22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dallas
“Also, you really know how to scream in a diner. Those lungs are healthy!” Beck exclaims.
“Hey!” I narrow my eyes at him. Our plates were emptied and cleared away a while ago. And now this conversation isn’t going how it’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to be telling me things that are better than being exotic like my cousin McKenna, not embarrassing things. And now all the food I just shoveled in my mouth is only adding to the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “But in all seriousness, you are those things, the most hardworking person I know, all of it. But also, a very kind person. The way you talk to Mary? I can tell you honestly care, even though you don’t know her very well.”
I shrug. “I do care. She’s a rockstar.”
“And,” he continues, “another good trait of yours is you’re a good listener. Not only with clients, but… with me.”
I smile, unsure of what to say. Do you say thank you at a time like this? As I’m opening my mouth to do so, he keeps going.
“You’re courageous, strong, and immensely talented.” His eyes glow softly. “And very, very beautiful.” He lifts my hand and presses a light kiss on top. If I’m not mistaken, he deliberately kisses a freckle on one of my knuckles. Slowly, softly, but with an undercurrent of want. Why does that feel like the most romantic thing that anyone has ever done to me?
“I—” Words have escaped me, maybe for the first time in my life.
“And most of all?” he asks.
I finally find my words to reply, “There’s more?” I squeak.
“You’re you. You’re just…you. And that’s what I love the most.”
He’s tracing circles on the back of my hand now, and for a moment, I’m mesmerized by watching the action. Around and around his finger goes, and I’m so invested in it that I don’t see the owner standing at our table until he clears his throat.
Laird’s gaze goes from Beck to me and then back to Beck. “Uh, I hate to bother you, but we closed a while ago and I really need to get home to my wife, so—”
“Laird! I’m so sorry,” Beck says. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s fine,” A knowing smile crosses Laird’s face. “It wasn’t a problem. But I do need to lock up now.”
Beck stands from the table and pushes my chair out for me as I stand. “I’ll just pay the bill and then we’ll be out of your hair.” He picks up the receipt from the table—when did Laird bring that?—and scans the code at the bottom. “There you go,” he says to Laird, showing the transaction on his phone. “Thanks for the great food.”
“My pleasure.” Now Laird is beaming. “Nice to meet you, Miss Dallas.”
“Miss Dallas,” I say when we’ve stepped outside. “I like that.”
“It’s cute.”
I sling my arm through his. It feels like second nature, like I’ve studied it and gotten my degree in it and now I can just do it without thinking about it at all.
He gives my hand on his arm an appreciative smile. “Did you have any nicknames growing up?”
I sigh heavily. As much as I’m shy about sharing my ridiculous nicknames, it’s probably a good thing. Because with the heat of him seeping into me and the way his warm brown eyes look under the spell of the moon, I don’t trust myself to talk about anything else. Anything that could possibly lend itself to romantic thoughts of any kind.
So talking about my freckle-faced, gap-toothed kid nicknames should be a safe topic.
“My family used to call me Dally, which morphed into Dilly Dally, which sometimes morphed into Dilly Bar. Yep. That’s me. Named after a cherry flavored, wax-coated ice cream treat.”
He laughs, a little too hard for my comfort. I nudge him to get him to stop, which only makes him laugh harder. When he finally composes himself, he pats my arm. “I love a good Dilly Bar, personally. I think it’s an honor.”
I roll my eyes. “What about you? Were you called anything besides Beck and Billy?”
“Nothing I’d want to repeat. You know how immature junior high guys can be.” He looks out thoughtfully over the water. The waves are loud, but it’s a pleasant sort of noise, as rhythmic as time. “Could I convince you to get rid of those shoes and walk in the sand for a bit?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say, shucking them off without a thought and leaving them abandoned in the sand near the sidewalk.
“I have to say, I like the lower heels in some ways.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why do you wear such high heels most of the time?”
“I like them.” For some reason, I feel a little surge of defensiveness come up. “They’re pretty. I’ve always loved shoes. You know, being a short girl, it’s hard sometimes to find clothes that work. Some styles…it’s like, forget it, you’ll never be able to pull that off. But shoes. I can always pull off a killer pair of shoes.”
“Killer being the operative word. I bet they kill your feet.”
“I’m used to it by now. But it does feel nice to be barefoot.” The sand is warm as it squishes between my toes.
“So you wear the heels to try to compensate for being short?”
His question surprises me. “I—I don’t know.” I let go of his arm and then throw my hands in the air. “Probably. But, so? Is that a problem?”
He takes my defensiveness in stride. “Not a problem unless you feel like you have to do it. Like you’re not okay without trying to appear taller.”
“You don’t get to comment on things like this. You’re not short.” I say it with a laugh, but he’s hit a nerve somewhere. Because he’s right. I sometimes feel less than without my tall shoes on. Which sounds silly, but I guess it’s true.
“I know,” Beck says. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that I would really hate for you to think that you have to wear them to be your best self. There has to be lots of flats out there that are just as good.”
“I beg to differ. And like I said, it’s sometimes easier for me to find shoes I love than clothes that work. So, I splurge on the shoes.”
“Hey, they’re nice. You look great in them. Sorry if I overstepped.”
“Ha! Overstepped.” I chuckle. “Cause we’re talking about shoes?”
He favors me with more laughter than that dumb little joke deserves.
