Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
BECKETT
Apparently, three days weren’t enough to make me stop thinking about the taste of Griffin Mercer’s cock in my mouth. Or the feel of his fingers digging into my ass cheeks.
Or the sound of his small voice admitting he didn’t want to be alone.
And if the man had given me any indication he’d wanted me to stay after our epic encounter… hell, I’d probably still be there right now instead of at the damned Winsome Farmer’s Market making a Big Dill appearance.
The outdoor market’s in full autumn swing when I arrive Wednesday afternoon, and for the first time in months, I let myself slow down and actually take it in.
Food trucks line the perimeter of Chapel Island Park like a colorful wagon train.
The Mac Attack’s serving their famous lobster mac and cheese.
Fox Creamery has donuts and a maple creemee machine in theirs.
And a guy I don’t recognize has a giant Argentinian flag draped in front of his truck and is serving up empanadas that make my stomach growl.
Kids weave between the stalls, clutching caramel apples, while their parents trail behind carrying bags of produce those kids are never gonna eat.
And the community center has a pumpkin-painting table set up that’s drawn a surprising (or not so surprising, if you know Winsome) number of adults.
Perky Halloran’s currently turning his pumpkin into some kind of abstract art piece with globs of purple paint, while his husband-but-not, David, watches from afar and tries to pretend he isn’t.
It’s exactly the kind of wholesome small-town scene that usually makes me feel claustrophobic. Like I’m trapped in a Norman Rockwell painting with people who simultaneously know me way too well and not at all.
But today… I don’t know. It feels different.
Maybe it’s the crisp air or the way the late-afternoon sunlight slants through the colorful maples, turning everything golden.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been to one of these things in ages, and I’ve forgotten why I hate them.
Or maybe it’s because I spent the day—and a good part of the night—with Griffin on Sunday, and that shifted the way I see things.
I shove that thought away with a huff before it can take root.
Sunday was tension relief. A hookup. Nothing more.
Even if I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it for three days straight.
“Beck! Hey, Beckett!”
I turn to find my sister jogging toward me, her dark hair escaping from its ponytail. She’s wearing scrubs under her jacket, which means she came straight from the clinic.
“Perfect timing,” she says, giving me a slightly breathless hug. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We need to have a Big Dill strategy session.”
I blink. “Oh, surely not.”
“Hush and just listen.” Eliza opens a checklist on her phone and waves it at me so enthusiastically I can’t read it.
“I ran the numbers, Beck. Based on voting patterns from previous years, demographic analysis, and some very scientific polling I conducted on my patients—don’t look at me like that, it was voluntary—you have a real shot at winning this thing—”
“You sound so surprised.”
“—but only if you actually participate in the events.” She flips through several pages of what appear to be charts and graphs. “Your performance at the Wild Gherkin Chase was…”
I snort. “Suboptimal?”
“Actually, no. People saw you and Griffin laughing together and getting along, which was kind of a boost. And technically, you could say it was a boost for both of you, but you’re the one with the reputation for being grumpy—”
“I’m not a happy joiner. That’s not the same—”
“—which is why we need a plan. The Brine and Dandy is this Friday, and it’s crucial that you nail this so you can pull ahead. You need to be charming. Approachable. Smile at least twice.” She peers at me seriously over her phone. “Think you can manage that?”
“I wouldn’t put money on it,” Holden says, coming up behind us.
He’s somehow managing to balance three cups of cider and a paper plate of sugary funnel cake.
“Remember how he asked Jenny Castellano to prom? ‘You wanna go with me or what?’” he says in a deep growl that I guess is supposed to be an impression of me.
“Well, it worked,” I remind him. “Sort of.”
Holden and Eliza exchange a look. “If you call Jenny agreeing because Mom called her mom and said you were ‘going through a phase,’ then I guess so.”
Eliza clears her throat. “So. Two-smile minimum, yes? And I mean, really big smiles. Make sure they’re visible. No smirking into your drink.”
Since I am, at that very moment, smirking into one of the cups of cider Holden passed out, I cough and nearly choke.
The truth is, I know they’re right. I’ve never been one for social niceties. Not the way the rest of my family is. I’m too apt to be hot-tempered and impatient. But I also can’t help but feel that this whole Big Dill thing is getting out of hand.
