Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Joey
The blaring screech of my alarms jolts me awake.
Turning off the incessant shriek, I flop back in bed and stare at the ceiling, my mind still clouded in a sleepy fog. It takes a few moments for the memories of last night to surface. It felt like a dream, but as my mind clears, a near perfect picture of Beckett and myself forms.
We need to talk about what’s happening between us. It’s silly how difficult it is to string together a few honest words. I’m truly the perfect example of emotional intelligence.
We’ve found ourselves tangled up in each other’s lives both metaphorically and physically, so yes, we should talk about it, but that’s easier said than done. Sometimes I get so scared of the unknown that I’m better off not knowing. It hurts less.
Fear of the unknown can be paralyzing, and right now, I’m enjoying this little world we’ve created.
Our unexpected connection is what’s thrown me into a spiral.
It’s as if the universe dumped a bucket of ice water on me, screaming, “Wake up! Not everyone is an asshole! There are decent humans out there!” And here I am, living with said decent human.
Beckett’s more than decent, though.
He fascinates me. Sometimes, when he’s not looking, I watch him, examining him like he’s an expert-level crossword puzzle. When he catches me looking, the corner of his mouth kicks up into a devastating smirk. Then he goes back to whatever he was doing.
Completely unfazed by my oddities.
His acceptance of who I am makes my stomach flutter and causes energy to flow through me.
He doesn’t get agitated by my forgetfulness.
If anything, he thinks it’s charming. When I fall asleep on the couch, he covers me up with a blanket, then places a note next to me because he knows I’ll wake up discombobulated.
Then there’s the sketchpad. Maybe the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.
Groaning, I roll over, burying my face in the pillow. The one Beckett was lying on. His intoxicating scent lingers. Vanilla and leather. A scent that, now that I know more about him, is so fitting.
So perfectly Beckett.
When I’ve found the motivation to pull myself out of bed, I slip into my slippers and robe, then make my way out to the kitchen.
The morning sun paints bright yellow streaks along the cabinets, enveloping the kitchen in an airy glow and highlighting Beckett where he’s sitting at the island.
I swore he was working today. Or maybe I forgot, and he works tomorrow?
Either way, faced with him now, my cheeks heat. The man with the skillful fingers is casually sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper with his glasses perched on his nose.
Usually, I would focus on how effortlessly handsome he looks. But all I can think about is that folded newspaper in his hand.
A newspaper.
Nowadays we mostly read the news on our phone or tablet. But actually, this doesn’t surprise me. Beckett is an old soul.
“A newspaper? Where’d you find one of those?” I joke, shuffling my way to the cabinet. Once again, instead of addressing the elephant in the room, I ignore it. Because that’s what I do best.
He glances up at me over the rims of his glasses. Between his speculative stare, snug black T-shirt, and overgrown scruff along his sharp jaw, I’m a goner. The newspaper in his hand only adds to his sex appeal.
I do love a man who supports the local dailies.
Don’t think impure thoughts. Don’t think impure thoughts.
“I thought you were working today,” I say.
“I called off.”
“Uh. Why?” I lean against the kitchen sink, facing him as I sip my coffee.
“You don’t remember what you said last night, do you?”
The heat is back, creeping up to my cheeks as I flip through the possibilities. Granted, I may have thought a lot of things, but I didn’t think I actually said them out loud.
Now’s the time I need to play the cool, calm, and collected Joey. Even though on the inside I’m leaning more toward hot, chaotic, and perturbed.
Swallowing a too-big sip of coffee, I use the moment to come up with a reply. “I say a lot of things. You’ll have to refresh my memory.” As I bring the mug up to my lips, his attention snags on my mouth, though he quickly meets my eye.
He lets out a deep chuckle. He slips off his glasses and rubs his hand down his face before sitting back in the chair with his arms crossed. He fixes me with an inquisitive expression, the lines of his face creased deeply. “Mini golf? You said you’re ‘in the mood’ to kick my ass.”
Oh, right.
Wait a second. I set my half-empty mug on the counter a little too roughly and level him with a confused look. “You called off work today for mini golf?”
“Yep.” He slips his glasses on again and picks up the newspaper, flipping the page and then folding it in half.
“Why?”
He doesn’t so much as look up from the article he’s reading. “Why not?”
