The Square Peg (4 page)

thought his accent was cute. Cute. God. He’d spent a year working in a London pub,

and no one in the Smoke had thought it was cute. He’d suffered through endless jokes

about whippets down his trousers and the assumption his football team of choice was

Liverpool.

“I’m from the Wirral. Part of Merseyside, yeah, but we’re on the opposite side of

the Mersey to Liverpool. Go back to what you were saying about—”

Right on cue, Benedict asked, “So you support Liverpool? Steven Gerrard plays

for them, right? Good old Stevie G.” Benedict was beaming as if he thought he’d earned

major brownie points or something.

“No. I’m a Toffee. Wouldn’t exactly be welcome at Anfield, now would I?”

“Toffee? Huh? Is that Brit slang for gay? What’s that got to do with soccer?”

Shane snorted with amusement. Too easy. “It’s football in every other part of the

world but here, you know. And it’s the nickname for Everton. My team. The Toffees.”

“Why? The name, I mean, not why you support them.”

Shane started to explain, then paused. He was being distracted. He could yammer

on about his footie team for hours—any fan could—but Everton were currently mid-

table and doing fine, whereas his pub was about to go into receivership by the sound of

it. “Forget the football. What the fuck do you mean we’re going under? You can’t just

waltz in here and say that.”

“I’m just repeating it,” Benedict said, tapping a pile of paperwork with the edge of

his thumb. “It’s right here in black and white. Maybe it’s easier for me to read, maybe

you’re just used to being balanced on the edge of a cliff, but it’s easy to see if you know

what you’re looking at.”

“There’s a profit every month,” Shane protested.

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“It only looks that way. Craig was paying all the taxes to the city, and that’s small

potatoes compared to the bill to the wholesaler.” Benedict must have seen the dismay

Shane could feel washing over him on his face. “You didn’t know?”

Shane pushed his food aside, any trace of hunger gone. “Show me.”

At first, the pages Benedict had made notes on didn’t make sense, but he was

patient about explaining what they meant. “And here, this is what he was paying to the

wholesaler. Well, that’s a monthly estimate, based on the past twenty-four months’

bills.”

“But that’s almost as much as the profits!” Shane slumped back in his chair, numb.

“And I was keeping half of those as my wages. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Benedict sighed. “Better, under the

circumstances. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

Numbness didn’t last. Shane had always preferred to lash out than endure

stoically. “Yeah, seems to me you’ve come out on top here.”

“In what way?” There was a reserved tightness to Benedict now, a sharpness in

his eyes. “My inheritance just went from being the only good thing Craig ever did for

me to just another kick in the teeth.”

Even reeling from the prospect of losing his job and his home in the near future,

Shane wasn’t going to let that pass. “He didn’t mean it that way. He was chuffed to bits

he’d got something to pass on, a legacy. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me how bad

things were, but he had his reasons.” He rubbed his forehead in an attempt to stave off

the headache stress always brought on. “Fuck knows what they were, mind you.”

“It’s possible we could salvage something if we did the place up and sold it.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Slap on some paint, make a quick profit, and

bugger off, laughing all the way to the bank.”

“Make your mind up,” Benedict said evenly. “You were mad because I wanted to

stick around, now you’re annoyed I might not? Let me make it clear where I stand. I’m

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21

not going anywhere, and I’ll fight to keep this place open for the sake of the people who

work here—including you, even though you’re clearly going be a huge pain in the ass—

but our chances of keeping the place going are slim to none, so don’t get your hopes

up.”

“Easy for you to say,” Shane muttered. “You’ve got another job.”

“I’d rather have this one, if we can figure out a way to work together without you

being pissed off all the time. I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve it.”

Shane, still feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut by reality, let the papers he’d

been holding drop onto the desk. “You haven’t. It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

“I get that. You should have seen my face when I got the paperwork from the

lawyer. I’m supposed to go sign some stuff tomorrow, actually.”

“Yeah.” Shane had been putting off dealing with it. “All right, so suppose we

decide to go all out, make changes, sort out how this place can make enough money to

be worth the work. What are we looking at?”

“In terms of what? Time, investment?” Benedict shrugged. “We’d have to do a lot

more research before we’d have the answers to any of that. Financially, I could put fifty

grand into renovations. Craig had a life insurance policy I’m going to get that much out

of.”

“Fifty—” Shane whistled long and low. “Jesus, I couldn’t put in fifty thousand

fucking matchsticks. I don’t have that kind of money.” He bit his lip, a habit he knew

should stop. The skin was ragged from his teeth, and that just made him want to worry

at it more until it was smooth. He caught Benedict staring at his mouth and stopped

nibbling, a wave of heat flooding him. Embarrassment, shame—who knew? “I don’t

have any money. Two, three thousand maybe if I sold my bike. That’s it.”

“Maybe we could approach a bank for a loan using the bar as collateral. We own

the building free and clear; that’s something.”

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“Yeah, your dad was lucky. He bought it when interest rates were low and the

area was even more run-down than it is now. Real estate was cheap as chips. He paid

off the mortgage about three years ago.”

“Well, that helps.”

Shane didn’t deal in airy-fairy pink-tinted dreams. “We’re still screwed.”

“No. We can handle a lot of the renovations ourselves to keep the costs down. The

secret is not to necessarily buy new. There are businesses going under all the time and

selling off their assets at auctions. A friend of mine set up his restaurant for a fraction of

the cost by snapping up equipment from failing restaurants.”

“Yeah? How did he make out?”

