16 BEN
BEN
“Don’t I pay you ungodly amounts of money to be both silent and invisible?” I huff at Nigel. “I can see and somehow hear you staring at me.”
“You’re doing it again, lad. The damn sighing. What’s it this time? She didn’t text you back?” I inhale and turn to tell him to piss right off but he pulls his face long and changes his accent to mimic me, “Piss off, Nigel.”
“I do not sound like that.”
“Aye, a polite, charming, little twat since you were a teenager. Spare us both and say it.”
I look away, uncomfortable, and lie, “I’ve nothing to say.”
I’ve plenty to say.
Mother called, over the moon about Janie. Her voice was more animated than I’ve heard in years. While I love the sound, it gave me a bit of heartburn. What will happen to all that joy when we separate in a year? What if she finds out it’s not even real? What if she…
“Arsehole!” Nigel yells at a semi truck that pulls in front of us and slows down.
I smirk. He’s not used to these interstates with all the eighteen wheelers. Very different from city traffic.
My phone buzzes. Again. Samantha cannot stop texting. Even my grumpy older brother wants to come visit us, the happy newlyweds. It’s hardly been a week and I’m already having to put everyone off.
Meanwhile, my quote-unquote wife barely responds to my texts.
I sent her some photos of the house, claiming they were from the decorator—not about to admit I’d indeed flown back in, signed the papers in person and then sulked on my tour of the big, gorgeous place all by myself—she gave them a thumbs up.
An emoji.
“There it is again. Your sighing is the stuff of Shakespeare.” He leans forward at the wheel. “Take my gun out of the back of my belt and murder me, would you?”
“Then who will drive me around?” I say back.
It’s worth sighing over.
She sent me one singular emoji.
After I not only bought the coolest house in the area, I also had it decorated to suit her the week of closing.
I figured that gal did such a bang up job on her office, why not the home too?
I was right. The house is not new, so it has some charm, but in recent years it was fully renovated inside to maximize the hillside view of Juniper Fall’s one large lake.
Now it’s also fully furnished and the designer made it feel calm but vibey, modern and dark and very… Janie.
But does my bride want to see it, or, I don’t know, stay there and have sheets like butter and a walk-in rain shower with five shower heads? No. Stubborn thing.
After we texted back and forth about our backstory, I guess she was done with me. No other calls or texts until she sent a Google spreadsheet about our fall activities. How romantic.
Not that I need romance. What am I so riled up about? Honestly.
That’s what bothers me the most. That I’m bothered. My life is bliss. Dad’s pleased. The press is buying the story. I’m helping Janie recover financially and she did send me that spreadsheet. She’s keeping up her side of the agreement.
My longtime body man is right. No more of this little bitch business. I sit up straighter in the backseat. It’s almost showtime. Fun with the townsfolk, cutting up for the paps, shameless flirting, this is what I do best. And what I enjoy, too.
Nigel must notice the change in me because he finally stops staring in the rearview.
Or he’s looking at the view as well.
The area around Janie’s tiny hometown is starting to turn into the vivid picturesque fall scene it’s known for. It’s just barely yellow round the edges now but it’ll be a damned advert for a pumpkin spiced life in a week’s time.
That’s before the snow dumps and it turns into the cheery Christmas scene it’s also known for.
I read in some article that popped up on my phone— spying techy wankers —that for holiday towns like this one the town income is below the poverty line nine months out of twelve.
October through December saves it, year after year.
I guess that explains why now, as we reach the edge of the town, there’s suddenly some normal traffic.
“Just pull into town you said?” Nigel asks.
“Yes, she said to meet in the town square at five for the contest.” She didn’t spell out not to come early but I felt it was implied. No surprises. “Anywhere on Juniper Street is fine.”
He nods before turning onto the main thoroughfare street that crosses through town. Not named Main Street, oddly enough. Shops line the sides of the quaint road, many of them vacant until you get further down the street near the square.
Just like something off of television, there’s a big square garden area with grass and a fountain, a gazebo, little twinkle lights criss-crossing…
the whole bit. The side of Harper’s bakery is one of the storefronts on the square, along with the steakhouse, a big grocery and a few more shops that I didn’t catch the names of.
“Contest?” Nigel asks.
“Making scarecrows of course.” He doesn’t say anything in reply but one side of his mouth lifts in a grin. I go on, “We’re grouped up and competing with other groups. I plan to be the spirited cheerleader of our team.”
