29. Scarlett
— ? —
Scarlett
Four days of Beck on my couch, and I’m starting to lose my mind.
My fever broke yesterday. Josie’s been an angel ever since her daddy started cutting biscuits into horse shapes that come out looking more like potatoes. It’s not even the small apartment that suddenly feels microscopic with a six-foot-two man taking up half of it.
It’s watching him move through my kitchen like he belongs there, his shoulders too broad for the narrow space, his hands too sure as he stirs soup that tastes like cardboard but that he made himself.
It’s the way he’s rolled up his sleeves, forearms flexing every time he reaches for something, and I can’t stop staring at those forearms like I’m sixteen and seeing a boy for the first time.
It’s the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Like I’m something precious. Like he’s been starving and I’m the only thing that could fill him up.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says without turning around.
“I’m sitting. That counts as resting.”
He turns, and God, the sight of him in my tiny kitchen with a dish towel slung over his shoulder shouldn’t do what it does to me. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt that’s seen better days, and there’s a spot of soup on his collar, and he looks more real than he ever did in his expensive suits.
“The soup is fine,” he says.
“Did we taste the same soup? It was terrible.”
“The soup is made with love.”
“If your love is too much salt and not enough actual cooking ability. Then I don’t want it.” But I’m smiling, and something warm is spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the leftover fever.
Josie bangs her spoon on her high chair. “More! More bikkit!”
“Biscuit,” I correct automatically.
Beck is already at the counter, pressing a fresh round of dough flat with his palms. I watch the muscles in his back shift under his shirt as he works, watch the way he tilts his head to line up the cutter, watch his hands work the dough with a focus that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
“Your eyes have been on my back for three minutes,” he says.
“I’m making sure you don’t burn down my kitchen.”
He turns around, and there’s something in his expression. Amusement, maybe, but darker underneath. “If you want something, Scarlett, you can ask for it.”
My face heats. “I don’t want anything.”
“Liar.”
The word hangs between us. He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I feel it everywhere, in my chest, my stomach, lower. Then he turns back to the dough like nothing happened, and I’m left sitting at my table trying to remember how to breathe.
My phone rings. Prue’s name on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, grateful for the distraction. “How’s the mare?”
“She’s fine. I’m not calling about the mare.” Prue’s voice is all business. “I’m calling about you.”
“I’m fine too. Almost human again.”
“Good. Because I need to talk to you about something.”
Beck slides a biscuit onto Josie’s plate, it looks vaguely horse-shaped if you squint, and then deliberately walks out of the kitchen. Giving me privacy. The thoughtfulness of it makes my chest ache.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Partner,” Prue says. “I want you to come in as a partner. Ashby and Velasquez.”
I nearly drop the phone. “Prue-”
“Don’t say no yet. Just think about it. You’ve brought in more business in six months than I did in two years. The Harmon contract alone-”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good. That’s all I’m asking.” She pauses. “Take care of yourself, Scarlett. I need you healthy.”
She hangs up. I sit there staring at the phone, trying to process what just happened.
“Good news?”
Beck is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me. The pose does unfair things to his biceps.
“Prue wants me to be her partner. Ashby and Velasquez.”
He smiles and looks at me with pride. “That’s incredible.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You will.” He says it with complete certainty. “It’s what you’ve been working toward.”
“It’s a big decision.”
“It is.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, and my pulse kicks up with every step. “Whatever you choose, I’ll support it. You know that.”
He stops in front of my chair, looking down at me. “How are you feeling? Really?”
“Better. Tired, but better.”
“Can you stand?”
“I’ve been standing all morning.”
“Can you stand long enough for a shower?”
The question shouldn’t make my breath catch. It’s practical, I haven’t had a real shower in four days, just sponge baths and dry shampoo. But there’s something in his voice, in the way he’s looking at me, that makes it feel like more.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “My legs are still shaky.”
“I could help.”
“Beck-”
“Not like that.” But his eyes say otherwise. “I just mean, there’s another option. If you want.”
“What option?”
He nods toward the kitchen sink. “I could wash your hair. You wouldn’t have to stand.”
I stare at him. “In the kitchen sink?”