Benedict grinned, his face transformed by the smile. “He had a vision. Let’s just

say the area wasn’t ready for his belief all food should be presented as geometric

shapes. Waiting half an hour for your meal because the fillet of fish is being measured

and trimmed to a perfect triangle…”

“Jesus.” Shane laughed, couldn’t help it. “What a plonker.”

“Ade’s nuts, but he’s a nice guy. And the idea’s sound.”

Shane didn’t like the idea of profiting from someone else’s failure, but he resigned

himself to the necessity. “Yeah, I suppose so. I’m fine with painting the walls ourselves,

and I can do some wiring, but I’ve learned when it comes to something major, it’s faster

and cheaper in the long run to let the pros do it. It’s just, who’s got the time to go to

these auctions? And where do we store it all, assuming we buy anything?”

“I have some vacation time I can take when we’re ready to start looking, and we

can hire a storage locker for a month or two. We’re not ready to do any of that until we

have a solid budget and a business plan.”

Shane sighed. “Fine. Just no more business tonight, okay? I need to take this in.

Fuck, I need a drink. One perk of this job is you never have to walk far to fill your glass.

What about you? What’s your poison?”

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23

“Gin and tonic?” Benedict suggested, which came as a surprise. Shane would have

guessed Benedict would prefer something trendier, one of the currently popular

martinis or maybe a Cosmo.

“You wouldn’t rather something else?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not much of a drinker. I’m pretty boring, actually.” Benedict

looked anything but boring, his dark eyes warm with humor and his curling hair

tousled. It was easy enough to picture him stretched out on a mattress, the sheets

tangled round his feet and the sweat cooling on his skin.

And where had that come from? Maybe the way they’d been fighting since they

met. Shane got turned on not by violence, no, but the high of confrontation and the

struggle. If it got to the point where he wanted to put his fist in someone’s face, it’d

gone too far. He didn’t want to punch Benedict. Shutting up that humming with a

quick, hard kiss, though…

Reminding himself Benedict was Craig’s son and it’d be well out of order to chat

him up, let alone fuck his brains out, even to get that spread-out-in-a-bed image to come

true, he shrugged. “You’re an accountant. Comes with the territory.”

Benedict flinched, looking, for a moment, as if he had felt the crunch of a fist

against his nose or jaw, a flash of hurt showing. That had struck a nerve. Shane started

to apologize, but Benedict stood.

“Being an accountant is what I do. It’s not what I am. It’s not a vocation, for God’s

sake. I’m good with numbers, with how they fit together. I can see when they don’t and

the pattern’s just…wrong.” He smiled, a sour twist to his mouth. “Being boring has

nothing to do with my job and everything to do with me. I’ll skip that drink. Vin’s shift

should be over soon. He can ride back with me if he doesn’t have a car. I’m only twenty

minutes away.”

“He’s got this beat-up van. He was thinking about sleeping in it, but it’s too

bloody cold. Just give him your address, and he can follow you over.”

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Shane wanted to say more, to find out why Benedict thought so little of himself,

but the man was already leaving, pulling his jacket on with sharp, efficient tugs.

Shame, really. It would’ve been a nice view of his arse if he’d left it off.

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Chapter Three

“I’ll give you the spare key for now,” Ben said, unlocking his front door as Vin

stood patiently on the stairs behind him. “But it’s the only one I have, so try not to lose

it.”

“I won’t,” Vin said, following him inside. Ben kicked the door closed, and Vin

looked around, his face studiously blank, offering no comment on the neutral walls and

furnishings. “I don’t get why you’re doing this.”

“For one, no one should have to sleep in that break room or whatever Shane calls

it. I don’t even want to think about how many dust mites that couch is harboring.” Ben

gave a shudder for effect and pointed toward the hallway. “The guest room’s upstairs

on the right. There’s only one bathroom, and it’s down here, across from my bedroom.

The house was built back in the days when people were just happy not to have to use

an outhouse, I think, so we’ll have to share.”

“Three older sisters at home,” Vin said ruefully. “I learned how to share when I

was still a baby.”

“I can imagine. The kitchen’s over here. I eat at this little table, unless I’m

watching TV.” Ben paused in the tour to look into the dining room, where the formal

table and chairs he’d bought along with the house were piled with books, junk mail he

kept thinking he’d get through, and a bag of beach things from when he and Jenson had

taken a long weekend.

Vin peered past him and took in the clutter. “Hey, look. I’ll feel right at home.”

“Old house, not very many closets,” Ben explained. “I keep meaning to get it

cleaned out, but you know. It always seems as if there are more important things to do.”

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“Life’s a series of choices,” Vin said with the solemn wisdom of someone who

could still remember when his age ended in
teen
. He redeemed himself by grinning. “I

generally choose not to clean.”

“I like it clean, but messy seems to happen on top of it.” Ben showed Vin to his

room and backed out, not wanting to hover.

Jenson had said he did that.

It wasn’t long before Vin joined him in the TV room. Ben was nursing a glass of

wine and feeling absurdly self-conscious, as if he were the guest, not Vin. He jumped

up when Vin came in, spilling wine over himself, not enough to warrant changing, but

enough that he had a damp spot on his shirt.

“Damn. Sorry. Do you… Can I get you anything?”

Vin eyed him, a hint of bewilderment in his dark eyes. “Just water, thanks, but I

can get that from the faucet myself. You’re really on edge, man. Second thoughts?”

“No.” Ben sat down again, setting his wine on the coffee table where it would be

safe. “It’s been a stressful day, and I’m still trying to process it all. The bar wasn’t what I

expected, and finding out I owned half of it came out of the blue.”

Vin joined him, sprawling out on the couch with the natural grace and assurance