Bree
Which, frankly, would lead to me stealing Benny’s truck and finding somewhere else to hide. I can’t have a criminal record, and I don’t want to leave. Getting here was exhausting. I want to stay at least a little longer.
Not a do-gooder, then. The ex-boyfriend himself.
“Watch out for my hydrangeas,” he says, slinging his leg over the bike.
Wayfarer shades hide his eyes. He lifts the helmet from his head, revealing disheveled, dark hair that I’d really like to run my fingers through.
Benny’s completely dressed, covered from head to toe in jeans and a black jacket, but this is still the most mouth-drying image I’ve seen in years.
Benny doesn’t just look hot. The guy is on fire, melting the ground at his feet.
He could be on the set of Maverick right now, rolling up to the airplane, about to effortlessly soar through the air and do some practice spins before he takes off his shirt and plays volleyball on the beach, glistening with sweat.
I realize those things aren’t necessarily sequential, but in the fantasy playing out in my head—thanks, undoubtedly, to the movie I watched on the plane yesterday—this is how it goes.
His leather jacket is the right kind of snug, his jeans fit flawlessly, and even his boots kick my heart rate up a notch.
If I slick my hair into a high pony and find a poodle skirt, would he roleplay some Grease with me?
What is it about manly footwear that makes a guy look so capable?
Something about the outfit paired with the lack of a metal car frame on his ride preheats my internal oven and sends me into a feral version of myself. There must be a scientific explanation.
Now, where can I get my hands on a poodle skirt?
Benny sets his helmet on his seat, and my breath catches.
I’m not kidding. It is, admittedly, pathetic.
“I’ve been babying those plants,” he says, nodding to my feet.
It takes me a second to realize he’s pointing to the flower bed I’m standing in—where I’m currently stepping on a branch of what is possibly a hydrangea.
So Benny is a gardener now, too. Interesting.
“Sorry!” I squeal, carefully stepping out of his flowerbeds. “Your truck was in the driveway, so…”
The words dangle between us. So what? So I’m going to admit I was sleuthing around his house, trying to spot him so I could find out if he was avoiding me? That I guessed he didn’t answer the door because he didn’t want to face me again?
It’s not outlandish to assume he wants nothing to do with me.
Benny dropped off the edge of the planet when we were teenagers.
He dealt with some mental health difficulties related to being in the spotlight, so I understood why he broke up with me and retreated.
You only have to watch a guy go through one panic attack to understand the depth of difficulty they provide.
It doesn’t change the fact that he chose solitude over me when we were kids, and probably correlates me with losing any sense of peace.
Despite the media’s efforts to drag him back into the spotlight, not once did he come close to succumbing.
If he wanted to see me, he could have. Benny doesn’t want anything to do with the life we shared in our formative teenage years.
His band did a reunion performance at the Grammys last year and he didn’t even respond to requests to join them.
He’s watching me expectantly. But I’m not actually crazy. I wasn’t trying to see him this morning. Heat burns up my cheeks, and I blurt, “My phone!”
Benny starts toward me, a brown paper bag dangling from his hand, then pauses as my word registers. One dark eyebrow slides up his forehead.
“I can’t find it,” I admit. “I had it last night when I was breaking into your house, and this morning when I woke up, it was gone. It must’ve dropped somewhere between our houses. But it’s not in your flowerbeds, or the hedges by your back windows, so…”
I let the sentence trail off, hoping he understands that there’s a valid reason for me being a peeping Tom. I glance across the street at the house directly across from us. It looks quiet, but that doesn’t mean some old lady in an apron hasn’t already sent the authorities my way.
“I didn’t see it this morning,” he says. “But come in, and we can look around.”
Benny keys his code into the door and holds it open for me.
I kick off my mud-caked shoes before stepping inside.
A clean scent hits my nose. I don’t remember noticing it last night.
It’s not identifiable, but it’s the smell of a house that is both regularly cleaned and aired out.
This man likes to keep his windows open. I would put money on it.
I think this is what those fragrance companies are going for when they come up with scents like Sea Breeze and Fresh Cotton Laundry.
Benny sets the paper bag on the kitchen counter, a Wild Flour logo stamped across the front.