He snorts before pulling into a parking spot not far from the square. I let myself out and inhale clear, cool air. I can smell a hint of campfire and something spicy too, like they’re making cider nearby. Hell, they probably are.
Nigel walks beside me, scanning around us as we go.
I stopped asking him about threats years ago.
Apparently they’re always there. Creepy letters, DMs, videos, snail mail at Clark HQ in London.
Lots of people claim they want to kill members of one of the world’s richest families.
He could have an entire team of men around us and hopefully, I’ll never know if they’re there, or why.
The handful of paps who must stalk the events website of this town come to life as we draw near to the activity.
I smile and wave to the photographers in a way that says I’m not coming over to chat.
I’m eager to see Janie and just what exactly she’s signed us up for.
I can see banners blowing in the breeze and hear a crowd, music, a hum of excitement. A thrill runs through me to match.
“Benedict!” Janie calls from the farthest corner.
I smile wild involuntarily. There she is, in a spot tucked away from the crowd, looking incredible.
Flowing brown hair, perfect ass and long legs under tight black leggings.
I drag my eyes up away from the body I find myself daydreaming about like a damn teenager.
Her angelic face is frowning, of course, and I notice her whole ensemble is black, head to toe.
Such a New Yorker. Meanwhile her townspeople flit about like social butterflies—the monarch variety, dressed in every shade of yellow and orange and plaid. Quite a bit of flannel.
“Should I buy some flannel?” I think aloud as I finally reach her.
“Flannel? What?” she says. I feel the whole crowd of people, nearly a hundred, watching us.
“Just a joke, love,” I say before gathering her to me.
I think she mumbles some kind of objection into my shoulder but I squeeze her so tight I can’t hear it.
She sighs and I know she’s rolling her eyes into the thick tweed of my coat.
My hand on her lower back itches to head south but, as I’m a gentleman, I refrain.
I smile again and then kiss her head twice.
She smells like…I don’t know? Honeysuckle? Good. Damn. She smells good.
She tries to pull away but I don’t let her. I hear her mumble my name into my coat. I laugh and release her. She’s so easily bothered. She’s so fun to bother.
“Well. That was the longest hug I’ve ever hugged in my life,” she says, patting down her coat like it’s ruffled, even though it’s not.
I lean into her space and enjoy her quick inhale of breath, “Would you rather I have kissed you? Because the whole town is watching intently.”
She glances around, as if remembering our situation, then smiles wide. It’s a hilariously fake smile.
“Relax, darling. As you said, it was history’s longest hug. Convincing enough.”
She shakes her head. “Okay. So. You did read the spreadsheet I sent you, right?” She glances over my shoulder.
“Yes?” I turn to look behind me.
“Okay, here they come.”
“Here who come?”
“The people! The people on the people tab of the spreadsheet I sent!” she’s whisper-yelling now and I’m trying not to find it cute.
“There was a second tab?” I wince.
“Oh no. Just follow my—hiiii Aunt Bobbie, Aunt Kim,” she says, eyeing me as she hugs two short, round, very pale women. They both look about seventy years old. First was Bobbie, second Kim. Got it.
“Ah, the famous Aunts! We finally meet! I’ve heard so much!” I gush as I grab Bobbie’s hand.
“Wish I could say the same. Barbara Ann Crawley,” She says. “But I suppose you can call me Bobbie.”
“And Aunt Kim?” I ask the second.
Janie catches my attention, “He said he understood how I call you all that even though you’re not actually Gran’s sisters, he said it was very British of us.”
“Ah, yes, right, term of respect.” I nod in understanding. “Very British indeed. Old School.”
“That shoe’ll fit,” Aunt Kim replies as she takes my hand. “So, Janie says you swept her off her feet?”
“Other way ‘round, I’m fully swept,” I say with a wink and Aunt Kim blushes.
Old ladies love the wink.
“Hm. We all thought she’d marry Theo,” Aunt Bobbie says, eyes narrowed.
Okay then. Not all old ladies love the wink.
“Auntie! You can’t scare him off. We’re already married,” Janie scolds.
Aunt Bobbie finally moves her keen gaze from me to my wife, but her expression doesn’t soften much. “I can still scare him straight. You’ve been yanked around too many times by—”
“Okay! Well, thanks for coming by, we have a competition to win here, so,” Janie replies.
“Consider me scared,” I say, one hand raised. Aunt Kim softens into a smile. Aunt Bobbie harrumphs. Damn, I’ll have to put in some work there.