn’t exactly sure. It hadn’t felt like sex, which was occasionally physically necessary but little more than a bodily function. What he’d felt for the women he’d taken to his bed had been nothing like what he’d felt for Ben. The women, as a whole, had been attractive, sweet-natured, and completely non-demanding. Which fit Ben as well, Simon supposed. But what he’d felt for Ben verged on… not violence, exactly, but something right next door to it.
Was it Ben, or was it because he’d felt that overwhelming urge topossessa man, as opposed to a woman? Was he gay now? Simon didn’t think gayness could just spring on someone, but there it was. Or he’d had a complete mental breakdown and would need to be committed.
“I don’t know,” Simon finally said, frustrated that he faced a problem he couldn’t throw money at to make it go away. “Do you think I need to get some therapy or something?”
Hudson groaned. “I’m no shrink, Boss.”
“Obviously,” Simon said dryly.
“But what I think you really need is to get laid.”
Simon startled. “With Ben?” That seemed terribly wrong while at the same time extremely intriguing.
Hudson shrugged. “Someone, anyhow. And don’t look at me. I’m not volunteering.”
“You’re a lot less help than I hoped you’d be.” That came out snippy but Simon was in a snippy mood. He was either gay or crazy and no one seemed to care.
“Next time you hire a driver,” Hudson said, sounding pretty snippy himself, “require a psychology degree.”
17
Ben Meets Roberta-Not-Bobbi
Sunday, December 17
The downstairs kitchen
The Gold Coast
“I don’t know what Mr. Prince is thinking, bringing someone he doesn’t know to live in this house. Not that you look like you’d say boo to a goose, mind you. But I swear that man has lost his damn mind. Where did he find you, anyway?”
Ben thought the housekeeper, who didn’t like to be called Bobbi so he definitely wasn’t going to call her that, seemed kind but stern. Like she’d bake you cookies but wouldn’t hesitate to smack you upside the head if she thought you needed it. Her skin was light brown and only slightly wrinkled, but her hair, in braids that she had pinned up on her head, was mostly white. Once they had arrived in the kitchen, she had sat Ben down at the table, put two blueberry scones on a plate, then poured him a glass of milk. The scones were delicious, but Ben would’ve eaten anything she’d put in front of him. She didn’t seem like the type of person you’d want to upset.
“I don’t remember exactly what happened, ma’am, but I was out sweeping snow in front of the building I work at and Simon—Mr. Prince—saw me fall over. I guess I fainted. Then he and Mr. Hudson took me to the hospital. Simon—Mr. Prince—stayed with me that night, but I was so out of it I had no idea. The doctor said I had pneumonia, and that’s probably why I’ve been so tired lately, and I needed to take these medications. Which Mr. Hudson got from a pharmacy for me, so I need to pay him back somehow. And then Si—Mr. Prince—said he’d drive me home. Or rather Mr. Hudson would. But my apartment was flooded. The water heater hasn’t been working recently and I guess it fell apart and the water went everywhere, but mostly into my room because the basement tilts that way. And I told them to just go home and I’d be fine, although I’ll admit I was too tired to start cleaning everything up, but Mr. Hudson and Mr. Prince said I couldn’t stay there and then they brought me here. Yesterday night. Si—Mr. Prince told me I could stay in the room on the fourth floor and it really was the nicest bed I’ve ever slept in, and the shower was great. But obviously I can’t stay, although Mr. Prince wasn’t happy when I said that.”
“Uh huh,” the housekeeper who didn’t like to be called Bobbi said. “Child, you call Mr. Prince Simon if that’s what he told you. And it’s not Mr. Hudson.” She snorted. “His last name is some unpronounceable Greek name with about seven syllables in it—I sure as hell can’t say it—so he goes by Hudson.”
“So Hudson’s his first name?”
“Nah. I think it’s Leo. Or maybe Leon. Something like that.”
“Then why Hudson?”
“Beats me. You’d have to ask him. But probably it’s what Mrs. Prince started calling him and it just stuck.”
That was the strangest thing Ben had ever heard, but then he reflected upon the day and decided maybe it was par for the course around here. He was beginning to think rich people were strange. Which, when you thought about it, made a ton of sense.
