Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ben
T he car ride was strangely tense. I wasn’t sure why, other than maybe Nikki’s suggestion had upset Whit.
“Hey, should we talk about what Nikki said?” I kept my eyes on the road ahead.
“Sure. What, exactly?”
She sounded casual, but she wasn’t feeling it. Nothing about her posture relayed the calm she sometimes had. Nothing had felt easy between us since Nikki’d spoken.
“Maybe we should discuss what you’re comfortable with. I don’t want you to be worried.”
I opened and closed my hands around the steering wheel, wishing I’d waited to talk about this when we were sitting down and I could pay close attention to her body language, her face. But then, we wouldn’t have privacy, so it was now or never .
She remained quiet—so quiet, it made me nervous, except I had nothing to be nervous about. This was her show.
I pulled into a spot a few blocks from Robbie’s Kitchen. The November day was chilly but nice, the sun still working its way down so the sky was light. I kept the car running so we’d have the heat, but put the truck in park, unbuckled my seatbelt, and turned to her.
She did the same, though she bit her lip as if worried about something.
“I saw Jamie last week. Unexpectedly, but I’m sure there are photos. I think Nikki wants us to compensate for that, despite the fact that I was surrounded by about six other people during the encounter.”
Ah . Okay. I could handle this.
“So, we’ll compensate. We were always going to need to appear together—that’s why we’ve made a point to hold hands. We’ll just up our game. If people are going to make something out of every time you’re seen with a man, it’s going to be a long road, I’m guessing. So let’s firmly establish you and me as a thing, and make sure everyone knows we’re both really happy about it, and then people can shut up about you and Jamie, or anyone else.”
Her eyebrows rose, and she chuckled. “Oh, that’s all I need to do? Sounds easy.”
She was mocking me, but I’d just made a complex situation seem simplistic, so I supposed I deserved it.
“I just mean, don’t stress it. We talked about this from the beginning. Plus it’s not like it’s a hardship to touch you, Whit. It’s felt pretty natural thus far, at least for me…”
“Me too,” she added quietly.
Something in my chest swirled, expanded, warmed. “Good. Let’s go eat.”
Whit
Ben pulled me close so I was tucked into his side, his hand on my upper arm as we walked the few blocks to the restaurant. It wasn’t quite winter yet, but late November in Nashville could be surprisingly chilly. I almost never wore enough clothing to stay warm outside, and tonight was no exception. My faux-suede jacket was warm and comfortable, but the chilly breeze cut right through it. Being held against Ben’s big body helped immensely.
But I couldn’t shake the worry. Ben’s closeness registered in a new way—in a very aware, uncomfortable way.
Uncomfortable in that I liked it. I liked it a lot, wanted more of it, more of him, and more time for us to be together. When Nikki suggested he be more demonstrative, or both of us, a thrill of excitement had gone through me, and then the reflex against that.
I didn’t want to have this kind of relationship. I wanted something clean cut and contractual—not messy with feelings , or swirling with heat and chemistry. That was all fine, but I didn’t have time or energy for it.
I didn’t want it.
But as the wind stung my cheeks and I tucked my head down and toward his chest, my heart was beating harder than it should have been considering our pace. It churned because of him .
They seated us right away at a two-person booth. It would have been ideal to be seated at one of the long communal tables in the middle, but I couldn’t summon regret, or the words to request we be moved. It wouldn’t make sense, anyway. If we were really dating, we’d want some privacy.
We ordered—him brisket with three sides that would no doubt be mind-blowing, and me, grilled chicken over a salad, hold the candied pecans, dressing on the side.
Ben was eyeing me when I closed my menu and set it down.
“Do you like barbecue?”
“I love it.” No question.
“But you ordered grilled chicken on a salad.” A frown created brackets around his mouth. He seemed sad for me, regretful.
I reached across the table for his hand that rested there and hid my amusement at his expression. I laced our fingers together and shoved away the flutter in my belly at the contact. “Ben, honey, you’ve seen my body, right?”
His brows popped, and he looked side to side. “Uh… I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that.”
His cheeks pinked, and I had to bite my lip not to laugh.
“What I mean is, I can’t look like this and eat barbecue on a regular basis. I can’t look like this and eat much of anything but lean meat and vegetables.” I tightened my grip on his hand, then pulled my hand back.
He stared at his hand a moment, digesting my words. When he looked up, his brow was furrowed. “Does that make you happy?”
“Does eating salad make me happy?”
“No, does looking that way make you happy? I assume the eating is a means to the physical appearance as an end.”
His voice held an edge to it, but I couldn’t tell what it was. A surge of annoyance that he was questioning my food choices, like he had any idea of the pressure I faced, stole my focus .
“Happy? That has nothing to do with it. It gets me publicity, helps me feel confident… plus you have no idea what it’s like to be anything less than super fit in this world.” I sat straight and watched him.
The waiter came and delivered our food—Ben’s looked predictably amazing, and mine looked like a salad with grilled chicken and exactly zero adornments.
We both dug into our meals, him sawing a piece of brisket with the side of his fork, then wolfing down half the meat, homemade mac n’ cheese, coleslaw, and cornbread before he looked back at me.
