The Square Peg (24 page)

Shane massaged Benedict’s scalp with the tips of his fingers. “You’ve only been here a

few weeks, and it’s like a different world.”

Benedict raised his head and looked at Shane. “Different doesn’t mean better.”

“When it comes to the bar, it does.” Shane hated admitting he was wrong, but he

had too much self-respect to hold back. “I fought you on that because I didn’t want you

to take away something that meant a lot to me, but the changes, they’re going to work.

Even with it all torn up still, I can see that.”

He was rewarded by seeing Benedict’s face light up. “Thank you. And I don’t

want to make the regulars feel uncomfortable, as much as I want to get new people in. I

think we can find a balance.”

“It’ll sort itself out in time.” God, he was tired. He wanted Benedict to stay, walk

upstairs with him, climb into bed beside him, but Shane didn’t dare ask for that.

Vincent would wonder where Benedict had spent the night, and discretion aside, it felt

too soon.

Shane leaned over and kissed Benedict’s cheek, taking a secret pleasure in the way

Benedict turned his head and kissed him back, a gentle easy touch of lips, no passion

behind it for once. “You want me to get tested? I can make time tomorrow. They’re

working on the floor, so there’s not much we can get done with all that dust around.”

“I’d like that.” Benedict bit his lip. “We’re moving fast here. Too fast?”

Shane walked around the chair and crouched down in front of Benedict, his hands

on Benedict’s thighs for balance. “Getting tested is a good idea anyway. Committing to

just being with you isn’t a hard call either. I can’t picture wanting anyone else. If that

changes, I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll do the same. I feel the same.” Benedict stroked Shane’s face with his

fingertips, the light touch leaving Shane’s skin tingling. He might be exhausted and

sore, but he’d stay like this for as long as Benedict wanted to touch him and never

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complain. “You’re incredible. I came to you today in a foul mood, but I didn’t… I know

what I said to you, but I wasn’t really taking things out on you or making you pay for

someone else being an asshole. I just knew you’d make everything feel better, and you

did. Thank you.”

“I needed it just as much as you did,” Shane told him. Strangely, even though he

hadn’t come earlier, he felt no need to do so now. Maybe he’d wake up in the morning

with a raging erection. He’d worry about it then.

Benedict yawned. “God. I’d better go and get some sleep. Floors tomorrow.”

“And they’re delivering the stuff from the auction,” Shane reminded him. “Christ,

where the hell are we going to put it?”

“I guess we can throw everything we’re not keeping into the alley and pile the

new furniture in the break room. It’s not as if you’ve had a problem piling stuff up

before.”

Why did Benedict insist on saying things designed to piss Shane off? “Not

everyone is as compulsive about keeping things organized as you.” Shane stood and

scratched at a bit of paint near his wrist.

“Someone has to be,” Benedict said, standing as well and pushing the chair over

nearer the wall. “Speaking of which, I had an idea about the name.”

“What name?”

“Of the bar. We need to make a decision about it before we have the posters

printed for the reopening.” Benedict was looking at him as if the conversation was of

little importance when inside Shane was seething.

“What makes you think we’re changing the name?” Shane tried and failed to keep

the anger out of his voice. “It’s been called the Square Peg for ages. Decades.” Almost.

“Why would we want to throw that away?”

“Because it’s a new place. New place, new name. I was thinking something

British.”

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“No,” Shane said. “We’re not changing the name. I’ve agreed to the reopening on

St. Patrick’s Day—against my better judgment, you’ll recall—but the name stays.”

Benedict went over to pick up his bag. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“No need. It’s already decided.” Irritated beyond measure, Shane headed for the

stairs. “Get the lights on your way out. And don’t forget to lock the door.”

He didn’t wait to see if Benedict did as he asked.

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Chapter Thirteen

Ben adjusted the collar of his pale green shirt—his sole concession to St. Patrick’s

Day—and smoothed his hair. The bar was due to reopen in precisely thirty minutes,

and though he didn’t expect a flood of customers through the door this early, he was

hoping they had a profitable first day.

That they were ready to reopen was a small miracle, so he supposed it was

appropriate that they were starting fresh on a saint’s day. Not that he was religious, but

he’d take any help he could get.

Taking another day off had required a lot of groveling, but there was no way he

was missing it. The bar was…well, it was fun. It was
his
. He supposed the novelty

would wear off, but he still intended to quit a job that was boring him more than it

satisfied him these days and come to work at the bar. His clients were intent on

screwing the system to make more money, and that left Benedict feeling grubby, even if

nothing he did broke the law.

Though some of his clients would have liked him better if he had. There was one,

a property developer with a reputation for ruthlessness. Tony Carter had made it plain

that he would’ve been appreciative if Ben had gotten creative with his accounts. When

Ben had met increasingly less subtle hints with bland incomprehension, Carter had

asked for someone else to deal with his accounts. That hadn’t done much for Ben’s

standing at the company, but he didn’t regret his choice.

He wandered around the bar, trying to view it as a customer would, contrasting it

with his first impressions on that dull, chilly February day. Now, midway through

March, the city was enjoying a patch of good weather warm enough to make it feel

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more like summer than spring. Winter coats had been shed, trees were in bud, and the

sky was a deep, dazzling blue.

And on a practical note, the smell of paint and the lingering dust had been erased

by the steady flow of air through wide-open windows.

