Chapter 17
MAE
The last twenty-four hours had been hell.
After the fiasco at the bar, I dragged Mathieu back to my house and finished where Beck had started. Laying into him for flying here without notice—which would be admittedly hard to do since I blocked him, everywhere—and walking into O’Malley’s? I wanted to strangle him.
Against my better judgment, I let him stay at the house but hardly talked to him after our initial confrontation.
Yesterday I finally gave in to his pleas and let him say his piece.
A flurry of sorrys and I love yous and, “It was the biggest mistake of my life,” and after making me feel as if I were crazy for having an issue with him cheating, Mathieu dredged up feelings I’d been trying to bury.
Letting him stay at the house had been a mistake.
Between prepping food and coordinating with Beck—my feelings about him were as complicated as ever—I was forced to listen to more of Mathieu’s pleas, finally convincing him it was going nowhere.
I’d told him I was headed out of town for the weekend, and he had to find alternative accommodations or, preferably, fly back to France, and it was only when his car was on its way that he mentioned taking a train to New York City to meet “a friend.” The fact that it really didn’t matter to me if the friend was male or female, maybe jumping from trying to get me back one day into another woman’s arms the next, told me all I needed to know.
In short, as I’d told Jules last night when she came over to talk about the whole fiasco, it had oddly been a good thing, him pulling that stunt. I was more over him than I’d realized. One of the reasons for it, according to Jules at least, was the very man pulling his pickup in front of my house.
My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance except that he looked… good. In a dark green “O’Malley’s Pub” tee and jeans, hair tousled and smile firmly in place, he was just so Beck.
“Mornin’, Mae,” he said, grabbing my overnight bag.
“Good morning,” I said, heading back to my front porch to grab the pastry boxes. Meeting me halfway down the sidewalk, he took those from me too.
“Careful. They’re tightly packed and can’t move.”
“Got it.”
We loaded up the coolers and stood behind his tailgate.
“I see the flat top strapped down.”
“Yep,” he replied, all business. “Deep fryer and extra propane are back there. Collapsable prep tables too. All of the coolers are labeled and iced down—”
“We still have an extra-large rental cooler coming though, right?”
“I called them yesterday to verify. Should be dropped off by nine.”
“Good. Let’s go over the ingredients, just in case.
” I opened up my notes app and scrolled.
“Pastry filling’s packed in the cooler, shells are layered with parchment so they don’t stick.
I’ve got the glaze in a squeeze bottle, the garnish in a separate container, and enough napkins to run a damn wedding. You grabbed the condiments, right?”
“Yep. Meat and cheese already packed, so we’re golden.”
“As long as you didn’t forget the poppers.”
“Poppers are prepped and stuffed and ready to be fried on site.”
“You remembered the oil?”
He tapped the dash. “Tucked in next to the propane tanks and flat top. I even brought your fancy sea salt. Don’t say I don’t love you.”
My stomach did a flip. “I’ll believe it when the pastries survive the drive.”
Business out of the way, I locked up the house and climbed into his truck. He slammed my door closed and joined me.
“Next stop, the printer’s, and we’ll be good to go.”
I gave him a sideways look, not able to recall the last time I’d felt weird around Beck. Between the conversation in my kitchen and Mathieu, my thoughts were a jumbled mess.
“We gonna discuss the elephant in the room?”
Beck looked around his cab. “A, this is a truck, not a room. B, don’t see any elephant.”
“Be serious, Beck.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” I said.
He sighed dramatically, as if it was a tough ask. “Fine.”
“Maybe start by telling me why you thought punching Mathieu was a great PR move.”
“You insinuate I gave it any thought first.”
“Beck,” I admonished, vowing to take the fact that a part of me relished seeing Mathieu flattened to the grave. “He wasn’t worth it.”
In response, he closed his right fist, which looked slightly swollen and purple, and shrugged. “It’ll be fine. Felt worth it to me.”
