of the burden.
This weekend.
She’d do it this weekend.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ben
Claire leaned back in her chair, hazel eyes sparkling, curly brown hair shining under the lights as Stef burst into laughter.
He wanted to close the distance between them, to kiss the woman he was utterly in love with—Stef, not Claire—though he loved the latter, too, albeit in a sisterly fashion, and despite her efforts to embarrass him.
“And then he came to that first production meeting with his hair all messed up, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and smelling like booze.”
Baine gave him a wolfish smile. Spence looked vaguely uncomfortable, having said only a handful of words. CJ had been still and silent as a statue.
“In fairness for my idiocy,” Ben said. “I’d never been to a strip club, and that one”—he pointed at Baine—“decided that I needed to have the full experience.”
“You were twenty-seven and hadn’t had a lap dance. That needed to be remedied.”
Stef’s grin stayed in place, but Ben saw a glimmer of insecurity dancing on the edges of her expression.
Baine got that, too, and he didn’t lie to her, just said the words that would put her at ease. “This one hated it. Sat there like a statue when I brought the girls over, no matter how many drinks I bought him.”
The insecurity faded. “Not your thing?”
Ben shook his head, but Baine answered for him. “Definitely not his thing. No matter how much I coaxed, I couldn’t get him back there.”
“It was too much for this nerd,” Ben said lightly. “Plus, I had enough people trying to get close to me because of Hunt. I didn’t need an entire club’s worth doing that.”
Baine shrugged. “At least you knew what they were after the moment you walked through the door.”
He considered that, nodded. “That’s true,” he agreed.
“But still not your thing,” Stef murmured.
Lacing his fingers with hers, he brought them up to his mouth and kissed them lightly. “For the scrawny kid who didn’t even have a date to prom . . . it was less a fantasy and more a nightmare.”
Claire tsked. “Oh poor, poor CEO. Everyone wants a piece of him.”
Baine snorted.
Ben rolled his eyes.
Spence’s cheeks went a little pink. CJ still played statue.
Stef bristled, turning to Claire, her delicate features pulled into a scowl. “He’s allowed to feel the way he feels,” she ground out, adding when Claire scoffed, “And those feelings are valid, whether or not you think they are.”
A glimpse of the fire beneath the sweet.
Hidden steel wielded for him.
Claire leaned forward. “You have a defender.”
Stef narrowed her eyes. “Ben is a good man, and he deserves your respect. He’s done so much for me and—”
Silence.
Then Claire’s voice took on a note of cold, one that drew Ben’s sharp glare. “And what has he done, exactly?”
He could read the undertones in the question, same as Stef could, if her going stiff as a board beside him was any indication. “Claire,” he began, warning lacing his tone.
Stef talked over him. “He’s given me hope.”
More silence.
She spoke softly but fiercely, each word carefully clipped out. “And shown me that I can trust people again. Not because I was dragged along by someone else, included because someone took pity on me and brought me along. Not even because he’s stuck with me due to us working together, like . . .” Her lips pressed flat then relaxed, voice even softer, and he realized she was talking about her friends, about Heidi. “Ben chose me, and I know what a gift that is.”
His heart thudded, twisting the words over in his mind.
She thought her friends only liked her because of some bizarre obligation?
That drove a blade right through his insides. He wanted to yank her out of this restaurant, find some quiet place, and yell at her until she realized that she was loveable and worthy of her friends. Then he wanted to track down Jeremy Whatever-His-Name was and hurt him for hurting her. Then he wanted to find out who else had hurt her because he understood now that her wounds weren’t from one man. They ran deeper than that, ingrained so deeply that they’d been imprinted on her soul.
“And you’ve known him how long? A month—”
Ben jerked his gaze to Claire. “That’s—”
“Yes,” Stef snapped. “A month. Or five weeks, if we’re not counting that we first talked four months ago and that I chickened out and ended it.” She rolled her shoulders, and he hated the glimmer of disgust on her face, but she kept talking before he could