Chapter 8 Ben
Ben
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being strategic.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, watching the snow start to fall outside my cabin window. “There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not.” Bea’s voice is sharp with the particular brand of sisterly exasperation she’s perfected over twenty-two years. “Tessa Lang has asked you a dozen times. At least. At this point you’re not being strategic, you’re being a coward.”
“Fourteen, but who’s counting. And I prefer the term ‘tactically evasive.’“
“I prefer the term ‘emotionally constipated.’“
“Wow. That’s hurtful.”
“It’s accurate.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. “What is your problem? It’s a bachelor auction. You stand on a stage, smile pretty, let some nice lady bid on you for a date. It’s not a lifetime commitment.”
That’s exactly the problem, but I’m not about to tell her that.
“Maybe I don’t want to be paraded around like a prize pig at the county fair.”
“You literally competed in a hot dog eating contest last Fourth of July. In front of the entire town. You had mustard on your face for three hours.”
“That was different. That was for charity.”
“This IS for charity!”
“Benjamin, just say yes to the poor girl!” Mom’s voice echoes from somewhere behind Bea, and I groan.
“Are you at Mom and Dad’s? Did you call me just so the whole family could gang up on me?”
“I called you because you’re being an idiot and someone needs to tell you.” Bea’s clearly enjoying herself now. “Mom just happens to agree with me.”
“We all agree with her!” Papa calls from what sounds like the kitchen. “Your avoidance tactics are transparent and frankly beneath you!”
“Thanks, Papa. Love the support.”
“You’re welcome! Now stop running from that lovely event planner!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is what I get for having a close family. Zero privacy and constant unsolicited opinions about my love life.
“I’m not running from anyone.”
“You literally ran out the back door of Millie’s Diner last week when you saw her coming.” Bea’s voice is gleeful now. “River told me. Said you knocked over a busboy.”
“I did not knock him over. He stumbled. There’s a difference.”
“Ben.” Her voice softens slightly, which is somehow worse than the teasing. “What’s going on? Really? Because this isn’t like you. You’re usually the first one to sign up for stuff like this.”
I watch the snow fall, fat flakes drifting down and starting to stick to the ground. Milo and Elijah should be here any minute with the chairs Elijah made for my table.
“I just don’t want to do it,” I say finally. “Can’t that be enough?”
“No. Because your voice is doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you’re lying and you know you’re lying but you’re going to keep lying anyway.”
Damn. She got that line from me.
“Look, I gotta go. Milo’s bringing my chairs—”
“This isn’t over, Benjamin Wilson.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Beatrice.”
“I hate when you call me that.”
“I know. Love you, bye!”
I hang up before she can get another word in and toss my phone on the couch. Through the window, I can see Elijah’s truck turning onto my road, Milo’s right behind him.
Good timing. I was running out of deflection tactics.
The snow is coming down harder by the time we get the first two chairs off the truck.
“You sure this is all going to fit?” Milo eyes my cabin with obvious skepticism. “This place is basically a shoebox with plumbing.”
“It’s cozy. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room. Everything a man needs.”
“It’s tiny.”
“It’s mine.” I grab another chair, the wood smooth under my hands. Elijah does beautiful work. “And it fits my table perfectly, so stop complaining and keep lifting.”
“I’m just saying.” Milo hoists the fourth chair with ease, because of course he does. The man tends bar for a living and somehow has arms like a lumberjack. “When you eventually settle down and start a pack, you’re going to need more space.”
“Good thing I’m not planning to settle down anytime soon.”
“Uh-huh.” Milo’s grin says he doesn’t believe me for a second.
Elijah hasn’t said much, just quietly helped us unload with that steady efficiency he brings to everything. The guy could probably build an entire house without speaking more than ten words. After the chairs are in, he goes back to his truck and pulls out something wrapped in a moving blanket.
The nesting bench I commissioned three months ago. Before I even bought this place. Back when I was still living with my parents and telling myself I wasn’t thinking about settling down.
“Spare room?” Elijah asks.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He disappears down the hall without another word. Milo watches him go, then turns to me with raised eyebrows.
“A nesting bench, huh? For the guy who’s not planning to settle down anytime soon?”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking a lot of things.” His grin is insufferable. “Mostly about how full of shit you are.”
We get all four chairs arranged around my table and I step back to admire them. They look good. The whole place is starting to feel like a real home.
