Beat Dawkins had entered the building.
Relief flooded her insides with such intensity that her eyes watered. It was possible that some intuitive part of her knew he was coming and so she waited to take her first turn. Because she had more confidence in this man than anyone else in the world. He returned that confidence—and it was exactly what she needed right now.
Bracing herself for the rush that came from seeing Beat live and in person, Melody turned and looked over her shoulder. The crowd parted—
And she dropped the wooden ball.
Beat was shirtless.
A giant, pink “M” had been written on his chest. Two men followed behind him, sporting the “E” and the “L.” MEL. A few young women hoisted bottles of champagne and danced through the bar behind the bare-chested trio. Melody only vaguely registered them, however, because she only had eyes for Beat. Her surroundings had resembled a blurry oil painting only moments earlier, but they came into sharp focus now, the bar noise going from muffled to clear, the air becoming more breathable. The loneliness inside of her burst like a bubble.
Beat stopped a few yards away, seemingly oblivious to the jam-packed bar going bananas behind him or the camera in his face. He simply looked at her, that jaw muscle bunching, and held open his arms. Without a single hesitation, she walked straight into them.
With a cutoff sound, he lifted her into a bear hug until her toes were barely scraping the ground and the bar went nuclear. “I’m getting paint all over you, Peach,” he shouted over the pandemonium.
“I don’t care.” Melody barely resisted the urge to press her face into the side of his neck. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
His arms tightened. “I’ll always show up for you, Mel.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t give you the full two days . . .”
“Thank God.”
Ever so briefly, he opened his mouth and breathed against her temple, before setting her down with visible reluctance. They stood way too close for a touch too long, Beat’s eyes locked on her mouth, then they each shuffled back, turning to smile and wave their appreciation at the bar.
Before she could say another word to Beat, the “E” of their trio came from behind him, hand outstretched. “I know this fucker isn’t going to introduce me, so I’ll do it myself. I’m Vance. I’ve known Beat since college, but I use the term ‘known’ loosely. If my parents had locked up their liquor cabinet as tight as Beat locks up his secrets, I’d probably be a neurosurgeon by now.” He let his tongue loll out of the side of his mouth. “I don’t mean to overshare, I’ve been champagning all night.”
Melody liked this guy immediately. “Look. When you paint a letter of my name on your chest and risk hypothermia to cheer me on, you get a lifetime oversharing pass.”
“I would marry you,” Vance said, without irony. “I’m not just saying that—”
“Yeah,” Beat grunted, inserting himself in between Vance and Melody. “I think that’s enough. Go be an ‘E’ somewhere else.”
“We have to stand together or it won’t make sense!”
“Where is the ‘L’？” Melody asked, searching around, puzzled. After a few seconds, she found him and gaped at where he’d landed. “Oh. The ‘L’ is making out with my boss.”
Vance rolled his shoulders back with a sigh. “I love the holidays.”
The crowd started to chant her name again. “Oh God.” She hurried to pick up the ball that she’d dropped. “They’re not letting me off the hook.”
Beat rubbed his hands together, scrutinizing the bocce pit with a groove between his brows. “Okay, I googled the rules of bocce on the ride over and I’m going to try to help you. Just give me a few seconds to calm down after Vance said he would marry you.” He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “A few more seconds. Christ.”
Melody’s heart flopped around like a fish in the bottom of a boat. “He’s been champagning, Beat.”
“No,” he said, drawing out the word. “He’s been falling in love with you like the rest of the world.” The corner of his lips tugged into a smile that he couldn’t quite hold on to—and it dropped. “But no one is good enough for my . . . best friend.”
“Beat . . .” Heat pricked the backs of her eyelids, a lump rising in her throat. “You picked a really interesting time to say all these sweet things to me.” Numbly, she held up the bocce ball between them. “I can’t feel my hands anymore.”
“Sorry.” His fingertips touched her elbow, stroking slowly upward where he massaged her wrist with magical circles of his thumb. “Is that better?”
“Friends, Beat,” she whispered, trying to keep herself from slipping into a stupor. “Friends.”
With a swallow, he relinquished her wrist. “Believe me, Mel, I know.” Once again, he put some distance between them, but not much. He couldn’t, really, if they wanted to continue communicating against the backdrop of noise. “Okay, what’s your feeling here? What shot were you thinking of playing?”
“Before you arrived half naked?”
One end of his mouth jumped. “Noticed that, did you?”
“Ham. I was thinking there is no way I’m going to get my ball as close to the pallino as my opponent’s ball, so I better try and knock his out. ‘Try’ being the operative word.”
Beat stroked his chin. “I think you’re right. Just knock it out.”
“Just? I’ve got maybe a ten percent chance.”
“That’s a higher percentage chance than we had trying to reunite Steel Birds and you jumped feetfirst into that enterprise.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Mel. At the risk of adding even more pressure, you have millions of people believing you can do anything. And I don’t think that many people can be wrong.”
“What about you? Do you believe I can do anything?”
He huffed a laugh. “Do you even have to ask me that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
After a prolonged moment of not-so-friendly staring, he dipped his chin and stepped away. “Knock it out.”
Mel nodded and turned on a heel to face the bocce pit once again. Had her surroundings even been in color before? They were now. The neon flamingo mounted on the wall buzzed, pink and vibrant. The ball in her hands was a verdant green. The one she aimed to knock out was red. No, she would knock it out. She allowed herself to feel the energy of the people standing at her back. Their belief in her. Beat’s. And she bowled her shot.
Halfway down the lane, she knew it was going to hit.
She heard Beat’s hissing intake of breath, followed by the crack of the balls connecting and she watched in disbelief as her opponent’s ball went rolling toward the back wall, a good two feet from the pallino. Hers remained in place, nearly kissing it.
An unbeatable shot.
The crowd erupted, along with her heart.
“Oh my God,” she said breathlessly, turning and leaping into Beat’s arms. He held her tight, spinning her in a circle as she clung, his heart pumping like an engine against hers.