Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
HATTIE
I wake up with a box cutter through my temple and a dead muskrat in my mouth.
Or, at least, that’s what it feels like.
I’m also in a bed that smells deliciously male, but the sunlight flooding in through the windows is demonic.
Groaning, I roll over, and my stomach reminds me that out of all the organs in my body, it’s the one most likely to hold a grudge.
I try to pull the covers over my head, but when the side of my hand brushes paper, I stop. Half blind, I clasp the note and draw it close.
Morning, Honeysuckle,
I’m heading out to the harvester until lunch. I can give you a ride home then if you want. You can stay as long as you’d like. I’d like that. There’s a BioLite on the nightstand and coffee and cinnamon rolls downstairs. Pop knows you’re here, so don’t worry about spooking him.
XO
Beck
P.S. You are so fucking cute when you sleep.
I blink, rub my eyes, and then read the note again.
Fucking cute?
I feel about as cute as a shucked oyster, but rereading that line makes me feel about ten percent cuter.
Okay, twenty percent cuter than a shucked oyster.
I grab the BioLite, mentally scrolling through memories from last night. Jello shots. Dancing. More Jello shots. Pictures. More Jello shots. Calling Beck. Puking in a bathroom stall at The Goose—wait, no—The Grouse Room…
I crack open the sports drink and take a tentative sip.
And then I’m chugging it.
Holy crap. It’s like I’m swallowing Lemon Lime Life Essence.
My every cell is singing an anthem to BioLite.
I might actually survive this: My First and Last Hangover.
My phone is on the nightstand, so I grab it and text Beck.
Me: FIRST OF ALL, EVEN THOUGH I’VE NEVER HAD A BOYFRIEND, I FEEL QUALIFIED TO JUDGE THAT YOU ARE A TOP CALIBER BOYFRIEND.
Me: YOUR GIFT OF ELECTROLYTES IS SAVING ME.
Me: IF THIS WERE ANCIENT CHINA, I’D BE LI SHANG TO YOUR MULAN AND OWE YOU MY LIFE.
Me: ALSO, I HAVE LEARNED AN IMPORTANT LESSON: GELATIN BASED SWEETS ARE NEVER TO BE TRUSTED.
I could keep going, but if it’s not okay to triple text, quadruple texting probably is a misdemeanor. Besides, Beck won’t see the messages unless he and his crew take a break.
Plus, my phone notifications tell me I have a few missed calls and texts of my own.
Ugh.
The first is from my sister at 7:12 a.m.
Margaret: How are you feeling? Are you okay?
Then another one from her at 7:34.
Margaret: You need to call Mom or Dad. I’ve tried to reassure them, but they’re tweaking.
From Dad at 7:30.
Dad: Call your mother, Hats.
And if that boy wasn’t a gentleman last night, I have the means to take him on a one-way trip offshore.
This is followed by a string of shark and skull and crossbone emojis.
I roll my eyes and decide on a compromise.
I text both parents:
Me: I AM ALIVE AND WELL (EXCEPT FOR A HANGOVER). BECK WAS A PERFECT GENTLEMAN. STOP TWEAKING.
Before I can even throw the covers off and work my way to standing, Mom has replied.
Mom: When are you coming home? Will you be back in time for church? Do you want me to come get you???
I shoot back a quick no and put my phone on DND.
Aware that I’m not alone in Beck’s house—that his dad is somewhere downstairs—I tiptoe across the hall and lock myself in the bathroom.
One glance in the mirror and a memory from last night rushes back. Me. Right here. Staring at the wreck of my reflection.
I snort.
Bedhead and the addition of morning sunlight have not improved the view.
And yet, Beck said I was fucking cute.
Cute or not, I’m not facing anyone without a shower. I turn on the hot water and peel off Beck’s clothes.
Even though I put them right back on afterward, the full body scrub down—with Beck’s yummy smelling soap—has done me good.
Ain’t no way I’m putting my feet back into the gold pump booties I had on last night. And not just because they’d clash with the comfy sweats and T-shirt.
So when I hit the stairs, I’m barefoot and with my hair towel-dried and combed out.
But a few steps from the bottom, I freeze. Because I hear voices.
No.
Not voices. Just one voice. And it doesn’t sound happy.
“I don’t see why you can’t wait a year to do this. Wait six months.”
It’s Beck’s dad. When no one replies, I realize he’s on the phone.
All I can hear in his voice is anguish. “Give my boy a chance, Paul.”
And even I know this is not a conversation I should be overhearing. I turn to head back upstairs but stop when I catch:
“You know as well as I do Beckett can’t buy you out in less than three months. How can you do this to him? Stabbing him in the back like this?”
Stabbing him in the back? Stabbing Beck?
Who would dare?
I realize that I’m leaning in to listen closer when the stair beneath me creaks.
Loudly.
