applaud your sentiments, but sometimes a man simply needs to let off some steam. You should find yourself a friend with benefits.” He grinned. “How about that young man down at the antiques store? Didn’t you say he had his eye on you?”
Ben snorted. “Ryan? He’s a nice guy, but there’s no chemistry. Besides, he’s only twenty-one.”
Hemingway clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Oh, the shame,” he sang out. “An eleven-year difference. What would the neighbours think?” He snorted loudly. “I’ll tell you what they’d think seeing that tasty young man going into your home. They’d say Ben Sinclair had finally got over himself and scheduled a good fuck. God knows you need one.”
Ben narrowed his eyes then launched himself at his friend, who laughed in merriment as they rolled around on the grass. Hemingway had a ticklish spot between his ribs, and Ben was hell-bound on getting the man to squeal like a ferret.
Finally, panting in exertion, Ben lay back on the grass, Hemingway lying next to him, also short of breath.
“Well,” Hemingway panted, “I wasn’t intending being your play-pal of the day, but I guess wrestling with me is the closest you’re getting to sex today.” He jumped up nimbly, out of reach of Ben’s fingers reaching over to do more damage.
Hemingway brushed the grass of his overalls and reached out a hand to help Ben to his feet. “Come on. It’s almost home time. I’ll buy you a pint at the pub. If you’re lucky, maybe even a packet of crisps. We’ll call it a reverse date. The physical stuff first then the dinner.” He guffawed loudly.
Ben smiled at him as he clambered up. “You’re a douche, you know that? But I’ll take you up on the dinner date. I could use a beer.” It’d mean he’d have to get a taxi home, instead of using his bicycle, but what the hell. Perhaps Hemmy could pick him up in the morning.
Getting tipsy sounded like a damned good idea.
Chapter 3
The tinkling of bells nudged Ben awake from a deep sleep. He snuffled into his pillow, stretched his legs beneath the duvet, which was a little awkward as Tess was lumbered on top, and closed his eyes.
“Bloody wind chimes,” he mumbled. “Need to move them tomorrow.” He’d no sooner found a comfy spot when the bells rang again. It didn’t sound like the usual tinkling. Ben rousted himself once again and listened. It seemed as if the chimes were sounding from inside the house. To his knowledge, he had no bell instruments or gadgets. Perhaps it was his mobile. He’d probably left it next to his armchair in the lounge, and something was chiming. Maybe it was a Facebook or Instagram message.
The clock on his bedside table read three a.m. He thumped his pillow and settled down again. Tess hadn’t even stirred, and continued to snore softly.
No sooner had he gotten comfortable, the bells went again. Not once, not twice, but three times.
“Shit,” he swore as he got out of bed, starkers. “I leave my phone away from the bedroom for a reason. What twat is shoving his shit on Facebook at this time of the morning?”
It was Saturday, and he’d been looking forward to a lie-in, followed by making himself a carb-laden English breakfast.
Growling under his breath, he stormed through to the lounge and saw his phone lying innocently on the side of the couch. Ben picked it up, switched it off, and threw it back down.
As he started back to bed, the bells rang again. Ben stopped. He wasn’t afraid to admit a cold sliver of something unwelcome slid down his spine. He’d seen those films where you disconnected the telly, yet it still went on showing static, and then creepy voices spoke before everything literally went to hell.
He cleared his throat quietly and stood, waiting to see where the sound was coming from. After a few seconds, it went again. It seemed to be coming from the cabinet in the dining room. Ben took a deep breath and sidled over to it. All he had on the shelves were some books, a box of old chocolates with all the caramels remaining—he wasn’t a fan of those—some tattered textbooks from university, a roll of chewing gum, a plaque someone had given him of a cute koala saying, “I have the koalifications,” and the brass lamp he’d found at the antiques store. Nothing bell- or tinkly-like at all.
He bent down closer to listen, and as he did,