Page 6 of Rules to Love By

“Sure. What do you think? Best keep up with the times, right? You’re young. What’s hip?”

“Hip. I, um…” He studied the wall, imagining it with the shelves gone and the silicone around the sinks redone. A pattern of deep red, blue and black diamonds all outlined in thin gold lines appeared above a lower wall painted satiny black. He blinked and the image flared, then was gone. For another heartbeat, he stared at the wall, but the image didn’t return.

“Uh-huh.” Mr. Benson nodded, expression knowing. “He’s shown you, hasn’t he?”

“I, um…” He pursed his lips, hearing Aunt Iris in his head telling him “Um” wasn’t an answer. “He… the… wall… Wants diamonds. I mean, that would look good here.” Annoyed, he pushed curls off his face, leaving his fingers tangled in his hair while he glared at the wall.

Mr. Benson’s eyebrows went up.

“Like the joker on a playing card?” Marcus said.

“Harlequins?”

“Right. A washable wallpaper, maybe?” He flattened a palm over the current non-descript brown paint. The plaster underneath was lumpy and irregular. Not a great surface for adhering a wallcovering. “Or… I don’t know. I fix things. Not really a decorator.”

“But you can fix the shelves?”

“Yeah, of course. That’s pretty simple.”

“Good, good. We’ll start with taking them down before they fall down—”

“Dad?” A deep voice sent a shiver of awareness through Marcus.

“Back here, son.”

Marcus turned in time to see a man about his own age appear from a doorway between the couches.

“Oh.” He stopped short, a hand skimming down the front of a worn T-shirt, coming to rest over his stomach. Skin, not as dark as Mr. Benson’s but not quite as light as the slight Asian tint Marcus had, flushed. He was a solid man, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, but softened around the edges—an echo of his father’s generous proportions, but taller and not so ample.

“Son, you remember Marcus? Tristan’s friend?”

“Dad. Seriously. No one calls him Tristan.” Taking a step forward, he held out a hand, momentary hesitancy gone. “Eli—”

“I remember.” Marcus took the offered hand. It was warm, the grip strong and the shake firm. The previous shiver of interest coiled around Marcus’s spine. He pulled his hand free and took a step back before that twining interest could take hold. “It’s nice to see you again.” Not that Marcus would expect Eli to remember him.

“Same,” Eli said, then turned to his father. “What’s the deal?”

“I’m just showing Marcus around. He’s agreed to do some of the fixing up we talked about.”

“We talked about a lot, Dad. I can—”

“Like you put up those shelves?” Mr. Benson pointed to the creaking offenders.

A muscle jumped in Eli’s jaw, and he flashed a glance at Marcus. “Ouch. You’re killin’ me here.”

“Now, son. You got a lot going on, with college classes and exams and whatnot. You can’t be good at everything.”

The jaw muscle turned to steel under a deceptively gentle jawline. Marcus saw the tension and melted back to the area around the sinks, keen to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

“Maybe you can learn something, though,” Mr. Benson went on. “If Marcus needs a hand.”

“I don’t—”

“I can’t stay,” Eli said, jaw still tight. “Obviously.” He glanced at Marcus. “Unless you do need help?”

Marcus ducked his head, curl flopping over one eye. “Not necessary.” He had no interest in having someone breathing over his shoulder who didn’t want to be there. “I’m sure you have better things to do in the city.”

Eli’s eyes narrowed. “Better than looking after my dad’s place?”

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