“I’m not judging you. Or, I’m not trying to. It just seems silly to me. You are obviously extremely fit, but if you have to be so regimented to look that way, I’m not convinced it’s worth it unless you’re one of those eat-to-live people. Are you?”
He was concerned. In an alternate universe where this wasn’t my life, it would be sweet. But his calling into question my food—really, my way of life, and his pressing on this subject I’d made peace with and accepted because I’d had to—was wearing thin.
I chewed a bite of my food and swallowed before responding. “No. I’m definitely a live-to-eat person. So it’s not easy for me, but now that I’ve been doing this a few years, I feel all right about it. I’ve gotten used to it.”
He watched me as I took another bite, not refilling his fork for himself. “You know you’re beautiful, right?”
Where did that come from?
“Yes…”
“And you know that your body looking like it does, while it’s… great… doesn’t make you any more or less beautiful?” His voice was gentle, but his words were harsh.
Of course I knew that, but hearing Ben Holder say it like it was something I needed to hear—like maybe I’d lost sight of the reality that beauty was more than physical—made my pulse throb at my temple. He had no idea what it was like to be me.
I must have physically blanched. “I’m sorry to tell you, but that’s just not true.”
The look he gave me was a confusing mix of pity and determination.
“It’s true. I know you live in a world that suggests that for you to be considered pretty and successful, you’ve got to wear certain clothes and have a certain body fat percentage or whatever, but I can tell you that you will be beautiful no matter what you do. Your songs, your talent, your kindness—though you couch it in self-motivation—those things are your beauty. The outside is magnificent, but it’s all of you that creates the beauty.”
No one spoke to me that way. No one was that earnest and sweet and humiliating. Cheeks flaming, the brutal mix of embarrassment, anger, and pleasure swirled in my belly.
“I’m not trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about—I’ve probably just mansplained this and infuriated you, and rightfully so. I’m messing it up. I guess I just want it noted in the official records that if you started eating barbecue and happened to also pack on a few pounds, I’d still think you were inordinately gorgeous.”
His blue eyes pinned me in place, his left cheek curved with the half-smile on his face.
Oh my .
I took a drink of water, then forced an easy smile. “So noted.”
We turned our attention to our meals. I thought we might go on like that indefinitely until his hand slid into my view next to my plate. His long legs bracketed mine under the small table, but I’d put that out of my head until now, when I felt his knees leaning inward against my legs.
I looked up to find him with an indecipherable expression on his face.
“We’re getting some attention—take my hand.”
I set my hand in his immediately, and his fingers curled around and stroked my wrist.
“Do you want a bite of macaroni and cheese? It’s basically the best thing you can put in your mouth.”
I let out a laugh and acquiesced with a nod. He speared a small cheesy noodle with the fork in his other hand and held it out to me. I leaned up off the booth and took it in my mouth, the creamy, rich flavor immediately flooding every taste bud as I slumped back in my seat.
I closed my eyes and refused myself the audible moan that threatened to escape. When my eyes blinked open, Ben was watching with a grin.
“Good?”
“So, so good. I don’t remember the last time I had pasta. Or cheese. Let alone mac and cheese.”
“Woman. That’s no way to live,” he said lightly, but I could see he was still concerned for me. “I guess it’s safe to say you don’t want dessert?”
“Not tonight, thanks.”
He signaled the waiter, who brought the check quickly. Ben paid, despite my insistence that I should.
“The deal was, I pay.”
“That’s sweet. But it’s not going to happen every time. Let me have this one.”
He leaned forward and tucked his wallet into his back pocket, then stood and offered me a hand. I took it and held on as he led the way through the restaurant, feeling eyes on us as we moved past the three large communal tables and out the door.
He walked to the next building and pulled me to the side, then nudged me so I turned and backed up a step until he had me leaning against the brick wall. The large windows that made up the front of Robbie’s Kitchen were inches from us, and plenty of people sitting in the front-most bistro tables would be able to see me if they were looking.
“What’re you doing?” I said quietly so none of the crowd standing in line outside the über-popular restaurant could hear.
Something flashed in his eyes. He stepped close, put one hand on my waist, and the other rested lightly on my opposite shoulder. He leaned in so his lips just barely grazed my ear. Despite the street noise of cars, the loud chatter of the crowd waiting to get inside, all I heard was Ben’s voice.
“I’m making sure it’s clear we’re not cousins. Because if we’d been on a date and I’d been staring at you for an hour, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from kissing you. But I also wouldn’t want our first kiss to be on a street corner in front of a crowd, so I’m going to kiss your cheek, and then we’ll walk back to the truck. Okay?”
He pulled back and surveyed my face.
I nodded, barely able to breathe. Other than the hug, this was the closest we’d been. This was absolutely the first time I’d gotten a real sense of how sensual he could be, and it sent my pulse racing. He kept his eyes on mine, brought his hands to either side of my head and held me there, his hands wrapping around the back of my head and sifting into my hair, his thumbs at the sides of my face.
He moved slowly then, just like my heart and mind, because they’d slowed down to a hollow, distant drum beat as his warm lips pressed into the space just at the corner of my mouth, lingered there, and pulled back.
A flash went off, and then he pulled back completely, grabbed my hand, and we walked back to his truck.