I was dead wrong.
They arrive at seven. I hear them before I see them. Benji’s voice in the corridor, talking fast, laughing, and then a second voice, deeper, warmer, with an accent that isn’t quite there but lives underneath the English.
They’re laughing together and I’m suddenly aware of what I look like from the outside. A pale man in a bed, in a gown, with a blanket over legs that don’t work. Benji knocks instead of blasting through like he does now.
“Get in here,” I call out.
The door opens and Benji comes through first, and tonight there’s a man behind him. Dante is taller than I expected. Six feet, maybe six-one, lean and angular. Dark hair pushed back, dark eyes, skin the color of warm bronze. He’s dressed fashionably and looks like he came from a different world than the Florida Panhandle. He’s stunning. An important fact Benji failed to mention.
And they’re stunning together. That’s the next thought that goes through my head, and it lodges there like a fishbone that doesn’t come out. Benji, blonde and lean and bright, next to Dante, dark-haired and tall. They look like they were designed as a set to go together. They belong in a club in Miami, not sitting in this room with me.
Instead of pulling a chair close beside my head like he usually does, Benji positions the two visitor chairs at the foot of the bed. I immediately feel the distance, a gap between my world and theirs. They sit close together with their shoulders almost touching.
“Mickey, this is Dante,” Benji says, waving a hand. “Dante, this is Mickey Weaver.”
“Officer Weaver,” Dante says. His voice is warm and direct. His eyes are doing the same thing mine would do in his position, reading the room without showing it. “Benji’s told me a lot about you.”
“He’s told me a lot about you too,” I say. “Apparently you’re the reason he survives.”
Dante tilts his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “I’m the one who keeps him from starving. Benji will reorganize a stranger’s entire wedding in forty-eight hours and then forget to eat for two days. He needs supervision.”
“Hey,” Benji says, fondly more than annoyed.
“You ate a protein bar for lunch three days in a row,” Dante says, turning to Benji. “That’s not eating. That’s survival. I’m taking you to dinner tomorrow. Real food, Benji. Somewhere with a tablecloth.”
Benji rolls his eyes. Dante reaches over and pushes Benji’s hair off his forehead the way you’d push a child’s hair, casual and affectionate and without a single thought behind it. Benji doesn’t flinch. His body doesn’t notice the touch as anything noteworthy because this is how they are.
Benji’s energy is infectious, bouncing off Dante’s easy Miami cool. They’re both in constant motion. They use their bodies to emphasize a point or punctuate a joke, their hands carving shapes in the air, their feet shifting restlessly on the linoleum. They’re vibrating with life, and I’m lying here feeling like a cement statue in a room full of dancers.
The burn starts in my chest, low and hot and stupid.
I know Dante is Benji’s best friend. Dante’s hand stays on the back of Benji’s chair while they talk, fingers brushing his shoulder every few seconds without either of them noticing. The touching is normal.
That doesn’t stop something ugly from twisting inside me anyway.
Dante can touch him without thinking about it. Push his hair back. Take him to dinner tomorrow. Sit shoulder to shoulder with him in a restaurant somewhere while I’m stuck here.
And the worst part is how fast my brain starts acting like Benji belongs to me when he absolutely does not.
“The bamboo came in this morning,” Benji says, leaning forward. “Twenty poles, clean, straight, beautiful. The driftwood is officially dead to me now. I’m building the arch frame tomorrow and wrapping it in white linen and it might end up looking better than the driftwood would have. Dante took over the pot saga.”
“The pots are handled,” Dante says. “Unglazed. No artisanal anything.”
“What do you do in Miami?” I ask Dante. “When you’re not saving Benji from florists?”
“Real estate,” he says. “Residential, mostly. Luxury market.”
“He’s being modest,” Benji says. “He closed three deals last month. Three. In this market.”
“Two and a half. The third one is still in escrow and the buyer’s attorney is making my life difficult.” Dante uncrosseshis legs and leans back. “But yeah, it’s good. Miami’s always good if you know where to look.”
“You should take a drive down 30A while you’re here,” I say. “If you can get away from the wedding for an hour. The real estate market along that stretch is on fire right now. Rosemary Beach, Alys Beach, Watercolor. Properties are moving fast and the prices are climbing. A guy with your eye could do well up here.”
Dante tilts his head, actually interested. “Yeah? I’ve heard the numbers, but I haven’t seen the architecture in person.”
“Take the drive. Start at Rosemary Beach and go west. You’ll see the potential. It’s a different kind of luxury than Miami, but the money is just as loud.”
He nods, and I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. A man like Dante in a market like 30A is a natural fit.