Walking barefoot with Beck along this beach, I think of what he just said. He’s not wrong about the shoes. They are a mask. A protection. Same with my work—or overwork, as is the case now. Sometimes, I wish I could be free from the need to hustle so much. To work so hard that I create perfect weddings for perfect marriages. My career is all I see. My future at Amore is the only thing that pricks my awareness into hyperdrive. Everything else gets lost.
Except here, under the night sky, cocooned by an infinite stretch of stars and an infinite sea of sand, my vision expands to the possibility of freedom. The possibility that I could maybe just…be.
Thinking of that hurts my head, so I bend to pick up a random, stray volleyball. “Show me some of your moves around a volleyball,” I challenge him, tossing the ball between my hands like I know what I’m doing.
At least it feels like it might look like I know what I’m doing, but I do not. I’m as athletic as a horse on roller skates.
He grins. “I think that volleyball actually might be mine.” He holds out his hands and I toss it to him, relieved I didn’t overthrow and hit him in the head.
He studies it. “It’s one we use for the city team I coach. We practice on this beach, and I must have left it here.”
“Well then, show me your skills.”
He shrugs off his blazer and sets it down on the sand. I gasp. “I’ll hold the blazer. The thought of getting sand on it is just…”
“Oh no. You’re going to play with me.” His eyebrows waggle up and down.
“I cannot be trusted around a volleyball or any other athletic equipment.” I take a step back to lean down to pick up his sports coat.
“Volleyball is not a one-person sport. This isn’t golf, Dallas.”
I sigh and set his blazer back where it doesn’t belong…on the beach. It’s a tragedy of the highest order. Except now I can see the bulge of his biceps and forearms through his fitted white shirt.
Okay. That sports coat can stay off the rest of the evening.
I hold out my hands, ready to catch it when a smile twitches his mouth. “Ready?” he asks.
I glare at Beck. “No, but I have a feeling this is happening anyway.”
He does a little bump of the ball, tossing it in the air and hitting it with his fist. It sails to me and goes right between my hands, landing at my feet with a thud.
I pick it up and roll my shoulders back. “Okay! Alright!” I sound like a cheerleader. This is not how I feel inside, but I’m going to try to fake it and hope he stops this before too long. I wanted to see his skills, not show off my lack of them. But I’m not going to be a whiny sour sport, either.
I try to mimic what he did and miss the ball all together. I emit a giggle and then try again, missing a second time. I lick my lips and tuck my errant hair behind my ear.
“Third time’s the charm,” he says with a gentle smile.
I take a step and whack it with all my might, impressed that I pulled it off. It sails in the air right past him.
“That was good! You’ve got a lot of power in that arm.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “That might have been a little fun.”
“You might have done a good job,” he counters, picking up the ball and hitting it to me again. This time I catch it and hold it up over my head, triumphant.
“Nice catch. Except, we don’t catch the ball in volleyball.”
“I know that.” I do that toss move between my hands. “See? I’ve got this move down. Too bad it’s not allowed in regulation.”
He laughs again, which warms my soul. He has a good, hearty, easy laugh. It feels good to be the cause of it.
“Here, can I show you something?” At my nod, he steps toward me, his bare feet on the outsides of mine as he stands behind me. He’s so much bigger than I am, he feels like an umbrella in a storm. I would not mind a sudden tsunami right now if that meant he could protect me just like this.
I don’t need protecting. I know this. I’m strong, just like he said. So why does this feel so good?
His warmth and the feel of his breath on the crown of my head make me shiver. He grasps my left hand with his, placing the ball in it. “You hold it like this, okay? And then with this hand—” he takes his right hand and pries my fingers apart and then puts them back in a fist. “Thumbs are out and then turn inward with the movement.”
I swallow hard. “Got it.”
He guides my right hand back, telling me instructions I’ll never remember because he’s touching me.
“And then, you whack it,” he says, helping me hit it far and hard. We watch as it sails in the air and then hits the ground with a thud.
“Whack it? Is that the technical term?” I toss back a look. He hasn’t let go of my hands yet and I’m perfectly fine with that.
He clears his throat. “Of course that’s the technical term,” he jokes, letting go of me to jog over to pick up the ball.
“Let me show you how to bump it. That’s what you’ll try to do when I hit it towards you.”
“ Try being the operative word.”
He lifts his hands with a shrug. “Hey, you’re a beginner. It’s okay.”
He tosses the ball in the air and demonstrates a bump several times, offering me pointers, telling me where to train my eyes.
Oh, Beck. I don’t need you to coach me on where to look. I’m locked into all of you. Everything.
He handles the volleyball so easily, it’s like he’s one of those expert soccer players who can juggle it forever and never lose or drop it.
“Okay, you ready for me to send it to you now?”
I clap and then bend my knees, placing my hands on them. “Ready as a juggler with chainsaws.”
He laughs so hard he bends at the waist. I can’t help joining in, even though it really wasn’t that funny. Finally, he sends it to me. I’m psyching myself up so much, telling myself I’m strong and capable and I’ve got this, that I tense my arms, channeling all my energy into them, joining my hands together with all my might. I hit the ball with a bang, and I’m struck with two things almost simultaneously.
One, that was so loud my forearms are probably going to bruise.
And two, the ball is heading straight for Beck’s face.