“Oh, goodness. What are the odds?” Her laughter tapers off. “I guess you’re officially a local now … if you’ve been added to the phone tree.”
“I guess so.” The thought makes me grin. I still have questions about how they got this number, though. My dad doesn’t even have it yet. “We weren’t making out.”
“Oh, honey. That’s a shame.” She tuts once. “You should always be making out with that man.”
I hang up the phone and kick my legs as I stare out at the rolling hills. I let myself imagine what this would be like. Mornings spent in town and afternoons on the farm, brilliant color spilling out behind the house as the flowers begin to bloom. Calls from the phone tree and cookies from Ms. Beatrice in the dead of night. Beckett’s mouth against mine.
I still haven’t gotten that itch to move. The pulse that beats in my chest to go somewhere new—chase, discover, find—it’s fainter now. Quiet. I don’t think it’s gone. It’s just … satisfied, I think.
I glance at my phone and instead of feeling a swell of anxiety rising like a tide, I just feel … nothing. I didn’t bother reconnecting any of my social accounts when I set up this new phone. Didn’t connect my email either.
I’m starting to let some things go.
I watch Beckett cross behind the windows again—one thing I don’t want to let go of.
With Beckett, I’m trying to figure out too much on my own when there’s another half to the equation currently hiding in the greenhouse, tending to his plants. Does he even want me to stay? I stand from my seat and step down the back porch, following the path laid by oversized, flat stones. Comet and Vixen rush ahead of me, hopping from rock to rock to slip through the crack in the door.
Beckett’s back is to me, his t-shirt stretched over his shoulders as he works at the table pressed against the length of the back wall. Almost all of the floor space is occupied by various pots and planters, a long shelf against each floor-to-ceiling window crowded with orchids and petunias and bright red poinsettias, their silky petals open to the setting sun. I duck my nose into a cluster of pink I don’t recognize, its scent like the first bite of a crisp apple. Tangy and sharp.
I lean back and find Beckett watching me.
“Phone tree called,” I tell him. “We’re official.”
I regret my choice of words almost immediately. The only thing official about what we’re doing is officially avoiding the conversation. Officially stupid about it. I roll my eyes up to the glass panels of the ceiling and back down again. “You know what I mean.”
He wipes his hands on a towel, his movements practiced and smooth. “We’re officially on everyone’s creep radar?” He tosses the towel to the side. “We’re officially going to have to start checking the front bushes for neighbors?”
I like that word so much. We.
“I don’t think you’ll find Luka and Stella hiding in your bushes,” I say as I lean my hip against the table he’s been working at. Three small pots and a packet of seeds. A bright blue watering can and some pruning shears. I tilt my head and glance at his neat handwriting at the bottom lip of terracotta. Lavender.
“Are we going to talk about what’s going on, or are you going to silently poke around my greenhouse until I lose my mind?”
I blink up at him and feel a smile tug at my mouth. I bite down on the inside of my cheek in a show of restraint. “The second option sounds nice, thank you.”
He shakes his head and rubs his knuckles against his neck, exasperated. This poor man. I’ve really put him through the ringer this week. The pond, a kiss … sex in a field. I’d feel bad if I didn’t know for a fact he loves it. He loves the challenge, the fight, the big tease of it all. He drops his hands and reaches under the table, flicking some hidden switch. A low string of lights twined around the ceiling panels blinks to life and the whole space glows with a warm, hazy light. I catch a reflection of us in the glass to my right, night creeping across the fields outside and cloaking everything in shadow.
I’m captivated by the look of us reflected back in a wavy distortion. Me standing in front of Beckett, his body strong where he’s propped up against the table. His tattooed arms spread wide. My ponytail curled over my shoulder.
“There are other options to explore, I think.” He steps forward and cages me against the table at my back, his hands finding my hips and lifting me carefully on top. He drags my legs wide and pats once at the outside of my thighs, stepping between them. All of his movements are so easy, so effortless. Like he’s been out here planning exactly what he wants to do with me.
“So far, so good,” I say.
A smile flirts with the corners of his mouth. He settles the palm of his hand against my neck and traces below my ear. “I like you, Evie,” he breathes, and the humid air in the greenhouse turns thicker, warmer. His gaze softens on mine and everything in his eyes looks a lot more than like. My heart pounds in my chest and I know whatever he feels, I feel it, too. “I like you a lot. I want to see where this goes.”
“See where this goes,” I repeat back to him slowly, focused on the fingers of his other hand toying with the hem of my dress. He could be reciting the Star-Spangled Banner and I’d probably still have the same stupefied look on my face. He strokes my legs again, thumb curling under the edge of my skirt. I put on a dress before we left the house this morning. I liked the way Beckett swallowed hard when I walked into the kitchen, how his eyes lingered on where the hem brushed my thighs.
He gathers the fabric in his fist and rolls the material up once. I shiver.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Does that work for you?”
“It’s a good start.” I want more from him than that. See where this goes sounds a little ambivalent for the big feelings bursting the seams of my chest, but it’ll do for now. He flips the skirt of my dress up again, another inch of skin visible. “I like you too, for the record.”
I more than like him.
“I’m glad we talked about this,” he tells the tops of my knees, a heavy swallow in the strong column of his throat. He leans forward and nudges under my jaw. I obediently lift my chin and he presses a soft kiss right over my pulse point. He likes that small concession, a rough breath exhaled over my skin, fingers dragging along the outside of my thighs. I stop his hands at the place where my underwear rises over my hips, my hands curling around his wrists.
“I’m going to want to talk about this more.”
“Alright.”
“Lots of conversations.”
His hands flex at my waist, fingers slipping under the band of my underwear. He twists the material and tugs. “As many as you want, honey.”
“Beckett,” I drag my lips across his forehead. I’m taller than him like this, propped up on the table, his big body occupying all the space between my spread legs. “The walls are made out of glass.”