I take a fortifying breath as I pull the truck to a stop, yanking with what feels like my entire body weight to throw it into park. I turn off the ignition and the rumble cuts out, the cab of the truck filled with the sounds of muffled night lingering outside the window. The chirp of the crickets that hide in his gutters. The creak of the weathervane at the peak of his roof. A loose shutter, tapping lightly at the siding.
Beckett doesn’t look away from me, the light from the moon casting his face in shadow. Like this, he is only strong angles and smooth lines. His nose. His jaw. The slant of his serious brow. His hand shifts against the top of the console, his fingertips barely brushing at my knuckles.
“Evie,” he breathes, his deep voice even deeper than usual. I don’t think I’ve ever liked the sound of my name so much. “I really did mean it.”
“I know you did,” I whisper. Beckett isn’t capable of saying something he doesn’t mean. It’s one of the things I like best about him. I know he’s always telling me the truth.
“I like you,” he whispers. His gaze slips down to my lips and holds. “I like you so much.”
I need to get out of this truck.
He follows me as I stumble from the truck, my knee hitting the banister at the edge of his porch as I clamber my way up. All of a sudden it feels like I was the one downing beers at the bar tonight, my hands clumsy as I fumble to find the right key.
“I thought about you all the time,” Beckett says from right behind me, his chest brushing against my back. A single fingertip traces the top edge of my shirt where it sits against my neck. I drop the keys to the porch.
“I think about you all the time,” he continues. When I tilt my head back to look at him, his hands are clenched in fists at his side. That ridiculous flower crown is still in his hair. “Do you think about me?”
“Beckett.”
“Do you?”
I scoop the keys from the weathered wooden planks and shoulder my way through the front door, Beckett trailing after me with slow, careful steps—a sigh he does his best to hide as he toes off his shoes and slips the crown from his head. I watch as he places it carefully on a hook, his finger tracing a pale purple petal. He’s an introspective drinker, I tell myself. That’s all this is. Our best bet is to call it a night and retire to the two very opposite ends of the house. Maybe we can—maybe we can try this conversation again in the morning.
I doubt very much he’ll say anything about it. He’ll probably pour his coffee and mumble about making an egg scramble for breakfast. Complain about the quality of store bought spinach and scrape the wooden spoon against the bottom of the pan with quick, agitated movements.
I just—we can’t have this conversation right now. Not when alcohol has made him honest. I want him to want to be honest.
I pour a glass of water and set it on the counter, press up on my toes to root around the cabinet above the fridge. A strong arm appears above me, the smooth skin on the inside of Beckett’s arm close enough for me to drag my nose against. I see the edge of bright blue—a galaxy peeking out from the beneath the sleeve of his shirt.
“What are you doing?” His voice is low behind me, his warm breath fluttering my hair.
“Getting you some ibuprofen,” I say to the thin line drawing of Orion above his elbow, a shield held loose in his fist. Instead of a club above his head, he’s holding a cluster of flowers—poppies and posies and a big, stunning sunflower. It’s so beautifully Beckett, it makes my chest hurt.
“Evelyn.”
“Of course I think about you,” I say in a rush. Some secret part of me unlocks, unravels, unspools. I’ve been thinking about Beckett Porter since I left him in a tiny coastal town all those months ago. I swallow and curl my fingers around the small bottle of pills, pull it down and hold it close to my chest.
When I turn, he’s standing close, both hands anchoring on the countertop at my sides. I’m tucked between his arms, close enough to brush my lips against the cluster of flowers on his bicep. My knees knock into his and I lift my chin up.
His eyes dart back and forth between mine, knuckles grazing at my hip where his hands flex and hold. “I like having you here,” he says roughly. Another confession.
I try to ease the tension that has us stumbling closer together. “You’re not tired of me yet?”
“If you’re waiting for me to be tired of you, Evie,” he raises his hand and catches a strand of my hair, curls it around his finger and tugs once. There’s an answering pulse low in my belly. “You’re gonna be waiting a long time.”
I search his eyes to measure how serious he is. “You’re very good at hiding all of this.”
“Really?” He looks surprised. “Doesn’t feel like it. I feel cracked wide open around you.”
I know the feeling. I let out a shaky breath. “We should go to bed.”
“We should.”
Beckett doesn’t move an inch. His tone suggests we should go to bed, but maybe we should do it together. I squeeze the bottle in my hands like it’s the only thing keeping me pressed up against this counter. This close, I can smell the outside on his skin. Spring wind, a crisp clean bite. It would be so easy to lean up and taste it off his collarbone. I already know the sound he would make. The way his hands would mold to my hips, his pinky finger slipping down into the waist of my jeans.
“We can—” I close my eyes to resist the temptation. Childish? Probably. But I’m way too close to taking advantage of a tipsy Beckett in his kitchen. “We can talk about it in the morning.”
I feel his nose against my temple right before he pushes off the counter and takes a step back. I keep my eyes closed and thrust out the bottle of medicine. Rough fingertips brush over the back of my hand before he grabs it.
“G’night, Evie.” It sounds like he’s smiling, but I refuse to look.
“Night, Beckett.”
I hear footsteps down the hallway and the quiet click of a door.
I breathe out slowly.
“I like you, too,” I whisper to the dark kitchen. “So much.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BECKETT
I glance at the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall for the fifteenth time since I stumbled out of mine, a headache pounding at the base of my skull. Less from the drinking, I think, and more from the wanting.
I had been so close to kissing Evelyn last night. At the bar, with her sunshine smile as Gus spun her around on the dance floor. In the truck, with her hand curled around the gear shifter and her hair falling around her face. In the kitchen, with my hips an inch away from hers, pink lighting up her cheeks.
I wanted to do more than kiss her in the kitchen.
“Shit.” I pull my hand away from the skillet and pop my thumb into my mouth, an angry red welt blossoming on the pad. I turn off the burner and glare at her door like I can knock the damn thing down with the force of my thoughts.
We need to talk about last night.
She said she thought about me, too. But that could mean a million different things. All I know is I can’t deal with this feeling that sits like a stone in my chest every time she walks into a room. I can’t see her in my flannel shirt—the bottom two buttons undone and the hem tied at her hip—and not feel something about it. We’ll talk about it, and we’ll clear the air.