Page 1 of Storm in a Teacup (Love in Edinburgh #3)

Ben

Whoever spread the egregious lie that bravery is a good thing deserves a proper kick in the nuts.

I shove my hands in my jacket pockets as I walk briskly down the dark streets of Edinburgh. Today, I moved here from Newtonmore, my hometown in the Highlands.This was a brave endeavor.

However, too much bravery in such a short stint has thrown my karmic scale off balance. The nerve of me, honestly. Everyone knows you can’t move to a new city and confess romantic feelings for your best friend on the same day.

Especially when you are well aware that he does not feel the same.

But I did that. Me. Brave boy. After months of pining, a bat of courage bashed me over the head.

We were leaving the pub after I had spent all goddamn day staring at his perfect face, listening to his perfect laugh, and wanting to kiss him on his illegally perfect mouth.

As we stood on a street lit only by dim lanterns hung on either side of the pub door, I grabbed him by his broad fucking shoulders and said, aloud, “David, I’m in love with you. In a romantic way. In an I-want-to-kiss-you-on-the-mouth sort of way.”

Oh? How did that go?

Well, with hesitancy in his voice, he said to me, “Ben…you know I love you. You’re my best friend, but I-I don’t…love you in that way. I…I’m with Callum.” He sighed before he added, “Even if I wasn’t…”

He didn’t need to finish that sentence, as I knew what he meant to say. He would still never love me even if he did not have someone else. Ridiculously, his words did not come as a shock. Not at all, despite every fantasy I’ve ever had about this moment going in a very different direction.

Even so, I didn’t know being this utterly broken was possible.

I shattered into granules when he asked me, “Are you sure, Ben? I mean, I’m so happy you figured out you’re attracted to men—congratulations, really—but are you sure you’re not directing this toward me because it’s easier?”

Because he’s my best mate, and he’s gay, is what he meant by that. But his assumption was wrong.

I shook my head slowly. “Falling in love with you is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Of course I’m sure.”

That’s when I walked away.

I don’t even know where I’m walking. I needed to get away after that. Positively mortifying, right? Confess love, get rejected, run away.

Welcome to the world of bisexuality, Bennett Pyeon.

I spot an empty bench along the street and sit heavily on it, head in my hands.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid . Why did I do that?

Especially now. Especially when I just moved to this city to be closer to him.

Well, him and my sister. I moved here for a business venture—Isla and I are opening a café.

It wasn’t just David. But it’s only him I can focus on.

It was David who held me back from moving here for so long, but it was also David who convinced me to make the jump. David and the damn café. I let myself get too excited about the café—figured if that was going to work out, everything might work out.

At least opening preparations will keep me busy.

So busy that maybe I can dig myself out of this abyss of embarrassment.

It’ll be fine. I’ll go no-contact for a week, and then I can face him again.

I’m being overdramatic, surely. It’s what I do.

Make a big deal out of nothing. Everyone says so. This is another nothing.

My eyes squeeze shut. It doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like my insides have been pulverized, yet I’m being forced to strut around as though I’m whole.

I’ve felt like this for months—since I realized my feelings.

I’ve spent time hinting at them around David, trying to get an inkling of whether or not there was a chance.

Every time I knew there wasn’t, but I held on to hope that maybe if he really knew how I felt, it would be different.

I mean, up until thirty minutes ago, he was under the impression I was straight. Up until four months ago, as was I.

But then I realized how I look at him. How I feel about him. How I’ve looked at other men. How I’d ignored these feelings for so many years because I’m also attracted to women.

I remove my head from my hands. It doesn’t matter. I’ve worked through this, sexuality and all. Now, I just need to get over my feelings. I did the thing. It didn’t work out. Time to move forward.

Easier said than done.

I’m not sure how long I sit on the bench staring at a mixture of nothing and the tree planted fifteen meters away, but it feels like it’s been a while when a ginger-haired lass plops down next to me with an audible exhale.

