Chapter Twenty-Three
Keeley
The night after Becks and I visit Gramps, I can’t sleep again.
Although this time, I’m not even trying to sleep.
In fact, I’m almost too enthusiastic to leave my bed and make my way to the fire escape—by way of a detour to my bathroom to brush my hair and apply lip balm.
As I slide open my window, I’m surprised how much my heart is racing. How much I’m hoping he’s out here.
I step out onto the metal platform… and find Beckett already sitting down, looking in my direction. Like he was waiting for me.
Butterflies swirl in my stomach as little Sammie’s words from earlier ring in my ears again:
“Beckett thinks you’re pretty, by the way!”
Then Beckett telling me, “She’s not wrong.”
I mean, way to make a girl blush.
“Evening,” Becks says now in his lilt, and I get a little flash of his dimples when he gives me a quick smile.
“We meet again,” I joke as I sit next to him. A couple of inches away, so he can’t feel my heartbeat, which is currently vibrating through my body.
“It’s almost a routine at this point,” Becks replies. “Insomniacs Anonymous’s nightly meeting.”
I smile, because I know all too well that I could’ve fallen asleep tonight if I really wanted to. The footsteps upstairs no longer bother me; when I came out here a moment ago, I was simply driven by hopes that Becks would appear.
And he did.
I also know that he’s been in town long enough that there’s no way he can blame jet lag for his insomnia.
Which means that we’re both out here tonight because we want to be. It’s a realization that makes me want to lean closer. Inch towards him until I feel his arm pressed against mine again.
“Thanks again for coming to see Gramps with me earlier,” I say instead. “He loved meeting you.”
“I loved meeting him, too. Although the old man sure kicked my arse at Gin Rummy.”
“That he did,” I say proudly.
Becks was wonderful with Gramps, which just made me warm to him even more. In fact, hot is a better descriptor than warm when it comes to how I feel towards Beckett. Because at this point it’s clear that he’s not just good looking; he’s also a good guy.
A great guy, in fact. The type of guy any girl in this town would feel lucky to call theirs… if he were sticking around, of course.
I was touched how well he read the situation while we were at Silver Springs earlier. How he could tell that Gramps was getting confused, and so he gently redirected the conversation towards calmer waters—even though I know how badly he must have wanted to ask about his gran.
Later in the visit, I managed to gently bring up Noeleen once more. Not wanting to risk upsetting my Gramps again after such a nice time spent together, I didn’t ask about what might have happened between them, but I did tell him that I was writing an article about their courtship.
Gramps, to my relief, seemed delighted. Said it “brought back fond memories”—though he couldn’t recall exactly what those memories were.
Either way, it definitely puts my mind at ease about what I’m penning for Evoke.
“So how was the rest of your day?” I ask, lolling my head back against the brick wall. It’s cloudy tonight, no stars. “Anything crazy happen?”
“It was very uneventful. I practiced for the Indie Music Night for a while, and then I made that box of that macaroni and cheese you put in my shopping basket at Spring Foods.” Beckett grimaces. “I don’t know why they call it Kraft Dinner, because there was absolutely nothing edible inside that box.”
“What?” I demand. “It’s got pasta, cheese, milk, butter… all of the essential food groups.”
“Calling that orange powdery stuff ‘cheese’ is a massive stretch.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m amazed you’re still alive, eating like that.”
“What’s your favorite dish back in Ireland, then?” I ask. “Cabbage with extra cabbage on top, served with a side of carrots?”
Becks laughs, and the sound is sweet as honey. “Add some beef and potatoes and you pretty much have an Irish stew.”
“Sounds… delicious,” I say, sounding as entirely unconvinced as I feel.
“Hey, don’t knock it til you try it, Roberts,” Beckett teases. As he says this, he leans over and pokes my side, his finger easily finding that sensitive spot under my ribs which sends shivers coursing through me.
But instead of jerking away, my instinct has clearly left the building because I find myself leaning into his touch. Savoring those shivers he’s conjured in me.
I’m gratified to hear a catch in his breath, like he’s affected by our contact, too. He lets his fingers linger for just a beat longer on my hip, before he pulls his hand away almost wistfully.
He gives me a bashful smile in the darkness. “Maybe one day I’ll make you Irish stew so you can find out what you’re missing.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I shoot back with a matching smile, and in response, he pokes my ribs again.
This time, I laugh and squirm away, giggling as he tickles me.
“That can be your next article for Evoke,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “After you get the job there, your next pitch can be about a girl who was proved very, very wrong about her presumptions of Irish cuisine.”
“Sounds like something that will really speak to the site’s target audience.” I laugh self-deprecatingly. “They’ll have me fired within a week and I’ll have to slink home with my tail between my legs.”
I’m still kidding around, so I’m surprised when Beckett’s expression grows serious.
“I lied,” he says, hazel eyes honed in on me.
“What are you talking about?”
“A few minutes ago, when I said nothing else eventful happened today aside from the disastrous dinner I ate. I lied.”
“Oh?”
“I actually spent the remainder of the afternoon reading everything I could on the Serendipity Springs website—well, everything with the byline Keeley Roberts .”
My cheeks heat. “Oh my gosh, you did not.”
“You’re super talented, Keeley. You bring even the most mundane of topics to life in a way that made me want to keep reading. Despite me not giving a single toss about what happened at the last town council meeting here, you had me entirely hooked.”
His compliment is delivered in a tone that’s straightforward, totally sincere. He’s not trying to butter me up, he’s telling me what he really thinks. And for some reason, I find myself willing to accept the type of praise that normally makes me feel uncomfortable.
“Thank you, Beckett,” I say. “That means a lot to me.”
And it really does, coming from him.
“I’m just telling the truth.” His eyes are still focused on me, and I’m held captive by his stare. My whole body feels alive, crackling with energy, and I know the chemistry between us is getting harder for me to deny.
I’ve never felt sparks like this before, ones that set your skin alight and make your insides fizz and bubble like champagne…
Champagne that I’ve tried to cork tightly within me, but currently feels like it could pop open at any moment, if I gave it half a chance.