When I come back, he’s in my office, standing by my white board, fingers tracing the spines of my books with that slow intentional touch.
I realize he's towering over my shelves, and seeing him standing in the window like that makes something in me reel.
He's in my house. How did that even happen?
If Richard walked in right now, there'd be no excuse good enough to explain this. I mean, what would I even say? It would turn catastrophic.
And yet, I'm obviously not rushing him because I always had a soft spot for Ben Bellini and I doubt that'll ever change.
"100 Love Sonnets,"he reads one of the titles before he turns to me, eyes softening. "This room is entirely you."
I nod with a shameless smile, since I always felt like I was a coffee stain on marble in here. I'm not messy but definitely not organized.
He pauses at the photo of me with Mom in our chalet that sits on my table.
"Is it better with her?" His voice is even, but I can sense the bitter undercurrent.
He knows my full history, every scar, and even though he never said it, I know he can't stand her.
"Yeah," I say. I guess unconvincingly enough that he gives me a skeptical brow, so I smile and try to sound steadier. "Really. She's trying, at least."
"She better be proud of you." His eyes narrow on the photo, as if he's expecting her to come out and nod like a good girl. "She didn't believe in your writing. You proved her wrong. Big time."
I smile. I like it when he acts like my personal knight.
"I don't expect compliments from her. Not now. Not ever."
He drags in a breath and releases it. Bites the inside of his cheek and looks away, probably to hide the eye-roll I know is there.
When he turns back, his chin tilts toward another photo. "Is that Lucy?"
I nod. Second grade, Lu braiding my hair with her colorful shoelaces because I was always on the receiving end of her creativity.
He exhales a short amused laugh through his nose. "She used to hate me."
"She kind of hates everybody," I quip as drift toward my desk. "But yeah, she knew you were an ass to me."
His brows pull tight and he pauses on me before his tone comes out sharper. "And you weren't to me?"
I cross my arms and purse my lips. "You were worse."
He cocks a brow. "How do you quantify that?"
I tick them off on my fingers. "Volume. Intensity. Number of curse words."
He sniffs a laugh, half-amused, half-irritated, and studies me a beat before he says, "What about patience?"
My brows shoot up and I blink at him, incredulous. "You want to talk about patience?"
He opens his mouth, about to say something but I cut him off with my hand and shake it off, including that fury that lodged in too fast. "No. We're not doing this, Ben. Come on. We have to go." I rush to the kitchen.
He's right behind me, his finger tapping on the tray full of muffins. "Aren't we taking these?"
"Oh. I didn't know I should bake anything," I say, thrown off. "We can take them, but they're gluten-free."
He scrunches his face and I snort a laugh. He hates eating healthy, which is outrageous considering he looks like he invented intermittent fasting.
"Also sugar-free," I add, just to tease him more.