I refused to smile, even if I wanted to. Encouraging Beck’s reckless behavior, even in defense of me, was never a good idea. This wasn’t my first rodeo in the “Beck defending my honor” department. I swore it was one of the reasons my dad liked him so much.
“Wait, you said ‘wasn’t.’”
“Yeah?”
“Not ‘isn’t.’”
I tried to follow. “Not seeing your point.”
“He wasn’t worth it. As in, past tense.”
“You’re kidding, right? Do you seriously think I’d take him back?”
“I don’t know. You called off yesterday. Figured it was because he was still in town.”
“He was,” I said. “Mathieu stayed at my house, begged me to talk. I thought about asking Pia if they had a room, but I honestly didn’t want to involve anyone else. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Sell that to someone else. Something’s wrong. What’s up?”
“Would you look at that? We’re at the printer’s already. Coming in?”
He was frustrating as hell. Thankfully, the signage looked great and was ready as promised. Beck, of course, used the opportunity to change the subject. Or tried to, at least. When he opened my door, I didn’t get in. Instead, I propped my foot up on the running board and crossed my arms.
“What?”
“You know what. Spill.”
We locked eyes, something shifting in the air between us.
It crackled in a distinctively non-“friend” way.
This time, I didn’t back down. Not that I wasn’t scared to explore it, but enough was enough.
I was done waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect sign.
Because sometimes, the right person was already standing in front of you. Close. Too close.
“I wanted to fucking kill him.” Beck’s voice was low, gravely.
Not at all the lighthearted one I was used to from him.
“It was a terrible PR move. Apologized and bought the whole damn bar a drink, on my dime. But I’d do it again, every time.
He was an asshole to you, committed himself to building a life with you and reneged before it had even begun.
I’m glad he got on a plane to come here, though.
Tells me he realizes how badly he fucked up, and I take a perverse sort of pleasure knowing he realizes what he lost.”
With every word, my heart rate increased. I couldn’t dispute any of his words, and had felt much the same myself. But that Beck had too, on my behalf… I always knew he cared about me as a friend. But…
“Thank you.”
His eyes widened.
“You’re thanking me for making a spectacle of myself in your father’s bar?”
“I’m thanking you for caring enough to defend me. Besides, it won’t be my father’s bar for long. You’re good at so much more than tending bar, Beck. You would kill it as the owner. Why even hesitate?”
I’d managed to surprise him. Beck was never great at taking a compliment, unless it was something superficial, like his looks. But his integrity? Intelligence?
“I can tell you why,” I said, Beck not answering. “You care more about playing the irresponsible Casanova bartender than you do letting other people, including your parents, see the real you.”
I expected a quip. A joke. This wasn’t a revolutionary, life-altering theory I was tossing out, but one I’d offered many times, the new spin being O’Malley’s.
But Beck didn’t smile. Or laugh it off. Instead, he continued to look at me, dead serious. Before responding, though, his eyes dipped to my mouth. That time, I didn’t have to second-guess. Or wonder if I was hallucinating. He didn’t even try to hide it.
His gaze lifting back up, Beck parted his lips. But nothing came out. Instead, he did it as if to… entice. Tease. My pulse raced as I waited for him to say something. Core clenching, I caught myself parting my own lips in response.
“You’re right, of course.”
What had he just said?
No response could have been more of a surprise. It was the first time in our lives Beck had agreed with me or even pretended to have a serious discussion about him or his future. I honestly had no comeback.
“Now let’s go, buttercup. Can’t be late for our own food tent.”
Somehow, I hopped back into the truck. Made conversation with Beck for the rest of the ride, albeit nothing as deep or serious as in front of the printer’s shop.
The way he’d looked at me… really looked at me. Listened. And actually agreed with me? I’d been right earlier. Something was up. And tonight, after the day’s festivities, in the B&B we’d reserved knowing it would be a late night and early morning, I would find out exactly what that was.