28. Brooke
Brooke
Meemaw suggests I take a bubble bath and read a book.
But not just any book, a romance book from her pile of paperbacks with men wearing breeches—and conveniently no shirts—as they sit on a horse, staring at women in long gloves and gowns, with titles like The Reluctant Duchess of Lovemore Manor emblazoned across the scene.
“No thanks, Meemaw,” I say as I push off the couch. “I think I’ll go wash up and go to—”
A knock on the door interrupts me. Meemaw pats my hand before releasing me. The knock sounds again, louder. I open the door just as Beck is about to pound his fist against the wood for a third time.
He stumbles slightly, catching himself on the doorframe.
“Are you ok?” I ask as I look him over. His mouth sets in a thin line, his jaw tight, his forearms tense. They are really nice forearms.
Beck doesn’t respond to my question. He just steps closer, over the threshold, and before I can totally understand what’s happening, he leans down and places a kiss on my lips.
My eyes bug out in surprise, although this isn’t an unwelcome one. He’s not demanding, he’s not rough. He’s just there, his lips touching mine firmly in far-too-brief a moment before he pulls back and meets my gaze with his own.
I blink a few times, unsure what to say and definitely unsure what that was all about.
Beck straightens and takes a step back. “I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice scratchy and low. “I…” He rubs his neck. “I’m sorry.”
He turns to leave and steps back onto the porch.
Utterly confused, I look back at Meemaw, whose very unsubtle hand gesture indicates I should follow him to the porch.
I step outside, shutting the door behind me.
“Beck?” I call.
He’s on the bottom step, but he stops before he slowly turns and looks at me. The uncertainty in his gaze does me in. He looks like that because he kissed me and thinks I didn’t want him to. A confident man who saves lives shouldn’t look like a wounded puppy, but in this moment, he does.
“I…” A flush floods my cheeks. “I liked that,” I whisper.
Something in Beck’s entire demeanor changes. He straightens and walks toward me with the confidence that I usually see in him. The kind of confidence that’s extremely attractive.
“You liked what, Brooke?” he asks, his voice extra deep.
“I liked it when you kissed me,” I whisper as he steps closer.
I take a step toward him, and he closes the distance. His warm hands land on my back as he pulls me into an embrace. His lips land on mine, gentle and soft.
He’s warm and kind and good.
When he pulls away, he looks deep into my eyes and says three words that make my heart hammer out a beat in double time.
“I love you.”