3
Emmy
“ C heese and rice, Emilia,” Carla hisses. “Go over there and talk to him!”
I’m about to chew through my whole lip as I shake my head furiously, hissing right back at her. “He’s just helping out.”
We’ve been here for hours, and Ben hasn’t left. He’s just… here. Helping.
And I can barely get a thing done.
I can’t help stopping to watch as he bends over to pick up the broken pieces of a stool. The muscles in his back shift beneath his tee. Carla whistles beside me. “He can help me out anytime.”
Her words aren’t exactly quiet.
My face bursts into flames as Ben straightens and looks over at us. That small smile tugs on his lips again. “Carla!”
She cackles, hip-checking me as she puts another tray of glasses into the dishwasher. “Come on, Em. He clearly likes you. And you can’t take your eyes off him.”
She deftly grabs the lime cordial in my hands before I pour it into the wrong bottle. “Shit.”
“Shit,” Carla mimics, in a truly awful impression of me. Setting the cordial down, she grabs my shoulders and shakes me lightly. “You’ve been here for over a year, and I’ve never seen you with anyone, Em. It’s okay to have a little fun, you know.”
Her eyes drop to my scar, smile softening into something more understanding. “They’re not all bad.”
She doesn’t know. Nobody does. But I grab onto her words anyway as Ben heads back to us and leans against the bar. “All done on this side.”
“And we’re done here,” Carla says, side-eyeing me when I stay quiet. “Thanks for all of your help, Ben.”
He smiles at her again. And that smile – it does funny things to my insides. Flips them around, upside down. “Thanks for having me.”
She winks. “Come back anytime.”
“Emmy?” He says it softly as Carla turns away, busying herself with something that definitely doesn’t need doing. “You good?”
And god – if his smile did things to my insides, it’s nothing to the way he says my name.
“Yeah,” I force out awkwardly. I push my hair away from my damp face before I drag it forward again to cover my scar. “Thank you.”
“How are you getting home?”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“She walks,” Carla supplies helpfully from several feet away. “On her own. In the dark.”
“ Carla —,”
“Do you?” Ben is frowning now. “This isn’t a great area for walking on your own.”
I force a smile. “It’s fine, really.”
It is fine. Statistically, you’re more likely to face the worst monsters in your own home than meet them on the street.
But Ben’s frown deepens. He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. I’ll walk you.”
I stiffen as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He flicks through it, pulling out his ID and sliding it across to Carla. “That’s my full name. You got a phone? Take a photo of it.”
And then he smiles at me again. “Got a pad and paper?”
Carla waves one in front of his face, and he takes it, scribbling across the page in an untidy scrawl before he holds it out to her. “And my address. Can’t be too careful.”
“Well,” Carla breathes. “That’s… very thoughtful of you.”
It is thoughtful. Something twists inside my chest.
“You could be making that up,” I mutter.
His eyebrows raise. “That’s true. But with my ID, I’m fairly easy to trace.”
I chew on my lip again.
“Please,” Ben says, searching my face. “I won’t walk you if you don’t want me to. But let me get you a cab, at least. It’s really late, Emmy. And it’s dark outside.”
Actually, it’s early. Early enough that dawn will be peeking over the horizon.
He stayed.
He stayed, and he helped.
“Okay,” I whisper finally. “You can walk me home.”
Ben waits for me while I grab my bag and umbrella, bidding goodbye to a beaming Carla and furious-looking Adrian who’s still arguing with the fire people.
Something tells me we might not be opening tomorrow night, for my next shift.
We step out into the drizzle, and Ben glances down at me. The rain is already dotting his shoulders, but he doesn’t seem too bothered. Lifting my dome umbrella, I open it up and hold it over us.
The lights woven into it light up, casting his face in a warm golden glow as he glances up. “You put fairy lights in your umbrella?”
I half-shrug. “You already know I don’t like the dark.”
He relieves me of the umbrella as we walk despite my protests, holding it over me as we head down the street. “I’m not far. Around fifteen minutes.”
Ben nods. We walk in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, it’s almost too comfortable, given that we only met tonight.
I clear my throat. “I haven’t seen you at The Setlist before.”
And I would have remembered him. There’s a small divot between his eyebrows when I glance up. “I’m not from around here. I’m just… staying for a while.”
I wait for more, and his lip quirks into an almost-smile. “Short-term contract. When it’s up, I’ll be moving on.”
“Oh.” I force down the disappointment in my chest. “I see.”
He’s not staying.
“What do you do for work?” I ask.
He laughs. “I’d rather hear more about you. What do you do, Emmy Marsters?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m a florist, actually.”
“Oh?” I can see the questions behind his eyes.
“I work with a florist during the day,” I explain. “The Setlist… it’s just some evenings.”
Ben nods in understanding. “You like keeping busy.”
I almost miss a step. He’s perceptive. “Yes.”
“What made you want to be a florist?”
The words flow easily for this one. “I found a book when I was in high school. It was about the language of flowers. Every flower has its own meaning. And I… I liked that. It felt like a secret language to me. So when I graduated from high school, I found an apprenticeship.”
“No college?”
Too close.
“No,” I say finally. “That wasn’t an option for me. You?”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t an option for me either.”
My eyes narrow as I glance up, trying to gauge his age. His eyes are crinkled when I reach them. “I’m twenty-three.”