“H-hold on, Paul—” I hear the scrape of a chair in the kitchen. “Hello? Is that you, Hattie?”
Busted.
Wincing, I turn again and descend the stairs.
“Yes, sir. It’s me.” I poke my head into the kitchen and find a startled Mr. Olivier with a phone pressed to his ear. “But I can go back ups—”
His surprised look morphs into a scowl. “Nonsense.” His gaze drops as he barks into the phone. “This conversation isn’t over, Paul. I’ll call you back.”
He beeps the phone and practically slams in on the table. His hands shake, and I’m not sure if it’s from strong emotion, from Parkinson’s, or both.
I swallow, unsure what to do. An urgent impulse tells me to run—or at least walk briskly—back up the stairs.
But something else—something deeper inside me—insists I stay.
Beck’s dad slumps at the kitchen table, sort of hunched, still scowling at the phone like it insulted him. A spill-proof mug sits in front of him.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he grunts. “Help yourself.”
I stand motionless for a moment.
Do I want to pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at the table alone with Beck’s dad?
Hmmm…
Yeah. I kinda do.
Plus, the coffee enchants me like a sorceress.
I pad over to the counter where there’s an overturned mug just waiting for me. This, I am almost certain, Beck left out for me.
I smile as I fill it.
“Half-and-half’s in the fridge and sugar’s in that blue dish.”
“Thank you.” I help myself to both, admiring the light blue, narrow-rimmed sugar bowl ringed with yellow daisies. I’d bet my sewing machine it was Beck’s mom’s. Something she picked out. Pretty. Feminine. Simple.
The little dish has me picturing a floral print halter neck dress with a ruffled collar, belted waist, and flared skirt. I can almost see the pattern pieces in my head.
I’ve modified patterns before—for practically every piece of clothing I make for myself—but I’ve never designed anything from scratch.
Other sewists do it. Maybe I could try.
Half a pan of cinnamon rolls sits on the stove. I smile again, picturing Beck unwrapping the store-bought package, popping the little construction paper tube, and baking these. Hours ago. I know it’s not a time-intensive breakfast, but he still did it at the crack of dawn.
Sweet man.
I serve myself two and join his dad at the table.
Mr. Olivier eyes me over his glasses and lifts the mug to his lips with a shaking hand. “Big night?”
I wince, remembering that the front door isn’t far from his bedroom. He probably heard us come in.
“My sister’s bachelorette party. Sorry if I woke you.”
I chance a peek at him. His scowling eyes crinkle at the edges in something close to a smile. They remind me of Beck’s sunshine footprints.
“No bother.”
It’s only when he grins back at me that I realize I did it first.
He makes a noise that I think is a chuckle. “Honestly, it reminded me of our younger days. Beckett’s mother was a bonafide lightweight.”
I’m about to tell him that there’s nothing light about my weight when I realize he’s talking about alcohol tolerance.
“I… um… have never been drunk before.”
His eye bug behind his glasses. “Is that so?”
I nod before biting into a cinnamon roll. It’s cold and the edges have gone a little stiff, but it’s still way tastier than my usual breakfast of cottage cheese and low-carb toast with peanut butter.
My boyfriend is the best.
When I come back from my mini-cinnamon-roll-fugue-state, Beck’s dad is watching me. If I had to name it, his look is amused.
“I don’t like the taste of alcohol.” I pick up where I left off, wrinkling my nose. “Apparently, Jello shots are the exception.”
His booming laugh nearly rattles the windows.
When his amusement recedes, Mr. Olivier nods slowly. “You’re just what he needs,” he mutters before draining his coffee mug. “Right now, especially.”
Then his chair scrapes over the kitchen floor and he pushes out of it. “Make yourself at home,” he says, before reaching for his walker. “I’ve gotta call to make, but I’ll do it outdoors. Takin’ in the view while I still got it.”
His movements are stilted, but when he makes it outside, he shuts the door behind him. Tones of a conversation bleed through the walls, but I can’t make out the words.
Still, it doesn’t sound particularly cheerful.
I mentally play back what I overheard on my way downstairs.
He can’t buy you out in less than three months.
How can you do this to him?
And then:
You’re just what he needs. Right now, especially.
Takin’ in the view while I still got it.
Other than telling me he has a lot on his plate right now, Beck hasn’t shared that the farm is in trouble.
That he is in trouble.
But all signs point to that.
My heart twists. For Beck. For his dad.
What would happen to them if they lost this place?
“The farm is not the only thing that matters.”
Beck’s words rise up into consciousness. A memory that my heart must have tucked away last night since my brain wasn’t worth shit.
The “Hell, yes, I’m talking about you,” follows in its footsteps.
I meant what I said. I’d drop everything to help him.
Of course, I don’t have much to drop.
And I don’t know how I can help.
I push up from the table, drain the last of my coffee, and set down the mug with a decisive thunk.
I can start by not sitting on my ass while he runs a damn farm.