Chapter 12
Ben
Half an hour? Oh sure, fine. That gives Ben enough runway to rehearse twelve different apologies, envision three separate federal indictments, and second-guess every career choice he’s made since kindergarten, when he abandoned his life’s first calling: Astronaut who never leaves the planet (space was too scary, but he loved the suit.)
He stares down his reflection in the mirror, telling himself that this is a person about to take back control.
The reflection does not look convinced.
Here, Ben’s anxiety helpfully starwipes to another slide in the ongoing horror-powerpoint entitled ‘Absolute Worst Outcomes of this Meeting’ that’s cycling in his brain: Jackson simply laughs at him and tells him to stop wasting his time.
He’s mid-fantasy about reversing down the block when knuckles rap suddenly against his driver’s side window. Ben flinches hard enough to head-butt the visor.
Window down, cold air in, along with Jackson James: snow-flecked hair, eyes crinkling above a scarf wrapped high against the chill. “Evening. Are you planning on loitering out here all night, or just until someone calls the neighborhood watch?”
“I didn’t realize you were already here. Thanks again for meeting me, Mr. James. And, uh, sorry about the dating app thing. It was kind of a desperation move.”
“‘Desperation move,’ huh?” Jackson repeats with obvious delight. Ben silently blesses the scarf for obscuring Jackson’s too handsome face, even as another, less helpful part of him regrets missing out on seeing that smile in full. “Exactly how every guy dreams of being described.”
Ben’s laugh cracks like ice. “I didn’t mean it like that.
Obviously. I just didn’t really have a lot of options.
Not that you’re a last resort. I just meant you’re.
..special.” He closes his eyes, briefly debating jumping out and running directly into the ocean.
“Specialized! I mean specialized. Your skillset.” His brain is begging his mouth to stop to little avail.
A faint snort escapes Jackson. “Keep digging, Fish Prince. At this rate, we’ll hit bedrock in no time.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been... a lot today. I just meant you’re unattached.
Er, professionally unattached. To Whitaker Seafood.
” He forces himself to slow down. “You’re not connected to any of this and it seemed like yesterday…
that you thought something was wrong. And it is.
Something is very wrong. So I thought...
I don’t know, maybe you were the person that could help.
” He ducks his head, voice quieter now. “But if this was dumb, I get it. I can go.”
Ben braces for rejection.
Instead, Jackson’s posture shifts, some of the sharpness softening. “Hey. I’m not blowing you off, alright?”
And then, almost too casually, just rough enough, Jackson adds, “If anything, Mr. Whitaker, you’ve got my full attention.”
Ben swears the temperature spikes. Jackson’s gaze tracks over him, slow, deliberate, borderline indecent, before landing on the binder in his lap. Ben’s fingers twitch, instinctively drawing it closer.
Jackson gestures toward the bookstore. “Maybe we should take this inside?” he says, low and easy, like it’s just a suggestion and that everything that happens next is in Ben’s hands.
Like the faint possibility, of what, Ben isn’t even sure, doesn’t spark a confusing mix of panic and excitement in his stomach.
Jackson steps back to give Ben room, rubbing his gloved hands briskly. “Before I lose my best typing fingers to frostbite, preferably.”
“Right. Yeah, sorry.” Ben scrambles out of the Jeep, heart thumping so loudly he’s convinced Jackson can hear it.
Outside, the wind stings. Jackson unlocks the narrow side door of Twice Told Tales; a skinny wooden staircase tilts upward, the boards dull and smooth with years of footsteps.
Ben follows Jackson up, feeling the steps groan under his boots. His breath keeps catching, not just from the steepness, but from the way Jackson’s scent keeps drifting back in little waves, all whiskey-warm and woody. Completely unfair.
“Historical building,” Jackson says as he unwinds his scarf. “Watch your—”
Ben’s foot snags on an unexpectedly high riser. Jackson’s hand shoots back, clamping Ben’s elbow, firm and solid and absurdly reassuring for someone who’s been nothing but coolly sarcastic since they’ve met.
“—step,” Jackson finishes mildly, glancing over his shoulder. Behind his glasses, his eyes are amused, catching copper flecks in the light. It’s the kind of detail Ben absolutely should not be cataloguing while his entire professional life is actively imploding.
“Careful,” Jackson adds, deadpan. “We don’t have a lot of staff, so my editor makes me write all the obits. I’d hate to have extra work tomorrow. You already have me up past my bedtime.”
Ben is ninety-nine percent sure his soul has already left his body. “Perfect end to this day: ‘Seafood Heir Plummets to Death in Cursed Stairwell, Incriminating Evidence Clutched in Clammy Hands.’”
Jackson’s grin curls slow and sharp. “A little long. I’d tighten it to: ‘Late Night Visit to Local Reporter Knocks Seafood Heir Off His Feet.’”
Ben makes a sound he doesn’t mean to make. Not quite a laugh, not quite a gasp. His brain is static. Jackson’s hand is still there, solid and steady, and Ben has the brief, stupid thought that if Jackson lets go, he might actually fall for real.
And then he does. Let go, that is.
Ben resists the urge to grab him back.
“Come on,” Jackson says, already climbing. “It’s just up here.”
He pauses at his apartment door, key halfway to the lock. “Fair warning: I wasn’t expecting company tonight. So if you see socks on the couch, just pretend you didn’t.”
Ben gives a laugh that feels a little too high in his chest. “Trust me, your apartment could literally be on fire and it’d still be more relaxing than my day’s been, Mr. James.”
“Thank God, I was worried I’d have to pretend to be respectable.” Jackson turns the key. “I know I technically have two first names, but you can use the actual one.”
“Oh sure. I can do that. Jackson.”
“Thanks Ben. Ben is okay right? I assume you at least prefer it to Fish Prince?”
“Ben’s perfect,” he blurts before he can stop himself. “The name, I mean. Not…uh….” He winces inwardly. For once in your life, Ben Whitaker, please just shut up.
Jackson’s expression gives nothing away, but when he speaks, his voice is gentler than Ben expects. “Not you?”
“No. God, no.” The words come out unsteady, too fast. Ben clears his throat, but it doesn’t help. “Not right now.” He can hear the raw emotion in his own voice.
He doesn’t know how Jackson seems to push through every barrier he’s spent his whole life hiding behind like no one else he’s ever met. Somehow, that doesn’t feel abjectly terrifying.
It almost feels like relief.
“But I think this will make it better. The, uh, documents, I mean. Looking at them. With you. I mean, because of your perspective.”
“Right.” Jackson’s mouth twitches, but there’s something soft behind it. He holds open the door, light from inside spilling across the hallway. “You ready?”
Ready? Not even close. Ben’s one intrusive thought from a full-blown panic attack and two feet from the most distracting jawline in the continental United States.
But every other door is closed.
And this one, Jackson’s, feels warm. Open.
Ben swallows, nods once, and steps through.