Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Avril
Is it weird that I’ve been missing Ben this evening? I already knew that we weren’t going to see each other tonight, that’s why I have to stay next weekend, but I just didn’t expect to wish he were here.
Am I crazy?
But after this week is up and he’s helped me with the Boston hotel, maybe…we could go to dinner or something?
No, he probably has a rule about that too. Things have got to stay completely professional. Forever. Which is absolutely fine. Not a problem.
It’s eleven when I hear Ben come back.
I should be in bed. There’s no reason for me to be up, on the sofa reading my Kindle. No reason at all, except that I suspect Ben might be in a tux tonight and…well, I’m a woman. And human. Ben in a tux is just too big a temptation to resist.
“Hey,” I say as he walks into the living area.
He’s very definitely wearing a tux. And it looks…
incredible on him. The suit fits him like a glove, framing his broad shoulders perfectly, making him look like James Bond but hotter.
His bowtie is untied and hangs either side of his shirt collar, the top button undone. But he looks tired. “You okay?”
He sighs. “I didn’t expect you to be up.”
I hold up my Kindle. “I’m at a crucial moment in the book. I can’t put it down.”
He raises his eyebrows slightly, like he’s trying to be interested, but he can’t manage it.
“Can I get you some food? A glass of water? Wine?” Even to my own ears, I sound pathetic. I’m so desperate for a few moments with him that I’m happy to become his unpaid maid for a little while.
He forces a smile. “Thanks. I just need a shower and…” He glances over to the kitchen. “I might get some food after.”
I give him a small smile, and he heads into the bedroom.
I leap to my feet and head to the kitchen. The man likes an omelet, right? And I’m just being a good roommate by making him a snack. I’m up and awake. It’s not like it’s a big deal.
His kitchen is easy to navigate, and helpfully, I’ve watched him make an omelet before, so I find everything easily.
As I work, twinges of memories come back from the first night I was in this kitchen.
I’d been so frustrated at Ben’s focus on the food over me, I’d almost left.
I thought at one point that he might have some kind of erectile dysfunction that he didn’t want discovered and making eggs was a way of diverting my attention away from the sex we were supposed to be having.
But I needn’t have worried. Ben very definitely doesn’t have erectile dysfunction. The omelet had been foreplay. Or if not foreplay, Ben’s way of teasing me, of making me wait.
Or maybe the guy had just been hungry.
The omelet doesn’t take long. I take a look in the fridge to see if there’s anything I can add—a salad or some asparagus or something. But I don’t want to look like I’ve gone to too much effort. He might think I’ve turned into some kind of crazy trad wife or something.
I take a fork and scoop up the plate and head back into the living area.
I set the plate on the dining table after I find a mat.
Then I realize, he’ll definitely need a drink.
I head back into the refrigerator and pour a glass of milk.
I consider warming it and then I tell myself not to be a try hard.
I come back into the living room with the drink and then wonder if I have, in fact, turned into a complete psycho.
I’m just about to grab the plate and dump the eggs in the trash when Ben appears wearing nothing but boxers, his hair damp from the shower.
My heart leaps in my chest like it’s trying to leave my body and check his out more closely.
When he sees me at the dining table, his mouth curves into a smile. “Did you make me an omelet?”
I shrug. “It won’t be as good as yours, but…”
He comes toward me, and my pulse trips under my skin as if he might kiss me. And of course he’s not going to kiss me, he’s just coming to get his omelet. But if he was about to kiss me, I’m not sure I’d be unhappy about it.
Scratch that. Of course, I’d be unhappy about it. He’d have won, it would be proof we couldn’t keep it professional, and he wouldn’t help me with the Boston hotel. Boston is my priority, not kissing Ben. Again.
Absolutely not.
He slides into the chair in front of where I’ve set down the omelet. “You must really want my help, right?”
His comment throws me off for a second. “What?”
He nods toward his plate and picks up his fork. “If you’re cooking me omelets at this time of night, you must really want my help.”
“The omelet’s not a bribe. It’s food. You looked kinda sad when you came in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that. I was trying to cheer you up.”
He holds my gaze for a second, as if what I’m saying is soaking into his brain. He doesn’t say anything. He turns back to his plate. “Okay, so let’s see how this omelet is.”
He cuts a mouthful with his fork and I watch as he lifts it. I look away, catching myself focusing on his full lips, his sharp jaw, the tendons in his neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
He nods. “It’s good,” he says. “Perfect amount of cheese.”
I try not to smile at his compliment. It’s a goddamn omelet, I didn’t serve up a ten-course banquet, but it feels good that he approves.
“You have more practice at omelets than me.”
“It’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”
I roll my eyes, because I don’t appreciate the sarcasm when I’m actually being genuine.
He reaches out, grabs my wrist, and pulls me down on the chair kitty corner to his. “I’m serious. I’m not sure I can remember anyone apart from my parents cooking for me without me paying a check at the end of the night.”
“Probably because you’re the one who likes to cook.”
“For myself,” he says.
“You don’t cook for other people?”
He pulls in a breath. “Not really.” He takes another bite of omelet, and I try not to watch him, but it’s difficult because all I want to do is look at him.
“You cooked for me.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just takes another bite of omelet.
