Page 21 of When Ben Loved Jace (He Loved Him #2)

I still haven’t told Jace. I find myself repeatedly attempting to justify this to myself.

Like maybe it would be kinder to wait until I can give Jace a full report instead of torturing him with unanswered questions.

And yes, part of me worries he’ll forbid me to see Tim, or be so threatened by his return that I decide on my own not to see Tim again, if only to spare Jace’s feelings.

I just need to find out more before that happens.

Besides, I’d never cheat on Jace. There’s no chance of that.

I’m drawn to Tim because of our old chemistry, but I wouldn’t let it go that far.

Like going on a potentially dangerous voyage that I know I’ll come back from, instead of making Jace worry while I’m gone, I’ll wait to tell him until after I’ve safely returned.

Or maybe I’m doing mental gymnastics. To check myself, I told Allison in the morning everything that transpired the night before. She listened with bloodshot eyes and gave me the all clear.

“You’re fine. Frankly, I’d be more concerned if Jace didn’t want you to see Tim.

That would be way too controlling. I mean, you trust him even though he sails into a different port almost every night.

He should trust you with this. Although you actually have to give Jace the chance, and that means telling him. ”

“I will,” I assured her.

Just not yet, because I spoke to Jace in the afternoon and the subject didn’t come up.

I simply wanted to focus on us instead of that precious time going to someone else.

I also reconnected with him in my own way when visiting the trailer to check on Samson.

I smelled Jace’s bathrobe, browsed his library to remind myself of his tastes, and wrote him a love note that he’ll find once he’s finally home again.

By the time I depart to meet Tim for dinner, I feel recharged. And immunized.

Additional distance is created when I drive my junky car past ridiculously huge houses, each separated by so much property that I doubt any of the owners can see their neighbors.

I feel out of place. Conspicuous. Then again, anyone passing me will probably assume I’m a maid, here to vacuum up rich people’s dust before returning to my hovel.

Actually, I wonder how much that pays? If it’s more than slinging frozen yogurt, I’d be interested, since it would be fun to snoop .

I finally reach the address Tim texted me and turn down a driveway that ends in a four-car garage.

The attached house is boxy and modern, incorporating a mixture of materials and windows that are either unusually tall or wide.

I check my appearance in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car.

Not for his benefit, but to alleviate my own insecurity.

I’m wearing a dress shirt and slacks, so I’m not exactly slumming it, but for all I know, millionaires might eat every meal in a tuxedo.

I suppose the butler will enlighten me. He’ll probably make me go around back to the servants’ entrance. Tim opens the massive front door before I have a chance to pull the rope or bang the gong or whatever it is they do around here.

“Hey!” he says, looking sharp in a black dress shirt that fits a reoccurring theme by being excessively tight.

Actually, the clothes he owns are probably normal-sized.

It’s his muscles that keep filling everything beyond capacity.

The worn jeans are no different, but I keep my eyes above waist level.

Tim doesn’t pay me the same courtesy. “You look nice,” he says, his gaze traveling the length of my body before he grins. “I’m so glad you’re here. Come on in!”

I follow him inside, initially disappointed by how small the living room is, but as it turns out, it’s just some sort of reception area.

A foyer maybe? I don’t know. I couldn’t be more out of my element.

I gawk like a tourist as he leads me deeper into the house.

The rooms we pass are spacious and filled with designer furniture.

Adrien would love it here, although his home has the tightly controlled ambience of a museum.

The vibe here is more welcoming. Possibly because of the abundance of antiques and art among all the pricey furniture.

“How many people live here?” I ask as we pass from one area to another. “And have you considered getting Segways so it doesn’t take so long to get around?”

Tim guffaws. “That’s a great idea. It’s just the three of us.”

“You, Eric, and…”

“You’ll see.”

He guides me to the back of the house. Through glass panes in a wooden door, I notice an illuminated swimming pool, but I get distracted by a scrabbling noise.

The moment Tim opens the door, a stout creature with a wide smile and a wrinkled muzzle scurries inside to run circles around me in excitement .

“Who’s this?” I ask, getting down on my knees to the dog’s delight.

“Chinchilla,” Tim says proudly. “She’s my little princess.”

“Aren’t you adorable?” I coo while rubbing her short coat, which is predominantly white with tan patches.

