Chapter One – Thank you Aimee #2
“No one here cares what you’re wearing.”
But I cared. I’d lived too many years of my life feeling like the ugliest person in the room not to at least try to look good before heading into a bar full of beautiful people.
“If you want me to come, then you need to give me a few minutes to clean up.”
Fallon let out an exasperated sigh. “Fifteen minutes, Maise! I need you.” The phone shuffled, and from somewhere in the distance came her muffled shout, “Intermission! Andie and I are waiting on our relief pitcher!”
There was a mix of cheers and groans on the other side of the phone.
Then, Beckett’s voice was back in my ear, tantalizing me. “I’m wounded, Maise. Wounded. Not only are you showing up because Fallon needs you, when you wouldn’t show up because I did, but now you’ll be playing for the wrong team.”
“It’ll do your ego some good to be knocked down a peg or two.”
“You have to beat us first.”
“We will.”
“I like your confidence.” I could hear the amusement in his voice before it dipped low. “Care to place a bet?”
My heart skittered, stomach swooshing, but I was glad my voice didn’t reflect it. “Nope. You know I don’t bet.”
“Someday, darlin’, that’ll change.”
“Today isn’t that day.”
He laughed, told me to hurry, and then hung up.
Twenty minutes later, I was back downtown, feeling just as tired as before but at least a little more put together. I’d slipped into a yellow summer dress to combat the sticky humidity, touched up my makeup, and pulled my hair half-up in a messy, beachy twist.
It was nearing eight o’clock, but Main Street was still humming with the kind of easy energy that made evenings here feel like they stretched a little longer than anywhere else.
Cars edged the curbs where the shops and restaurants kept their doors propped open late, hoping to catch the last of the tourists drifting by.
Swift Rivers, built during the old Gold Rush days, still proudly wore its forty-niner heritage, with weathered wood siding, hitching post–style parking meters, and wrought-iron lampposts dangling baskets of bright blooms. Framed by snow-capped peaks, the whole town looked like it had been lifted straight from a movie set.
And when night fell and the neon signs flickered on, they washed the Old Western streets in a kaleidoscope of color that felt part Nashville honky-tonk and part vaudeville magic.
When I was a kid, Swift Rivers had been like so many fading small towns, its storefronts emptying out as families traded mom-and-pop shops for box stores and theme parks.
But then Fallon’s family transformed their ranch into a five-star resort, drawing the wealthy at first, and then the everyday vacationers.
Now the place thrived through every season—skiers carving paths through the snow in the winter, hikers and rafters chasing sunlight in the summer.
I slowed for a laughing group of twentysomethings wandering across the street before turning into the Emporium lot. Part souvenir shop, part grocery, part pharmacy, it was Swift Rivers’s own homespun version of a box store. It had something for everyone, just like the town itself.
I locked my truck and joined the throng crossing Main to the bar. Music and people spilled out of Frank’s, stalling my feet as doubts winged back in. I wasn’t sure I had the energy required to put on my happy face and keep it there tonight.
But before I could retreat, a man emerged from the bar, and my feet automatically unlocked, moving toward him as if they had a mind of their own.
I swore I could be lost in a sea of people, and my body would still gravitate to Beckett.
It had been that way from the moment we’d met at six and eight years old.
Beckett studied me as I crossed the street, his look strolling down my body and back to my face, causing my heart to stop for several long seconds before restarting with a bang.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth, showcasing the dimple on one side and turning him from one of the most handsome people I knew to the kind of handsome the world idolized.
He rubbed a hand down his sharply angled jaw while his chocolate eyes twinkled at me.
“You look like a sunflower,” he said, his smile growing with each syllable.
I fought the old tick that insisted I draw my hair over my face whenever I was under scrutiny and tried not to blush at his compliment.
“How much have you had to drink tonight, Captain Romero?” I asked.
He chuckled, and if it had made my stomach flip over the phone, up close and personal, the vibration traveled through me like a lit fuse. All it would take was a simple touch, and I’d go off like a firecracker.
“Not nearly enough, Nurse Maisey. I think you should prescribe me at least two more rounds.”
I tried not to cringe at the name. Nurse Maisey sounded like a bad cartoon.
Or like I was about to go all Nurse Ratched and lobotomize someone for standing up to me.
While it was better than being called Corny the Deformed Corncob, it was a far cry from my favorite nickname—one I’d never admit to another living soul I still craved hearing.
Our shoulders brushed as we turned toward the bar, and I ignored the spark that came with the simple touch. I deserved a medal for all the years I’d pushed those feelings aside.
“So, who is it you need protection from tonight?” I asked. “Any of the repeat offenders?”
Growing up in a small town had its distinct advantages and disadvantages.
Having only a limited pool of single people near our age was one of the downsides.
Beckett had already blown through the majority of the local females, resorting these days to tangling with the tourists.
His preferred M.O. was one night and one night only, and not just because he was a typical guy in his twenties who wasn’t ready to settle down.
Beckett had scars from his childhood that made him determined to remain single for the rest of his life.
“Delilah is here,” he said with a frown. “But she’s been distracted by some hot influencer who is filming by the pool tables.”
If I hadn’t also struggled with keeping my feelings for Beckett at bay, I’d wonder why Delilah hadn’t given up hope of snagging him after nearly a dozen years of his denying her.
But if she was focused on someone else tonight, it meant I wouldn’t have to play middleman while she flirted with Beckett and simultaneously ignored I existed.
Stepping into the bar, the noise and smells slammed into me, and my feet stalled once more.
As if sensing my reluctance, Beckett snickered.
His hand went to my elbow, preventing me from retreating, instead guiding me farther inside.
My skin lit up from my elbow to my shoulder all over again.
The heat spread through my chest, landing dead center in my heart.
I wanted to hate it. Just like I wanted to hate my weakness for this man, but I couldn’t. The warmth was too enticing to hate.
“No backing out now, my Maisey-girl. Work is done and playtime has arrived.”
And his nickname, the my before it, did exactly what it had always done—had me secretly longing for my own playtime with him.
Solo time in the dark with just our bodies twined, even if I knew it would likely end in the same humiliation as our ill-fated, tween kiss had.
I wanted a happily ever after with someone, and Beckett wanted nothing to do with love and marriage.
It meant Beckett and I would forever be friends with absolutely zero benefits.