A quick survey of Grassmarket proves that there were plenty of unoccupied benches to choose from, but I’m of no mind to judge.

When she lets out another sigh, I figure she needs to be alone without actually being alone, thus choosing to share my bench.

Then she lets out a third sigh, and I start to wonder if she’s waiting for me to ask her what’s amiss. I’m craving a distraction, so I bite.

“You alright?” I ask, tapping away at the silence the night has created around us and her plentiful sighs.

She peers at me out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, sure,” an American accent answers me. “Just saw someone I was not expecting to see, so now I’m sitting on a bench staring at him like a stalker.”

My eyes follow the direction of hers, landing on a group of blokes having a laugh in front of the pub cattycorner to our bench. There are pints in each of their hands with the light overhead shining down like a spotlight.

That explains the choice of bench.

“An ex?” I guess.

“Ex-fiancé,” she confirms with a click of her tongue. “Ex-fiancé who lives in London with his new fancy finance job. New fancy finance job that was supposed to keep him in London.” She crosses her arms and mutters, “Edinburgh is mine.”

If I were an arsehole, I’d point out that one cannot claim ownership over a city, but I don’t say that. She’s an upset woman sat on a bench on a dark street in Edinburgh watching her ex-fiancé without his knowledge. She can claim whatever she wants, in my opinion.

Instead, I choose to ask, “Why are we watching him, then?”

Another sharp exhale. “Great question. ”

“You could walk away,” I offer.

“I could, but I don’t know how to walk away while he’s there having a grand old time when I’m still—” She cuts herself off.

I consider her. “You want him back?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you planning to speak to him?”

“Absolutely not,” she repeats. Her eyes don’t leave the pub.

“Suit yourself.” I mimic her crossed arms and watch the group of men as well. I’ve no idea which of the five is the object of observation, so I give them all a general glare. Probably all wankers, anyhow.

A chorus of laughter erupts from them, causing the woman to swear and duck toward me. With the breeze, I catch a whiff of citrus I assume is her. It’s nice.

“Is he looking over here?” she whispers.

I assess the group of men. One does seem to glance our way, but not for long enough to assume he’s taken any notice of us. “Which one is he?”

“Brown hair, beard…baby-blue eyes.”

I snort. “Can’t see those orbs from here, love.”

She glares. “Don’t call them ‘orbs.’” With a cautious turn back to the lads, she notes that none are looking at us, so she leans back into the bench with a grumble of, “Red shirt.”

Ah. The tall one. He stands about five inches taller than the other men with him.

We continue to watch him in silence. I’d say I feel like a creep, but I am so grateful for the distraction that the option to feel weird about surveilling this man doesn’t even occur to me.

Then, his head snaps toward us.

“ Shit ,” the woman hisses, ducking into me again.

This time, he does spot her. His eyes linger as he fixes on her in the dark, trying to determine if she is who he thinks she is. He seems to decide the affirmative as his mouth presses into a line.

“We’ve been compromised,” I comment.

She sucks her teeth. “Would you mind compromising me again, then?”

“Pardon?”

“Kiss me.” Then, she adds as an afterthought, “Please?”

My mouth drops open. This has taken an unexpected turn. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Not sure that matters. It’s Linny. Kiss me.”

I chuckle. She cannot be serious. I glance at her ex to find him still watching us, then look back at her, her deep blue eyes pleading.

Well, kissing a beautiful woman would turn this night around, even if it is just at the expense of her ex-fiancé.

Kissing a beautiful woman is a fantastic way to forget about what a complete and utter arse I made of myself earlier.

“Alright.”

That’s the only word she needs. She leans forward, pressing her mouth to mine. Her lips are soft and tentative upon introduction, but as we become acquainted, she urges more firmly into me. My hand finds her hip, clutching it over the gauzy fabric of her black, floral dress.

Abruptly, she pulls away to whisper, “Is he still watching?”