Chinchilla squirms happily in response to this attention. Until recently, I’ve always been more partial to dogs. This one has a face that only a mother could love. “She’s a bulldog, right?” I ask when looking up.

“Yeah.” Tim squats to pet her. “An English Bulldog. She’s the best thing to ever happen to me.” He shoots a sidelong glance in my direction. “Or at least, she’s way up there on the list. When Eric surprised me with her, it was one of the happiest days of my life.”

“She’s yours! ” I say in surprise.

He shrugs. “More like the other way around. But yeah.”

I should have guessed from all the photos on his phone. It’s strange to think of him being responsible for another life. I’ve had a few house plants since moving out on my own. None of them survived.

“Come on,” Tim says, standing and patting his upper legs. “Let’s go see Eric.”

I assume he’s talking to Chinchilla, but we both respond.

She soon pulls ahead of us, leading the way to a brightly lit kitchen with a large island in the center, one side lined by stools.

The top is covered in white marble, matching the surrounding counters and complementing the gray cabinets and stainless steel appliances.

Despite the pale shades, the kitchen doesn’t feel clinical, due to the explosions of color that come from fruit bowls, potted herbs, shelves filled with cookbooks, and ceramic ware in vibrant hues.

Chinchilla runs over to a man who is taking a bundle of carrots out of the refrigerator by their fresh green tufts. I recognize him from Tim’s phone. Eric glances down at the dog in surprise before noticing us. Then he smiles.

“These aren’t for you,” Eric says softly to Chinchilla.

She harumphs and goes to a padded bed at one end of the island to settle down.

After placing the carrots on the counter, Eric walks over to me and offers his hand.

He’s short and thin like I am, his tidy appearance and graceful movements lending him an elegant air.

His grip is gentle on my own. “Benjamin! It’s so nice to finally meet you.

I’ve heard so many nice things from Tim. "

“Thanks,” I say. “But uh… It’s just Ben, if that’s all right.”

“Of course!” Eric responds, not blinking an eye. “I’ve always envied people who have the option. Eric doesn’t get any shorter or longer. I’ve been stuck with the same name my entire life. Did you go by Benjamin when you were younger?”

“No, Tim is the only one who ever called me that,” I explain. “It’s more of a um…”

“Pet name,” Tim fills in for me with a shameless grin.

Eric raises an eyebrow at this. “Then perhaps you should stop calling him that… Timothy.”

“Ha ha,” he deadpans. “For your information, he likes it when I call him that. Don’t you, Benjamin?”

“Only if I get to use your childhood nickname,” I retort.

“Oh?” Eric smiles mischievously. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

“His mom calls him Gordito,” I reveal gleefully. “Because he was a fat baby.”

“Nuh-uh!” Tim says, puffing up his chest. “I’ve always been ripped. That’s the only reason I weighed so much.”

Eric laughs. “I can tell the evening is going to be highly entertaining. Would either of you care for a glass of wine?”

“Only if you have the yellow kind,” I say, dredging up another detail from our past.

“Now that one I am familiar with,” Eric says. “Tim has presented me with the same argument.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault,” he says. “We live in a world where red onions are actually purple. How does that make sense? It’s not easy being the only person who sees things as they truly are.”

“Fair enough,” I counter, “but it’s called white wine because of the grapes.”

“Which are green,” Tim says smugly.

“Yellow wine it is!” Eric declares, moving to a rack filled with bottles. “Any preference? I picked up some halibut today.”

The question is directed at Tim, to my relief.

“That would pair well with Chardonnay,” he answers, “but I’m cooking tonight, and that means spicy. Make it a Riesling instead.”

He’s showing off for me, and yeah, I’m impressed. All I know about alcohol is that it can get you drunk. With that in mind, I plan to take delicate sips. I don’t want my inhibitions lowered tonight. Not even slightly.

“Here’s to friends, old and new,” Eric toasts after pouring us each a glass.

I let the wine wet my lips and nothing more.

“All right,” Tim says, “now get out of here. I’m cooking tonight.”

Eric puts on a pouty expression. “But I love to host! At least let me help.”

“You can keep Benjamin entertained.”

Eric perks up. “Perhaps he can join us.”

“In the kitchen?” Tim says, not hiding his concern. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What?” I huff my indignation. “How many times did I cook for you when we were teenagers?”

“Often enough for me to know better. Remember the time you tried boiling macaroni and cheese?”

Eric comes to my defense. “That’s usually how it works.”