Chapter 6
SIX
Benny was just going to have to accept the fact that his existence post-viral blog would be a hot one. Cheeks, neck, and ears always nearing the temperature of lava from embarrassment, self-consciousness, or lust.
Yeah.
Lust.
Not so fake beneath the belt thoughts for the bartender he was supposed to be faking it with.
It was like that one kiss from Jack had unlocked something in Benny. A mix of feelings that started building at random around the man. Sometimes they stayed balanced, sometimes they ratcheted up after a casual smirk.
But that was normal, right?
To blush a little and think about kissing a little more often around an attractive man?
Because that's what Jack was.
Sure, he wasn't a Marcus Robertson type of classic, but he was a darker, cockier type of nice. A mmm-mmm good. A rough and tumble character who, sometimes, you couldn't help but think about having a rough tumble in bed with.
Fire, meet my face, body, and soul.
“You ever wonder why someone with this much money would stay in a place like Arbor Bay?”
The Robertson Estate was absurdly opulent compared to the humbler homes in town. The main house was no exception. Jack motioned to it after his question as Benny walked up to his side, hoping the humidity wouldn’t fight his hair product too vigorously.
“A throne is still a throne no matter where it sits,” Benny replied after sweeping his gaze across the wide, three-story structure.
The Robertsons had been in Arbor Bay since its founding in eighteen-something, but the estate's pride and glory manor had been custom built for Missy and Donavon, Marcus and Carol's parents, and had been added on to throughout the years.
“Think HGTV-design show inside and cabin in the woods if you had a million dollars on the outside,” Ethan had told Benny once after he’d been given a tour of the main house a few years before. “Shiplap, statues, and exposed beams everywhere.”
Standing at the crest of the circular drive now, Benny knew it didn’t really matter how the house was described. It would forever be one thing to him.
Intimidating.
He expanded on his theory to Jack.
“Ruling over a small town is better than not ruling at all,” he said.
“That's why I think the Robertsons stay. I mean, this is only the main house. Carol has her own house a golf-cart ride away from here, custom built too and with all the bells and whistles. And then Marcus lives in a house on the bay, supposedly a painting in itself when the sun sets. Why would they give all of this up by leaving?”
Jack didn't argue his point.
He did interject a little sass.
“If we're the ones always calling the Robertsons royalty, then is it our fault when they act like it?”
Benny did a double take at that.
Jack snorted.
“What? You're not the only one who can sound like someone doing some kind of documentary voiceover.”
“I was actually going to say you sound like you’re teeing up to give me a riddle. The ones that are inside candy wrappers. What gets wet the more you dry type of thing.”
Jack did that wink again.
“Bartenders have just as much ability to make you think as you one-hit internet wonders. I can be surprisingly insightful once I actually start to yap.”
Benny had never thought the contrary, but he was realizing he hadn’t exactly thought Jack would hold a conversation if it wasn’t about work.
Or something that truly benefited him. He seemed always on the brink of annoyed.
Even now, Benny worried that the cons might outweigh the pros of their arrangement because it involved a lot more than just yapping.
Which would now officially have consequences Benny didn’t think he could sidestep if everything went off the rails.
That new fear being all thanks to Rizzie, who he’d called back in between getting ready and avoiding Callum.
Who knew that one post from Carol would circulate as fast as it had.
That people would believe her without question.
The picture he posted later of just his and Jack’s hands clasped together—with no caption, even—had been treated almost like an afterthought compared to Carol’s declaration.
Who knew that saying nothing would, once again, result in everyone else talking?
Before Carol had typed it out, Benny had every intention of feeling out the situation to see if there was still a way to tell the literary agent that the internet had gotten it wrong, that Jack wasn't actually Guy. But Rizzie hadn’t left an ounce of space to speak into once he’d answered.
“And it looks like our guy gets the guy in the end!” she’d exclaimed. “What a wild, fantastic ride! People are already loving it.”
After that, Benny had all but leaned into the lie.
Then swan dived off the metaphorical cliff when Rizzie had officially offered to represent him. There was still paperwork to go over and sign but, with one well-placed lie, Benny was staring at the possibility of a future that felt exciting and warm and safe.
All he had to do to keep on the path that led there?
Survive the next three weeks pretending to be in a romantic relationship with one good-looking bartender.