“Don’t you need to be there to handle the kids who swallow tiny objects or deal with people not knowing how to hold a knife properly or sticking something somewhere or—”
“Helping a woman who fainted because of a rambunctious blind dog with no sense of awareness?” he teases, finally looking at me.
I shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Ha ha. You’re cheeky this morning, aren’t you? Bold Beckett is coming in hot today.”
Biting back a smirk, he turns back to his newspaper and takes a small sip of coffee. “Funny. I didn’t hear you complaining about my boldness last night.” One side of his mouth quirks up. “Anyway, I won’t go hard on you during our mini match this evening.”
Hit with a bout of bravery myself, I saunter over to him and pluck the newspaper out of his hand. Then, with my mouth at his ear, I say, “But what if I like it hard?”
His skin pebbles and I swear he stops breathing.
So with a quick peck on his cheek, I spin on my heel and saunter back to my room. At the doorway, I peek over my shoulder, and sure enough, his cheeks have turned my favorite shade of red.
“What are you looking at?”
Beckett jolts, fumbling my sketchbook, wearing a guilty expression.
We spent the day cleaning up the cottage—unloading the dishwasher, folding laundry, and all the other fun stuff that rarely gets done during the work week. Now, the sun is moments from setting and we’re about to leave for our date.
Is this a date?
Ugh. I’m in no mood to answer my overthinking brain’s questions right now, so I shove those thoughts behind a locked door and inhale a cleansing breath.
His eyes dart from me to the sketchbook, and a deep red flush creeps up his neck. “I-I didn’t mean. . .s-sorry, I—” he stammers.
I’m not upset with him in the slightest. But it’s cute how flustered he gets around me sometimes. There’s nothing in that book that I wouldn’t be willing to share, though I am curious as to why the camera app on his phone is open.
I zero in on the device, then him. “And the camera app? Planning to steal my work and sell it as your own? Could you at least cut me a bit of the profit? I did work very hard on those.” I tsk, crossing my arms and leaning my hip on the counter.
I didn’t work hard at all. An hour tops because I was absentmindedly sketching my worries away and dissociating from my life.
He opens his mouth, then snaps it closed again, like he’s searching for a response.
Feeling guilty for stressing him out, I wander closer and pretend to pick lint off his henley.
The shirt is snug in all the right places, pulling taut over his shoulders and chest. “Relax. I’m just joking.
” I rest my hand just above his heart. “But if you do sell them, just send some of the profit my way, okay? Ready to go?”
Thirty minutes later, I’m scrolling on my phone while waiting in line to pay for our round of mini golf—Beckett’s treat, he insists—and surrounded by neon signs, creaky windmills, and lit-up cartoonish obstacles.
He shoved his credit card into my hand, muttered something about making sure the car was locked, then disappeared.
“How long have you two been married?”
I look up from my device and find an older woman standing next to me, her brows raised in anticipation.
“Oh, me?” I stammer.
She nods, then her gaze focuses behind me.
I peer over my shoulder, and sure enough, Beckett has returned. He’s leaning casually against the wall several feet away, hands deep in his pockets. Sensing my attention, his eyes lift to mine, and he breaks into an adoring smile.
“That. That is what I’m talking about,” says the woman. “He’s been standing there looking at you just like that.”
What is this woman talking about? Confused, I turn back to her, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I. . .uh. . .we’re just friends. Roommates, actually.”
“Honey, friends don’t look at each other like that. Neither do roommates.”
My heart stumbles over itself as I process her words. “Like what, exactly?”
“He looks at you like nothing else in the world matters. Like you’re his purpose in life.
That’s why I thought you two were married.
” Smiling, she leans in closer. “The women over there were trying to get his attention, but he kept his sights locked on you and only you. Especially when you weren’t looking. ”
My stomach clenches with anxiety as my heart pounds behind my ribcage. A flurry of emotions overwhelms me.
Am I leading him on?
Did we take things too far?
He can’t be looking at me like that. . .can he?
That last question is the one that replays in my mind. Because no one ever looks at me like that. If anything, people look through me, as if I’m a ghost who’s a terrible inconvenience in their lives.
Not like I’m their purpose.
“If I were you, I’d keep that one.” The lady’s eyes crinkle with kindness as she gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Next,” the teenager at the register yells, startling me.
“Sorry, sorry.” As I stumble to the counter, my cheeks heat with embarrassment. Once again, my head is in the clouds ruminating over everything.