17. Eloise
17
ELOISE
His voice is smooth and low, like whiskey poured over ice. I fold my arms across my chest and lift my chin a little. There’s no way I’m going to show him how affected I am by his presence. It only occurs to me now that he didn’t look all that surprised to see me.
His dark blond hair peaks out from underneath his backward hat, the scruff along his jaw thicker than I remembered. A fitted black t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and muscular chest.
He looks like some kind of bad boy fantasy brought to life.
The kind of disheveled that makes women do stupid things, like fantasize about kissing him and then wondering if once could ever be enough. Those kinds of thoughts are a dangerous breeding ground for reckless decisions.
“Been lookin’ for you,” he murmurs.
I fold my arms across my chest, rolling my shoulders back. “Here I am.”
“So you are,” he muses. His lips twist to the side as his gaze rolls over me. He takes his time, like he’s savoring the sight of me.
There’s a beat of silence. Then two. By the third weighted pause, I’m squirming out of my skin. It’s not uncomfortable, being the focus of his undivided attention. Quite the opposite actually, I think I like it a little too much. But I'm not about to let him know that.
“You didn’t have to step in.” I jerk my chin toward to the side, where Slick Rick and his Mustang left.
“Okay,” he says.
His simple reply irritates me. “I had it.”
“I know.” His grin never falters.
My eyes narrow into a glare. He’s playing games with me, and I don’t have the patience for it. Not tonight. Not after the week I’ve had.
"Then why did you intervene?" I demand, my voice sharp.
“Because once I realized it was you, I couldn’t not stop,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady, like he’s laying down something undeniable. His eyes hold mine, and there’s something raw there, something that makes my pulse skip.
A beat of silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. And damn it, despite everything—the past week’s chaos, the highs, the lows—I can feel myself slipping, leaning just a little closer to him.
I narrow my eyes at him, ready to call bullshit the second I hear it. “How did you even know it was me?”
His lips twitch up into a crooked smile, and heat flares in his eyes. “I’d know you anywhere, Eloise. The way you move, the way you taste. It’s burned into here.” He taps his temple with his index finger.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. There's a weight to his words, a significance that I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack. But I can't seem to look away from him, can't seem to break the connection that's sparked between us.
“Have you been watching me?” It sounds ridiculous, and the moment it’s out of my mouth, I want to snatch it back.
He grins, this full-bodied smile that has those dimples on display. “I fuckin’ wish.”
My brows furrow. "What do you want, Beau?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He gives me a half-smile, one side of his mouth lifting in that way he does, as if he’s weighing a truth he isn’t sure he should reveal.
“I want a lot of things,” he whispers, his gaze unwavering. “But tonight? Right now?” He pauses, letting the words settle. “I just want to see you.”
His admission renders me speechless, all thoughts scattering with the breeze lifting the ends of my hair.
I swipe my tongue along my bottom lip, searching for the right words to say. “I?—”
“Take a drive with me.” It’s not a question.
“A drive where?” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, like I’m really debating on whether I’m going to get in this virtual stranger’s car. It’s all a ruse.
I’m in my reckless era, but I’ve had enough for one day.
“Anywhere. Everywhere.” He drums his fingers on the hood of his car. “I hear there’s a good drive-in thirty minutes from here.”
My brows rise, my head falling to the side as I appraise him. “Ah, I was wondering when you were going to bring it up.”
“I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” he murmurs, his smile slipping into something softer.
“And did you? Try?” I hold a breath, trapping it in my lungs as I listen. I don’t know why I asked him that. It was one of those impulse thoughts I should’ve kept to myself.
“Did you ?” he challenges.
I shrug my shoulder, causing the thin strap of my green sundress to slide off my other shoulder.
I can’t tell him I thought about him more than a healthy amount. That would be insane. The truth is, in the eight weeks since that night at the drive-in, Beau has been a frequent visitor in my thoughts, an apparition that lingers at the edges of my mind.
In the stillness of the night, when sleep eluded me and the world was quiet, I found myself replaying snippets of our time together. The way his calloused hands felt against my skin when he held my hand. The heat of his breath ghosting over my neck when he whispered the stories of the stars. The intensity in his eyes as he looked at me like he saw me—the real me.
We had one night together, one memorable night where everything felt possible.
But that’s all it was: one night. A fleeting moment in time, a snapshot of what could have been. In another life. To a different woman.
“I should go.”
He doesn’t skip a beat. “You don’t trust me, I get it.”
I uncross my arms and slide my hands in the pockets of my sundress. “I don’t even know you.”
He shakes his head, his dimples deepening as he smiles. “Nah, you do. You just don’t realize it yet.”
His words settle over me like a weighted blanket, heavy with unspoken meaning. I study him, really look at him, and beneath the dimples and the charm, I glimpse something else. Something that resonates deep within me, echoing in the hollow spaces of my own heart.
“Yeah, maybe,” I murmur. “I’ve gotta get back.” I hook my thumb to my left, toward the general direction of my car seven blocks away.
“Got a date or something?” His voice has a sharp edge, his brows dipping low over his eyes.
I take a couple of backward steps and roll my eyes. “I’m going home. You know, to Avalon Falls, the city where we both live.” The corner of my mouth curls into a smirk, mischief bubbling inside of me like popping candy.
“Kismet, baby,” he hushes out.
It’s the way he says it, almost with reverence, that has me stopping.
“You feel it, don’t you, Peach?” he asks, his voice ballooning with hope.
I feel the weight of the world at that moment. The moon and the stars pressing on me from above, digging my heels into the ground with every second I try to reason with myself that I can even entertain the idea of getting tangled up with him.
“I’m tired, Beau. That’s what I feel.” It’s a copout, a shoddy sidestep.
I tell myself that I don’t want him to call me out on it. That I want him to take my words at face-value. That I don’t want him to look too closely at the house of cards I am.
So why the fuck does disappointment wrap a tight fist around my heart?