Only in public, he had to remind himself.
That somehow made it more manageable. Survivable.
Benny fisted his hand and pumped it once with enthusiasm.
“Okay, so if we're really going to do this, I think we need to take an official first picture together,” he decided. “I mean, with our faces not just our hands. This would be a perfect place to do it since, well, it looks like we’re on a movie set.”
Jack surprised him with an immediate agreement.
He went from standing a healthy distance away to up close and touching in a flash.
“Let's turn around though so the truck isn’t behind us,” he said. “I don’t mind being judged by a Robertson or whoever but I’m not letting my truck take an online beating. Here, let me do it.”
Jack reached for his phone, opened the app, and had the front-facing camera going like he’d handled Benny’s phone countless times before. Or taken countless pictures of himself before.
Benny saw his own humored expression in the display at the thought.
“Why, Mr. Knox, do you take selfies often?”
Jack rolled his eyes.
“No, but I've seen Santana do it so many times at the bar that I’ve picked it up like second-hand muscle memory.” He outstretched his arm, thumb already hovering over the button to capture their picture. Benny watched his own face turn to disapproval.
“You may know how to work it, but you don't know how to work it.” He swatted at Jack’s hand and moved it upward. “You don’t take pictures of people, you take pictures of angles.”
Jack's brow rose.
Benny adjusted his chin slightly and smiled at the camera.
“Selfies aren't for looking cute. They're a war against double chins. No matter how perfect or imperfect you are, it is a war that never ends.”
“Sounds like you’re putting a lot of pressure on these angles,” Jack muttered.
It was Benny's turn to finally snort.
“Next time you're lounging on the couch, scrolling through your phone, I want you to turn your front-facing camera on without moving. Then you tell me who’s looking back at you. Idris Elba, or some troll under a bridge asking for money?”
“And the goal with this particular picture is Idris Elba,” Jack guessed.
Benny nodded, solemn.
“Attractive and classy, not demanding money in exchange for passage.”
They took the picture without any more directives.
For a moment after, no one said anything.
Then Benny broke the silence with a sigh.
“Not Idris Elba.”
“Not Idris Elba,” Jack agreed.
“We look like we just met each other.”
“Which we did.”
Benny shook his head.
“No, I mean we look like we just bumped into each other two seconds ago and are being forced into a picture already. We need to get more comfy with it.”
Jack held the phone up and, this time, Benny tried a different angle. He turned around to face Jack, cheeks already turning into hot springs.
“Do you mind if I put my arms around you?” He hurried over his words to explain his intent. “We need to look believable or, at least, less artificial than whatever that last picture was. Remember, if my quasi-internet fame works then looking like we belong together could help Cassidy’s Place.”
“So, two trolls trapped under a bridge isn’t the goal.” There was a slight mocking tone to the words, but Jack kept on. “Fine. I formally give you permission to mold me however you want, Internet Boy. I am your clay. Be gentle.”
Benny already expected to feel a hardened body beneath Jack’s clothing—their kiss the day before had definitely made that detail clear—yet that didn't stop the little trill of excitement that boosted his lust level another notch as Benny slid one arm around his waist. That level only rose as he placed his other hand on top of his chest, fanning his fingers out for maximum feel. Benny leaned his head into the facade, resting against Jack’s shoulder like he’d done the move on the daily.
He silently prayed to Idris Elba that the heat in his cheeks wouldn’t catch Jack’s shirt on fire.
Jack, unaware his shirt was currently in danger of combustion, looked amused.
Benny ignored him the best he could.
“Now use your free hand to go around my waist and then smile like you mean it,” he ordered. “Relax, but don’t slouch into it.”
Jack didn’t fuss past that, obliging for a few snaps of the same pose.
They all came out light years better than the first troll-esque abomination.
“The first step of our real-fake relationship has been completed,” Benny approved. “Now let me go ahead and post this before we walk in and I forget that this was an idea I agreed to.”
He took a step back but overcompensated with his awkward speed and stumbled. Jack had to reach out and steady him. However, he didn’t seem to be struggling internally like Benny was.
“Just don’t make the caption super cheesy like ‘Guy? More like fly’ or something like that. I’m already about to endure Carol. I don’t want to give her the weapon of a chant.”