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His name wasn’t Phillip of course. It was the name he happened to be using when Benoit Bloody Blanc walked into his (it’s temporary and it’s not really his) bookshop.
“Good morning,” Blanc said, “I wondered if you might help me pick out a good hostess present.” It was possibly the strangest accent not-Phillip had heard in his entire life. This couldn’t possibly be his real accent. Was Blanc undercover? Blanc's face had been on the New York Times two months ago, and Blanc hadn’t done anything to disguise himself from that look. Not even dyed hair or glasses…
“Of course,” not-Phillip said. “What kind of occasion will she be hosting?” Not-Phillip could definitely live his cover even with the supposed World’s Greatest Detective in *not-his* shop--he was up to the challenge. He was, after all, the World’s Greatest Jewel Thief.
“I’m afraid it will be a funeral,” Blanc said.
“Oh,” not-Phillip said. Was this another trick? Who brought a hostess gift to a funeral?
Benoit Blanc evidently.
“Perhaps something in the Philosophy section,” not-Phillip suggested, “Or Dante’s Inferno?”
Not-Phillip had never actually read Dante. He had an ex who was mad about that thing though. Read it in Italian, and then talk nonstop for days about how it was the greatest book ever. It seemed like the kind of thing that might be an appropriate hostess gift for a funeral.
“Why that would be absolutely perfect,” Blanc said, and his face shifted into a smile. It made him look a little silly if not-Phillip was being honest. He did not find it charming at all.
No. He, not-Phillip and definitely not-Smith, British Jewel Thief Extraordinaire was the soul of charm. This funny little detective wearing a bespoke tweed jacket, a blue tie that perfectly matched his eyes, with his outlandish accent and his stupid smile was decidedly not charming.
Blanc didn’t even need not-Phillip to direct him to where to find the Inferno. He just went to the exact place where it was, and took it from the shelf like he was the one who worked at the bookstore. And he paid for it with his card which very boldly printed B. Blanc in raised letters. Not undercover then.
As Blanc walked away from the shop, he turned back and gave a little wave of his hand that seemed entirely too jaunty. Was that a tease? Not-Phillip was not flustered.
There was no way that Blanc could know about him. Could he?
No, this had to be a coincidence. Not-Phillip was too careful.
So when not-Phillip read about the Cloister murders that had been solved by the famous detective Benoit Blanc at Marion Bradley’s mock-funeral that following Sunday, not-Phillip did not let out a sigh of relief.
***
Two days later, however, not-Phillip quite literally choked on his biscuit when Benoit Blanc came back into the shop.
And to his absolute mortification, Blanc actually leaped--LEAPED--across the counter to dislodge the biscuit from not-Phillip’s throat with a forceful abdominal thrust.
“Thank you,” not-Phillip managed, as he picked up a tissue and cleaned up the half chewed biscuit on the counter.
“My pleasure,” Blanc said, while still holding on to not-Phillip. “Are you alright?”
This was clearly some kind of interrogation technique. Not-Phillip could feel all of the muscles of Blanc’s chest and arms around him, and smell Blanc’s very nice cologne.
When Blanc turned not-Phillip around gently, not-Phillip suddenly realized that he had not responded to Blanc’s question and he was still holding the dirty tissue with the biscuit.
“Should I call someone for you?” Blanc said.
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” not-Phillip said again and met the detective’s gaze. Really, the color of this man’s eyes was ridiculous.
There was a discreet throat clearing from another customer.
“Oh,” Blanc said, and immediately let go of not-Phillip.
Then as if it was an afterthought, Blanc leaped back across the counter like it was nothing, and left the bookshop.
“What was that about?” Margaret asked. She was an actual regular, and bought at least three biographies of U.S presidents a month.
“I have no idea,” not-Phillip answered honestly.
***
The next time Blanc came into the store, not-Phillip was ready.
“Please allow me to thank you for saving my life,” not-Phillip said immediately when Blanc stepped inside.
“Oh that’s not necessary,” Blanc said, and blushed. That couldn’t be a real blush, could it? He was wearing a ridiculous jumper that made him look younger somehow. “I was simply--”
“Can I take you to dinner?” not-Phillip interrupted. He bit his lower lip slightly and looked up from his lashes.
It was a practiced move, of course. Not-Phillip had perfected it over the years on men, women, and not a few police detectives. And it only failed to work once on a very disciplined actress (but even Angie had become a close friend and confidant eventually.)
And Blanc certainly did not have the fortitude that Angie possessed.
So they went out to dinner the following night.
And it was-- good.
It was amazing in fact.
It was the best date that not-Phillip had ever gone on.
Knowing Blanc’s reputation, not-Phillip told only real stories, but changed the settings ever so slightly. But the way Blanc paid attention-- the way he listened, it made not-Phillip feel-- no he was definitely not feeling giddy.
He was having some sort of a reaction to having Blanc seeing him, really seeing him. All of that obvious intelligence being so genuinely interested in him.
Fuck.
Not-Phillip had to literally bite his tongue to stop himself from talking. He took a big gulp of his drink, and asked about Blanc’s cases.
He thought Blanc would be evasive when the attention was turned to him, but he wasn’t.
Blanc happily discussed his past cases. He shared funny stories about some of the famous people he had met that made not-Phillip almost choke on his cocktail again.
At the end of the dinner, Blanc even walked not-Phillip home, and--
Kissed him.
It was a polite kiss, but it was also a real kiss.
And when not-Phillip deepened it, Blanc followed suit like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Oh.
Oh shit.
***
On their sixth date, Blanc asked him to move in.
Not-Phillip laughed, and he could even admit to himself that it was a completely hysterical laugh.
“You hardly know me, Blanc,” not-Phillip said, a little desperately, but when Blanc took a deep breath to begin one of his famous monologues, not-Phillip stopped him with a kiss.
Because not-Phillip was the Greatest Jewel Thief in the world, but he was no match for Blanc.
And Phillip had known that from the first moment Benoit bloody Blanc walked into *his* bookshop.
“Nevermind,” Phillip said. “You knew already, and you knew the moment you walked into my shop. And I don’t care how you figured it out. You’ve known this entire time, and you didn’t care, and you still want me to move in.”
“If you will have me,” Blanc said. “Although I still think Smith is far too pedestrian of a name for the World’s Greatest Jewel Thief.”
Phillip wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss Blanc again or to punch him.
In the end, the kiss won.
***
Three years later, Phillip changed his last name to Blanc.