“I’m sure that’s all part of your seduction routine,” I say. “Make the girl an omelet…”
He chuckles. “You think that an omelet would improve my hit rate?”
I shrug. “Worked on me.”
He grins and takes another mouthful of omelet.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I deliberately don’t look at him as he works his way through his eggs. When he’s finished, he takes his glass of milk and drinks it all down.
“I told you, I’ve never brought a woman here before. Never cooked for a woman. Not before you.”
I know it’s not meant to be a compliment. It’s meant to simply inform—be factual. But a warm ember of comfort lights deep inside me.
“That’s hard to believe,” I say. “You’re a mean omelet maker.”
He chuckles. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Coming from you, I’ll take it. So how was tonight? I take it the food wasn’t good.” I glance down at his clean plate.
“I rarely eat at these things. It’s work, so I’m never focused on the food.”
“Where did you go?”
“An awards ceremony for design and architecture,” he says.
“Really? And that was work?”
He shrugs.
“And you didn’t enjoy it?”
He pulls in a breath, slowly, like he’s really trying to think about my question. “I don’t think I did.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I spoke to the two people there I needed to speak to. One of them was sitting next to me. I accomplished my goal for the evening. So it was a successful night.”
He doesn’t finish his thought. “But…” I prompt him.
“But…I don’t care as much as I usually do.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I’m not sure what I mean. Maybe I don’t mean anything at all.” He’s talking in riddles, but I can’t help but think he’s got something he wants to say. Otherwise, knowing what I know of Ben, he wouldn’t say anything. He’d make some glib statement and that would be the end of the conversation.
“Why don’t you care as much as you usually do? Because you’re not into the project you’re working on?”
His knee begins to bounce. “One was connected to a live deal. The other was just renewing a connection I hadn’t seen for a while.
And I saw a few other people and was able to catch up.
It was a really good evening from a professional perspective.
” He sounds frustrated, like maybe he doesn’t even know what’s bothering him.
“A couple of years ago, I would have come home after a night like tonight and been bouncing off the walls, dopamine whirling through my body like a twister…or maybe I wouldn’t have come home at all.”
Suddenly I feel awkward. “Maybe it’s because I’m here in your space.” I shift my chair back, ready to head back to my bedroom, but before I can stand, he reaches under my chair and pulls it back toward the table. “I guess I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “This started before you moved in. I’m just not getting the same sense of satisfaction from my work.” He clamps his mouth shut like he can’t quite believe what he’s just said.
“That happens to us all.” I try to sound reassuring. I’m not quite sure how I can make this better. “No one can enjoy their job all the time. Most people never enjoy their job.”
“But that wasn’t ever me. I was always focused on my long-term goal.”
“Which was…?”
“Making myself indispensable to people. Being able to call in favors from anyone in New York.”
That’s an audacious goal. “And you’ve achieved that. You know everyone there is to know in New York. Well, not just New York…that’s why I’m here.”
“Right,” he says, but I can tell I haven’t helped.
“Maybe you need to set yourself a new goal. Athletes set themselves a goal, a personal best, and then when they reach that goal, they set another one. Maybe your problem is you’re focused on a goal you’ve already achieved. You probably just need something more.”
“I don’t need anything.” He glances around his apartment. “I have my money spread across various investments in all kinds of sectors, across the globe. I know I won’t be dependent on anyone for anything in my life. Nothing can break me now.”
A rush of sympathy courses through me and his words echo in my head.
Nothing can break me now.
I long to slide onto his lap and wrap my arms around the frightened little boy I can see in Ben’s expression. He’s witnessed broken. He’s lived broken, and he’s been running from it ever since. “You can stop running now,” I say softly.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re out of danger,” I add. “There’s nothing chasing you anymore.” I think of my brother and wonder if he ever felt the same way. I’m so glad he found Sophia when he did. It gave him someone to pour his love and energy into.
“I know,” he says, almost shrugging off what I’m saying to him. But we’re past the point of pretending now.
“You can rest,” I say.
“I don’t want to rest.”
“Then you need a new goal. Something different to strive for.”
“That’s the answer, is it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“What is it that you want most of all now?”
He grins. “Other than another omelet?”
I shake my head and laugh. “You can’t still be hungry.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe that is the problem. I’m not hungry anymore.” His expression is puzzled. “But I don’t know where I’d start trying to find my appetite.”
“Restaurants?” I ask.
He chuckles. “You think I just need to keep eating and I’ll find my appetite? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m not saying eat. I’m saying cook. Or invest. Or something. You seem to have a real connection with food and making food for people.”
He looks at me, a sense of vulnerability in his gaze, and I’m expecting him to say something more. But he blinks and it’s like windshield wipers clearing away whatever was there, his expression is back to the Ben I met that first night at Aurora and Deacon’s engagement party.
“Maybe I should launch an online course and teach people how to make omelets.” He stands and picks up his plate. This conversation is over before it’s finished. Ben has shut down.
I watch him disappear into the kitchen, but just before I’m about to head to bed, he reappears from the kitchen carrying a tray with two glasses of milk and a packet of cookies. “More Housewives?” he asks.
I’m not sure I’ll get a better suggestion in this lifetime.