“It’s the right height. You could sit in the chair, tip your head back.” He shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the tension in his shoulders. “Just your hair. Nothing else. Unless you want-”
“Just my hair.”
I don’t know why I say yes. Maybe because I’m tired of feeling grimy. Maybe because the thought of standing in the shower for twenty minutes sounds exhausting. Maybe because I want his hands on me, even if it’s just my hair, even if we’re pretending it’s practical.
He pulls a chair up to the sink. I sit down, and he drapes a towel over my shoulders, and I tip my head back over the basin.
The water is warm. His fingers are gentle as he wets my hair, careful not to get water in my eyes. I close them anyway, because I can’t look at him while he does this. Can’t watch his face while his hands are in my hair.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He works the shampoo in slowly, his fingers massaging my scalp. It feels so good I almost moan. He finds the spot at the base of my skull that always holds tension, and he presses there, and I do make a sound, something between a sigh and a whimper.
“Still okay?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out breathy. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t stop.
His hands move through my hair, working out the tangles, spreading the shampoo to the ends. The position puts my throat bare to him, vulnerable, and I can feel him looking at me even with my eyes closed.
“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly. “You know that?”
“I look like death warmed over.”
“You look like mine.”
My eyes fly open. He’s staring down at me, his hands still in my hair, water dripping down his forearms. His expression is completely unguarded.
“Beck, not now.”
He rinses the shampoo out, gentle despite the intensity in his eyes. “I know we’re not there yet. I know I haven’t earned it. But I need you to know, when I look at you, that’s what I see. Mine. The way you were always supposed to be.”
I don’t know what to say. The words stick in my throat, tangled up with want and fear and something that feels dangerously like hope.
He works conditioner through my hair. I close my eyes again, because looking at him is too much. His fingers find another knot, work it loose with patience that makes my heart hurt.
And then, without warning, I start to cry.
“Scarlett?” His hands go still. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” The tears are streaming down my face, and I don’t know where they’re coming from. “No, you didn’t hurt me. I just-”
“Just what?”
“No one’s ever-” I can’t finish the sentence.
Can’t explain that no one has ever washed my hair like this, like it matters, like I’m something worth taking care of.
I didn’t experience it with my mother, who was always too busy.
Or the boyfriends who came before Beck. Or even Beck himself, in all the years we were together.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
He keeps rinsing my hair, keeps running his fingers through it, keeps murmuring words I can barely hear over my own crying. And when it’s done, when my hair is clean and wrapped in a towel, he kneels in front of my chair and takes my face in his hands.
“You’re afraid of disappearing,” he says.
I go still. “What?”
“That’s what you’re afraid of. Disappearing. Having nothing with your name on it. Ending up like my mother, sitting at the end of a long table with nothing that’s yours.”
The words steal the breath right out of me.
“How do you know that?”
“Page nineteen.” His thumbs brush the tears from my cheeks. “I wrote it without realizing what I was writing. It wasn’t until I read it back that I understood.”
“You figured it out from your own letter?”
“I figured it out because I finally paid attention.” He holds my gaze. “I should have known years ago. I should have seen it. But I was too busy running to look at what I was running from.”
Josie bangs her spoon on the tray again. “Dada! Dada up!”
Beck doesn’t move. He stays kneeling in front of me, his hands on my face, his eyes locked on mine.
“I see you now,” he says. “I’m going to keep seeing you. Every day. For as long as you let me.”
“Beck-”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He stands up, finally, and goes to lift Josie from her high chair. She wraps her arms around his neck, her fist finding his shirt and gripping tight.
“She holds on like she’s afraid you’ll float away,” I say.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He’s looking at me over Josie’s head, and there’s a question on his expression.
“The cash rule is over,” I say.
He blinks. “What?”
“The cash rule. The no-anything-that-makes-you-a-billionaire thing.” I stand up, my legs steadier than they’ve been in days. “You proved it without money. You don’t need the rules anymore.”
“Scarlett. I can conti-”
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then a smile breaks across his face, the real smile, the one I fell in love with, the one I haven’t seen in months.
“Yes ma’am,” he says.