“Speaking of phases,” Holden continues with a shit-eating grin, like he can hear my inner thoughts, “how’s your rivalry with Griffin going? Still planning to defeat him with the power of your sparkling personality?”
My face heats up, and I nearly choke on my cider again. If only he knew how close we’d come to defeating each other on Sunday.
“It’s fine,” I manage. “We’re… managing.”
“Fine,” Eliza repeats, making a note in her phone. “Well, that’s promising. You know, from what I’ve heard around town, Griffin’s actually quite likable. Maybe you could learn something from his approach.”
“What approach?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
“Mmm, apparently, he spent last night at the library doing research.” Eliza sips her cider.
“Yesterday, he helped Ada Wickham at the Pickle Jar, and Bathsheba likes him. You know that cat’s accurately predicted the Big Dill for seven of the last ten years, right?
And Griffin’s been asking people about their concerns for the town too. Very grassroots political campaigning.”
“If she got it right seven out of ten times, that means she was wrong three out of ten! So who cares if Ms. Wickham’s cat endorses him?
” I ask. But the pit in my stomach says that’s exactly the sort of things people in this town care about.
And of course Griffin’s been doing actual campaign work while I’ve been…
what? Avoiding him? Jacking off to memories of Sunday while telling myself it meant nothing?
Not a winning strategy.
“Meanwhile,” Holden adds, “you’ve been hiding at the lumber yard, haven’t you?”
“Working isn’t hiding,” I retort, but the looks my siblings give me say they don’t believe it.
I’m saved from having to defend myself by the arrival of my cousin Wilder, who emerges from the crowd wearing his leather jacket and carrying a cardboard container that smells like empanadas.
“Uh-oh. Family meeting on the town green?” he asks, taking in our little circle. “Should I be worried?”
“Beck’s Big Dill campaign strategy session,” Eliza explains.
Wilder laughs. “Do tell. What’s the strategy, then? Win at all costs, take no prisoners?”
“Apparently, I need to be more charming and less dedicated to my actual job,” I mutter.
“Hmm. You know, I’ve always thought Beckett had a reservoir of charm buried deep. And I mean real, real deep,” he says with a grin that makes me want to put him in a headlock like I did when we were kids…
And possibly steal his empanadas while he’s incapacitated.
“We also need to work on your ideas for Winsome,” Eliza says, consulting her phone screen again. “Griffin’s doing a tourism marketing campaign, and I’ve heard it’s phenomenal. I bet he’s going to present it at Hello, Winsome. What are you going to do? What’s your plan for Winsome?”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
The honest answer is that I never really thought about it beyond getting the tiebreaker vote for the town council and beating Griffin. Which suddenly seems like a pretty shitty reason to do a thing.
“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Eliza says, throwing up a hand. “You can’t just stand there looking grumpy whenever someone asks you a question, Beck. You need a vision. A raison d’être. What do you stand for, Beckett?”
Before I can answer—not that I have an answer—Ames calls across the green.
“Beck! Holden! Get over here and help me with this!”
I turn to see my youngest brother wrestling with one corner of the Watchfire tent that seems determined to become airborne and take him with it.
Fortunately, the folding tables he set up under the tent don’t seem as flimsy, and the vats of warm soup he’s selling remain unscathed by the time we get over there.
“Thanks,” Ames says when we finish tying down the recalcitrant corner flap. “Robbie was going to help, but he’s busy.”
“With Lissa?” I scan the crowd. Robbie’s so big it’d be impossible for him to hide.
Ames shakes his head, but I swear, for some reason, his cheeks flush. “No. He’s, um, doing a Touch-a-Truck thing for the little kids out in the parking lot. Hey, would you check the other stakes to make sure they’re all good?”
I grunt, but it takes me a minute to even process what he asked. Instead, I’m still scanning the crowd, only now I’m looking for a familiar head of blond hair. Not that I’m expecting to see Griffin, necessarily. I mean, he could be here. He probably should, if he’s taking this contest seriously.
And of course, he is still taking it seriously, right? Because Sunday was just… Sunday. Too much tension and emotion and proximity. A blip. We’re still opponents, even if it didn’t feel that way.
Still, when I finally spot him near the community center table, crouched next to a little girl who’s painted cat ears on her pumpkin, I get a jolt like someone spiked my cider with a triple espresso.