Not that there’s much Beckett does that doesn’t work for me.
Watching him in the fields this morning was like a glass of water set just out of reach. The flex and release of his arms as he thrust his shovel down. The spread of his shoulders and the strong line of his jaw. It didn’t help that I know what his body looks like under all of those clothes. The way his hard chest tapers down into narrow hips, the stacked muscle across his abdomen that I definitely sunk my teeth into during our time together.
“Where are we going?”
His truck slows as we hit the edge of town, a painted wooden sign welcoming us to downtown Inglewild. It makes me smile every time I see it. The difference between downtown and the rest of it must be two square blocks. Beckett turns left at the firehouse and rumbles down the street, his gaze focused out the front windshield. I feel like maybe I should turn on some guided meditation, calm him down before he finds whoever it is he’s looking for.
“Beckett,” I try again. “Where are we going?”
I’m starting to think his plan is to drive his truck right through someone’s living room.
“The bar,” he answers. Two words. Nothing more. I watch his jaw flex and pop.
“Who is at the bar?”
“Carter Dempsey.”
I nod like that name means anything to me. “And what are you going to do to Carter Dempsey?”
Beckett smoothes his hand over the gear stick and slows us to a stop. In a series of practiced movements, he maneuvers his behemoth of a truck into one of the parking spots that borders the main road. Never in my life have I been so turned on by parallel parking. Beckett shifts into park and levels a look right at me.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Okay, well. That is probably not a great idea. He kicks open his door and strides across the street like he’s off to happily murder someone. I struggle to get my seatbelt unbuckled and follow after him with quick steps, jogging to catch up with his furious walking.
“Did you want to get ice cream instead?”
He shoulders his way through the wide wooden door, keeping it open with his palm so I can slip in beneath. “No.”
“They had a new flavor a couple of days ago.”
Chocolate waffle cone with little bits of butterfinger mixed in. Layla and I got three cones in a row. He grunts at me and heads towards the long counter that stretches across the middle of the space. It’s dark, even during mid-day, and no one is standing behind the bar, the place empty except for a man slouched in a booth in the corner. He raises a hand in greeting as Beck stomps his way to a stool, kicking out the one next to him in what I assume is an invitation.
“Jesse working today?”
“No, it’s Carter,” the man in the corner answers. “Though I don’t know where he disappeared to.”
I trail after Beckett to the old mahogany bar, cataloging the ornate tin detail layered across the ceiling. If Carter has a lick of sense, he’ll disappear out the back of the bar. I take the seat next to Beckett and he pulls me closer with his foot between the bottom rungs of the stool, handing me a paper menu.
I curl my fingers around it and stare at him. “Will we be eating before or after you commit a crime?”
A smile barely touches his lips. “After.”
“I imagine that might be difficult with blood on your hands.”
His lip quirks up further and he nods towards the bathroom. “They have soap.”
Alright, then. I glance down at the menu, one edge ripped clean off. “What would you recommend?”
Sea-green eyes slant in my direction. “Thought you’d like the eggplant thing.”
I hum and tilt my head as I look at the description printed beneath. “You’re right. But I’m getting french fries.” I refuse to eat a side salad after a full day of manual labor. Or, you know, ever.
“Okay.”
He keeps his boot below my stool as we wait, his gaze not wavering from the small half-door that leads to the back kitchen. His knee bumps into my leg every couple of minutes and it’s nice, despite the tension he’s holding in his shoulders. It’s nice sharing a space. It was nice spending all day out in the fields with him. It was nice coming back to the house with the tea kettle on the stove and muffins from the bakehouse in a pretty green box on the kitchen island. The cats lounging across the furniture and Beckett’s boots discarded at the door. It was nice seeing him come down the hall, hair still wet from a shower, jeans low on his hips, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. It was nice being pressed against him, his skin warm and his breath a gentle puff against my ear.
I’ve always felt a pull towards Beck. That’s no secret. But it’s worse now. Deeper. I like spending time with him, seeing the bits of himself he does his best to hide. His routines and his order and begrudging commitment to a family of orphaned cats. His loyalty and his quiet caretaking.
I like him.
The longer I’m here, the easier it is to ignore everything else. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet.
After ten minutes without an appearance from the mysterious Carter, Beckett sighs and stands from his stool, uncurling his big body from his hunched over position. I hear him mutter something about useless fuckwad under his breath again. He rounds the edge of the bar. “You want a beer?”
“Cider, if they have it.”
He squints down at the tap handles. I smile as he bends slightly closer to the labels, his head tilting in confusion.
“Do you need glasses?”
He wraps his hand around one of the taps, tipping a glass beneath and filling it with amber bubbles. He doesn’t answer me.
“Because it looks like, perhaps, you might need glasses.”
I think about him in a pair of thick black frames, slipping low on his nose as he sits in the big leather chair by his fireplace, one of the cats on his lap and a book on his knee. My whole body breaks out in goosebumps.
“I have a pair I wear sometimes, but only for reading,” he mutters. He grabs another glass for himself and pours a beer. He glances over my shoulder at the man in the corner. “You need anything, Pete?”
“Tequila on the rocks, young man.”
Beckett nods and grabs a bottle off the back shelf. A slow curl of heat unfurls at the base of my spine as Beckett lines up a glass, forearm flexing. The last time I had tequila, Beckett had licked a line of salt from the inside of my wrist and then knotted his fingers in my hair, urged my head back until he could taste it off my tongue.
He glances up at me as he pours, eyes knowing.
I try to smile around the lump lodged in my throat. “This is familiar.” My voice comes out in a gritty whisper.
It’s as close as we’ve ever come to talking about that weekend. He nods and slides the glass of tequila down the bar. “I’m not bringing it to you, Pete,” he calls over his shoulder.