“Smoothie?” His hair is still disheveled from the helmet. If he was most other people, I would reach over and fix it without a second thought. But a little red flag pops up in my head, accompanied by a siren, and those warnings keep my hand at my side.
The impulse is strong, though, and proves how nervous I am around him. Which is weird and not at all like me. I can’t even remember the last time a guy made me nervous. Was it…actually, it was probably Benny.
Who is still watching me, waiting for a response. Sheesh, he’s going to think I’ve lost all ability for both rational thought and capable conversation. “I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s a green smoothie,” he explains, unfazed.
“High in protein.” A small, itty bitty part of me wonders why he’s stretching out this moment, inviting me to remain.
Is he as curious about me as I am about him?
We didn’t leave things in a terrible place, but this guy broke my heart.
I might have burned a few photos and love notes shortly after he ended things.
Okay, there was an entire bonfire. The cops might have been called. But usually that’s allowed at the beach.
“Sure,” I say. Honestly, I don’t want to leave his house yet, either.
Benny pulls spinach and pineapple chunks out of the fridge, lining them up next to his blender.
I swallow and move toward the back window, or what I’d like to call my graceful entrance point from last night.
I drop onto my hands and knees as the blender whirs behind me, but the phone isn’t here.
Sliding my fingers under the decorative cabinet that holds my favorite little sea lion sculpture, my fingers connect with something solid.
“Found it!” I announce, pulling my phone out and hopping to my feet.
It’s still set to Do Not Disturb, and the battery is red now, so it’s going to die any moment.
As soon as I swipe my thumb up the screen, my chest goes cold at the sheer number of notifications lining the background picture of my adorable little Pomeranian, Peanut.
My family’s names are punctuated by my agent, label rep, friends, and more names than I can comprehend dealing with right now.
I turn my phone upside down on the kitchen counter.
“Scone?” Benny offers, pulling out two small plates and a stack of napkins. He’s poured the green drink into two glasses and put one in front of me.
First the smoothie and now food. Is he…trying to feed me?
“I don’t want to take your breakfast,” I say.
“No worries. I have, like, eight in here.” He taps the Wild Flour bag. His lips tip into a soft smile, and something pulses through me like one of those shockwaves after a bomb goes off.
It only takes a second for me to realize that I probably should have dressed better before showing up on his porch for my phone hunt, but I had panicked about my only way to keep tabs on the world being gone and started searching for it in a frenzy.
I might still be wearing what I slept in: leggings and an oversized T-shirt that falls halfway down my thighs.
The shirt is so worn and thin it’s practically see-through.
But it’s my comfort outfit—the buttery-soft fabric made even softer from years of use.
I should have thrown it away ages ago. It’s nothing like the clothes that line my multiple closets back home, but this was supposed to be my escape. My hideaway. My chance not to have to impress anyone for four weeks.
I didn’t even bring my dog.
Probably a good thing. That bougie little lady would have judged my outfit and the way I’m hanging around my ex-boyfriend in my pajamas.
Benny glances at the clock. “I need to make a phone call, but help yourself to the scones, and there is fruit in the bowl over there.” He picks up his protein smoothie and walks out of the room, sliding his leather jacket from one very broad shoulder as he goes.
What am I doing here?
I take a sip and sigh. It’s amazing. Tugging the bakery bag closer, I’m faintly aware of Benny’s deep voice rumbling on the other side of the wall.
The man has eight scones. I don’t feel too bad taking one. But then I think…eight? No man buys eight fresh scones for himself. Is he having people over? Did he buy these for me? I peek in the bag and notice they all look a little different.
“No. Don’t do that, Bree. Not everything is about you.”
“Are you talking to yourself?” Benny asks, coming into the kitchen and reaching over me for a scone.
“Yes.” I’m not going to lie. I do it all the time. Just, you know, usually when I’m alone. “Good phone call?”
“Work meeting thing,” he says.
Ah. The scones make sense now. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed he wasn’t thinking of me when he took his bike out this morning. Of course he has a work meeting. Of course his life involves people.
Hold on. Work meeting? Here?
“Don’t you live in Montana?” I glance around, noting the lack of sweet old women. “Where’s your grandma?”
Benny pinches off a bite of the scone and pops it in his mouth. “I live here now.”
“What about your ranch?” And, again, the whole grandma thing.