“A week,” she whispered, testing the word. “Just… a week.”
So it was decided. Eden left, and Liam immediately turned to Benson to say, “So, here’s what we’re going to do.”
But first, takeout.
Chapter 17
Benson
By the time Benson let himself into the apartment, it was after seven and already too late for the kind of night he once considered normal.
Not that there was much normal aboutanythinglately.
He shut the door behind him, dropping his keys into the tray on the entry table. The apartment was lit in that warm way his cleaning lady always left it when he would be out late – lamps on, no overhead light, and the city glowing beyond the windows. Somewhere deeper in the place, music played low enough to rouse his post-work interest.
And there was Liam.
Barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his forearms, leaning against the island with a beer in one hand and Benson’s tablet in the other. Which, Benson was beginning to understand, was part of the problem.
Because a man did not come home after eight hours of meetings, three ugly calls with clients, one partner (Oliver) who apparently thought Benson existed solely to absorb panic for sport, and find Liam in his kitchen looking indecently at ease without feeling certain things. Things Benson had once been very good at ignoring.
“You’re late,” Liam said, glancing up from the tablet.
Benson loosened his tie as he walked farther inside. “I work.”
“So do I.”
“You sleep in until ten and then throw money around while your business partner does the dire spreadsheet work. All while wearing jeans. It’s not the same.”
Liam looked down at himself. “These are very nice jeans.”
“I’m sure they are.”
Benson shed his suit jacket over the back of a chair and crossed toward the booze cabinet, not because he desperately needed a drink but because the motion was familiar, and familiarity had been in short supply that week. Everything in his life lately seemed to have taken on an odd, unstable cast, as if he’d stepped half an inch to the side of it all and still had not managed to settle back into place.
A week. That was what Eden had asked for.
It had been four days. Four days of not calling her. Four days of not texting beyond the bare minimum. Four days of not asking where she was, what she was doing, whether she missed him, whether she regretted this, whether she was using the space to imagine a life without them, and discovering she preferred it.
Benson had honored the request because he loved her, but he hated every minute of it.
“Long day?” Liam asked.
Benson poured two fingers of scotch and glanced over. “You’re still here.”
“I said I was staying over.”
“You also said you’d make yourself scarce while I was working.”
Liam took a sip of his beer. “Yet I’m not in your office building, interrupting meetings with clients with my devastating charm. Growth.”
Benson let that pass. He took a drink instead and looked Liam over properly. Dark sweater. Dark jeans. Hair a little longer than Benson liked and therefore, presumably, exactly how Eden liked it when she tugged on it. The thought was vivid enough to be annoying.
The apartment was too full of ghosts of her. A lip gloss she had left in the guest bath one night and never remembered to retrieve. A charger cord coiled near the sofa. The faint sweetness of the perfume she favored still lingered on a scarf hanging over the arm of one of the chairs, because Benson had not yet decided whether moving it would feel more pathetic or less.
Liam followed his line of sight to the scarf and said nothing. That, more than anything, made Benson look back at him.
Four days ago, he would have expected commentary. Something sly, or even gentle, in that infuriating way Liam could manage when he was trying not to push. Instead, Benson found Liam simply watching him, his expression unreadable.