We’re the same age. My breath expels from me. “How did you know?”
“Your face,” he says with amusement. “Your thoughts are written all over it.”
“You are far too perceptive.” I move around a puddle and Ben keeps the umbrella over my head, even as his feet splash through the water. “Don’t get your feet wet!”
“They’ll survive.” He’s laughing at me now. “You’re a worrier, aren’t you?”
My throat tightens. “Maybe. I like to be prepared for things that might happen, I guess. I take it you’re not?”
Ben shrugs. “I used to be. But then I realized that things are going to happen, whether you worry about them or not. Life is too short to waste the good times worrying about when the bad things might hit.”
I stare down at the ground. “What if the bad things already hit?”
“Lightning never strikes twice.”
My throat tightens. “That’s not actually true, you know. It does. Often.”
Ben pauses beside me. I glance up to see him looking up at the early dawn sky. “I know. But does worrying about it change the fact that it might happen?”
No, it doesn’t.
But I can’t stop worrying. Can’t turn it off.
It’s always there.
I jump when warm fingers slip into mine. Ben squeezes my hand. “When was the last time you did something completely random, Emmy Marsters?”
I frown. “Like what?”
He shrugs. “Like… dancing?”
Blinking, I watch as his fingers slip from mine. He backs away from me, twirling my umbrella in his hands. “It’s raining.”
But Ben Bennett smiles back at me. “Only a little. Do something ridiculous with me, Emmy.”
I poke my tongue into my cheek. “Like what?”
He holds up my umbrella triumphantly. “Dance with me. In the rain.”
My brows knit together. “That’s ridiculous.”
He points the umbrella at me. “That is the point. To be absolutely, positively ridiculous.”
He’s backing away, and sudden nerves clench in my stomach as I glance up. “People might see us.”
It’s a weak argument, and he knows it, his smile growing. “Let them. Besides, this area is mostly commercial.”
“I can’t dance.”
His head tilts. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”
My face flushes. He’s way too perceptive. “There’s no music.”
“Not to worry.” His words are triumphant, and I watch in growing disbelief as he strolls over to a lamppost. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Ben—,”
He launches into a song, and my mouth falls open as he starts dancing down the wet street, twirling my umbrella in his hands. His voice is a deep, smooth baritone that rings out as he dances through a puddle, kicking the water up into sprays as I step out of range. “I really don't see the point in this.”
I’m backing away, but my smile is growing as I watch him. In his damp tee and dark jeans, he somehow pulls it off. The twinkling lights of my umbrella spin in his hands as he whirls around, a grin on his face. He holds out a hand, waiting. “Dance with me, Emmy.”
“No,” I protest, but it’s half-hearted. I take a step toward him. “This is silly.”
“So be silly with me.”
My breath catches when he grabs my hand. And then we’re both dancing, Ben leading as we twirl up the street, his hand on the small of my back as we spin.
And he keeps singing, keeps dancing even as I break out into laughter, gripping onto his damp shoulders tightly. My black boots crash into the puddles beneath us, my tights damp and the edges of my dress soaked with the rain.
“Stay with me,” he says into my ear. “No thoughts, Emmy. Just dancing.”
So we dance. And I find the rhythm, both of us sinking into each other as we spin and spin until my head is whirling. Ben settles into a hum, the low timbre of his voice settling into my bones as he slows us until we’re swaying in place.
“There,” he says finally. And the laughter is still there, but his voice is deeper now. I shiver against him. “Breathe. Live in the little moments, Emmy. That’s all it takes. The bigger things will still be there, whether you worry about them or not.”
Little moments .
I crane my head to look up. Ben is much taller than I am, my head level with his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, sure and strong against my hand. My words slip out without thought. “This doesn’t feel like a little moment.”
It feels like something more. My own heart pounds, pushing me to do something else.
When was the last time you did something completely random, Emmy Marsters?
With Ben Bennett smiling down at me, drops of water dripping from the ends of his hair… Maybe I want to take a risk. His smile falters, slips. “No, it doesn’t.”
We watch each other, still swaying to music neither of us can hear in the middle of the street.
I don’t know who moves first.
Maybe Ben.
Maybe me.
But then our lips are together, mint and heat against my mouth as his hand tightens on my back and he pulls me in closer. My umbrella falls as he wraps his other hand around the back of my head.
I feel dizzy. Dizzy with the sensation of Ben, with his taste, with the way he holds me so gently as his mouth moves over mine.
My hand is against his face, feeling the edge of stubble beneath my palm even as my other hand grips his hair.
I want him closer.
I can’t get enough.
We’re both breathing heavily when we break apart. Ben searches my face, his own eyes wild as he pushes back my hair, his fingers brushing the scar that mars my face.
He doesn’t even look at it. He’s looking at me .
And the look in his eyes weakens my knees.
“My apartment,” I whisper finally, biting my lip. Hesitantly. “It’s close.”
His thumb sweeps across my lips, pulling my lower lip free from my teeth. “Where did you come from?”
At his wondering words, I feel the heat creep over my cheeks. He kisses me again.
And again.
As if he can’t get enough.
And every time he kisses me, I feel like I lose another little piece of me to Ben Bennett.
And for once, I choose not to worry about it.