I check. He is—staring, in fact—his face aghast by what he’s witnessing. Shocking this man fills me with a guilty, horny kind of joy. “Aye.”

Her lips find mine again as she shifts to perch across my lap.

The weight of her body on mine sends an ease through my chest. Goddamn , I needed this.

My hand glides up to lace in her silky hair, grasping tightly, tugging a little.

A small moan signals her approval, even if only for the aspect of the show we’re putting on, as her mouth moves more fervently on mine.

At what I find to be a terrible moment, she draws away and directs, “Kiss my neck.”

I do as I’m told. My mouth travels down her throat before I improvise, pushing her thick jumper off her shoulder to place my attention there. Her soft and positively delectable flesh tempts me to sink my teeth in.

Breath labored, she asks, “Still watching?”

I scrape my fingers across her neck to draw her hair away and clear my vision.

He’s gone back to talking with his mates, but his body is angled in our direction as he steals frequent peeks.

No one else in the group seems to have taken notice, which means he has chosen not to share that he can see his ex-fiancée aggressively snogging a random bloke on a bench across the square.

“Yeah,” I whisper into her throat.

“Then grab my boob.”

I tow myself away to gaze at her full-on, eyebrows raised.

“Grab my boob, please ,” she amends, eyes cast bashfully downward.

My mouth is drawn in by the heat of her skin, trailing along her jaw before I locate her lips.

“Only because you said ‘please.’”

Her palm rests on my cheek as we reconnect. I graze a hand up her side before finding the small, firm breast, encompassing it in my grasp.

A true whimper escapes her mouth and— bloody hell —that sound alone gets me instantly hard.

She pulls at the tie on her dress, a bow atop a keyhole resting in the center of her chest, then guides my hand under the fabric so my palm is skimming her taut nipple.

I adjust my touch so my fingers can find focus on the pebbled bud, rolling it gently between my fingers.

“ Fuck ,” she breathes into my mouth.

I shift us slightly to ensure she is completely covered from everyone besides myself as my mouth moves to her neck again.

“Still watching?”

It takes great effort to drag my attention away from her, but I manage only to discover he’s gone. The group must have left.

Desperately, I do something I’m ashamed of: I lie. “He is.”

She pulls my mouth back up to hers, body grinding into me, drawing a thick groan from the base of my throat.

Just a bit longer, then I’ll tell her he’s gone.

Her tongue traces the inside of my mouth, and I can’t remember a time when her tongue wasn’t in my mouth, because what is the point of remembering anything beyond this moment?

Fuck.

My conscience gets the better of me. I draw away, internally kicking and screaming, to whisper, “He left.”

Staying on my lap, and pressing into a very sensitive appendage of mine, she directs her attention toward the pub. “He did. Cool.” Linny climbs off me, standing as she re-ties the top of her dress in a tight bow and smooths down the skirt. “Well, thanks.”

“Yeah,” I manage to get out, head clouded by the shock of her absence from my lap.

“What was your name?”

“My name?” I ask like a numpty, concentrating too much on her long hair mused by my hand.

Her mouth quirks. “Yeah, I’m assuming you have one of those?”

“Ben?” I say as though I’m not sure.

“Ben,” she repeats, running quick fingers through those fiery strands to fix them. “Well, thanks again, Ben.”

Linny goes to stroll away, but I call, “Wait! ”

She turns back, head cocked.

“Let me walk you home. Or to a bus. Or your car. It’s late. And dark.”

Amusement crosses her face. “I’m not scared of the dark.” Her eyes pointedly go toward my crotch. “It’s probably best if you stay here and cool off.”

Well, she has me there. I shift uncomfortably, really wishing I were not on a public bench at the moment.

Turning around again, she says, “Goodnight, Ben.”

I ground out, “Goodnight, Linny,” as I watch her walk away, wondering if I’ll ever see her again.

Wondering if what could be our only meeting was exactly what both of us needed.