I toss another log into the fireplace. The fire crackles and pops, throwing warmth into the room. One of the best things about this cabin—the stone fireplace that heats the whole main room.
Outside, the wind picks up, sending snow swirling across my small porch. I shake the flakes out of my hair—still wet from unloading the trucks—and realize, not for the first time today, that I don’t have a jacket.
Because Tessa still has it. Has had it for over a week now.
Along with my favorite flannel.
And she hasn’t given them back.
I’ve thought about that more than I should. About her wrapped up in my clothes, surrounded by my scent. About whether she’s washed them yet or if she’s been wearing them around her apartment.
That thought leads to other thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts about Tessa Lang in nothing but my flannel, her bare legs curled up on her couch, my scent all over her skin—
I wonder if she sleeps in it. If she pulls it tight around herself at night like she did in my garage, trying to burrow into the warmth. And that look when I wrapped it around her shoulders—eyes wide, lips parted—like she was surprised anyone would take care of her.
That look. That’s the one that got me. Not the arguing or the clipboard or the way she refuses to back down from anything. It was that split second of vulnerability. The crack in her armor.
I’ve been thinking about that crack ever since. Wondering what else is underneath. Wondering what it would take to get her to let me see.
“You cold?” Milo’s watching me with an expression that’s way too knowing for my comfort. “Where’s your jacket?”
“Lost it.”
“Lost it where?”
“Just... lost it.” I busy myself arranging the chairs around my table, avoiding his eyes. “You want a beer or what?”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“And we just did manual labor. In the snow. Beer is appropriate.”
Elijah’s already settled at the table, running his hands over the wood like he’s checking for imperfections only he can see. The chairs look incredible, I have to admit. Simple, sturdy, with clean lines that match my table perfectly.
“These are beautiful,” I tell him. “Seriously. Thank you.”
He nods, a hint of color on his cheeks. “Glad you like them.”
“Like them? I’m going to show them off to everyone who walks through that door.” I grab three beers from the fridge and pass them out. “Which, granted, isn’t many people. But still.”
Milo takes a long pull of his beer and glances out the window. “Snow’s really coming down now.”
He’s not wrong. What started as light flurries has turned into something more serious. The sky’s gone that particular shade of gray that means business.
“Should clear up in an hour or two,” I say.
Famous last words.
An hour later, we can barely see my truck in the driveway.
“Well.” Milo’s standing at the window, beer in hand, watching the white wall of snow outside. “This is not clearing up.”
I flip on the TV, already knowing what we’re going to find. Sure enough, the local news is running a storm warning across the bottom of the screen.
“—unexpected system moving through the valley. Residents are advised to stay indoors until further notice. Accumulation expected to reach twelve to fifteen inches by morning—”
“Twelve to fifteen inches?” I stare at the screen. “It was supposed to be flurries.”
“Montana weather.” Elijah shrugs like this is perfectly normal, which, to be fair, it kind of is. “Changes fast.”
“Good thing I made you stock up on beer last week.” Milo’s grin is back, completely unbothered by the fact that we’re apparently snowed in. “And food. You do have food, right?”
“I have food.”
“Real food? Not just hot dogs and sadness?”
“I went to the store yesterday, asshole. I’m not completely helpless.”
Milo crosses to my kitchen and opens the fridge. Stares at the contents. Closes the fridge. Opens a cabinet. Turns back to me with a look of genuine surprise.
“Huh. Eggs. Bacon. Bread that isn’t just the end pieces. Actual vegetables.” He opens the freezer. “Steaks. Chicken. Ben Wilson, did you learn how to adult?”
“My mother may have given me a lecture about scurvy.”
“Marie’s a smart woman,” Elijah says. “You should listen to her more.”
“Wow, even you’re turning on me?”
He just shrugs.
“God bless Marie Wilson.” Milo shuts the freezer, satisfied. “Okay, we can survive. I also brought stuff from the bar—was going to make you dinner anyway since you’re letting me store some overflow stock in your shed.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Chili ingredients. Enough to feed an army.” He grins. “Or three alphas stuck in a blizzard.”
“Your chili’s good,” Elijah says. High praise from him.
Milo clutches his chest. “Elijah Smith, was that a compliment? Mark the calendar.”
“Don’t get used to it.”