Ignoring the amused looks from Vin, polishing glasses behind the bar, Ben stood

still, gazing around him. The rich, deep yellow of the walls looked stunning with the

nut-brown wooden floor and the granite bar. The tables and chairs invited people to sit,

and the floor space had been increased by repositioning the pool table. Ben walked over

to it and picked the white ball out of a pocket. Smooth and heavy in his hand, it

tempted him to try a shot or two. But there wasn’t time.

He walked through the snug, adjusting a chair here, a painting on the wall there.

He’d already checked the washrooms, not without a reminiscent shiver of arousal.

Memories were one thing, but he was looking forward to creating more, assuming

Shane ever stopped sulking over the issue of the name.

He didn’t even have a reason to sulk, for God’s sake. He’d continued to be

grouchy and unpleasant even after time constraints had meant Ben had to order the

signs and posters with the bar’s original name or risk not having them at all. Ben had

conceded to keeping things the way they were for now. If in the long run he decided to

insist on the name change, they could have another event that would hopefully draw

still more new customers. Shane apparently hadn’t liked the sound of that either, and

his mood hadn’t lifted even though Ben had avoided the subject since.

Ben wandered over to the bar where Vin was now slicing lemons. “You have

everything you need?”

“Maybe for the first time ever,” Vin agreed. He paused, the edge of his paring

knife pressing against the bright yellow peel of a large lemon. “Did you and Shane have

a fight or something?”

Ben sighed. “Not really.”

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“He was used to doing things his way.” Vin finished slicing the last lemon, then

tossed the ends of the lemons into the trash. “I guess it’s hard when someone else comes

in and wants to change things.”

“I changed a lot. Maybe too much. I don’t know. I want this place to be profitable

for all of us. Successful.” None of this would come as a surprise to Vin.

“I wouldn’t complain if my tips doubled.” Vin grinned at him. “Or tripled. Then I

could get my own place and get out of your hair.”

Ben shook his head and wiped at a nonexistent spot on the granite. “You can stay

as long as you want. It’s not a problem. It’s kind of nice having someone around. I

should have gotten a roommate a long time ago.”

It was different than sharing with a lover and in some ways less stressful. Vin was

under no illusions that he had a say in how the house was decorated, or what went in

which cupboards, or even the brand of shower gel in the bathroom. He was welcome to

buy his own shower gel, of course, but so far, Vin had simply accepted the state of

affairs without showing anything but a gratitude that was sincere without being over-

effusive.

When Ben compared it to Shane’s prickly combativeness, he should’ve preferred

Vin’s easygoing attitude and demeanor. But he didn’t. Vin was far from boring; Ben had

enjoyed some spirited discussions with him on a multitude of topics from politics to

music to the tattoos covering so much of Vin’s skin, but he never had the slightest urge

to put his hands on that skin and mark it in a less permanent way.

Even if he had, Vin was so settled in his celibacy he would’ve turned Ben down—

and that was one subject Vin refused to discuss.

Vin smiled at him, the stud under his lip catching the light. “You’ll probably have

to pitch in and help when it gets crazy later on. How are you at pulling a pint of

Guinness?”

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“Me?” Ben felt a flutter of panic. “No, I wasn’t planning on that. Clearing the

tables, restocking when needed, that kind of thing, but I don’t have a clue how to mix

drinks.”

“You own half the bar. It’s about time you did.”

Ben turned to see Shane leaning at the other end of the bar, his expression still

guarded, but with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes that looked promising for a

reconciliation. Shane looked sexy as hell in tight black denim jeans and a short-sleeved

black T-shirt advertising Hobgoblin Ale clinging to his muscular chest.

“It’s what I’ve been telling him,” Vin agreed. He sauntered down to Shane,

reached over, and pinched his arm. “You’re not wearing green,” he explained when

Shane yelped and glared at him.

“You Yanks do realize this is a load of fucking bullshit that no one in Ireland gives

a toss about, don’t you?” Shane growled.

“It sells beer,” Ben said. He could see the faint red spot on Shane’s upper arm from

the pinch. It disturbed him just how much he resented the fact that someone else had

put it there. “You don’t have to wear a lot of green, but people will expect to see it on

you somewhere. Get in the spirit of things.”

Even Vin had opted for a green cotton scarf threaded through the belt loops of his

ink-black pants and an emerald stud in his left ear.

Shane blew out an impatient breath. “Fine, I’ll put on a green T-shirt or something,

but only because if anyone else tries pinching me, they’ll be wearing whatever they’re

drinking, and I don’t need you to tell me that’s bad for business.”

He stomped away upstairs and came back five minutes later wearing a faded

green T-shirt that had probably fit him ten pounds ago but was now just a little too

tight. It made Ben want to thumb his nipples until they could be seen through the thin

fabric, made him want to push Shane to the floor and lie down on top of him until their

warmth had seeped into the material. He wished he could bite Shane through the worn

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cotton and know without seeing them that the man wore his marks, the imprints of his

teeth tattooed on skin.

Shane’s attention turned toward Ben, and their eyes met. Ben would have been

willing to bet a million dollars that somehow Shane knew exactly what he’d been

thinking. He looked away, face hot, and gave Vin his attention.

“Okay. Is there anything I can help with? Put me to work.”

Vin shook his head. “It’s all done. This was the last of it.” He was washing his

hands at the new sink behind the bar, gleaming and clean like everything else in the

place.

“Show him how to pour a pint,” Shane said abruptly, jerking his thumb at Ben.

“I don’t think—” Ben began, reluctant to make a fool of himself in front of them.