Chapter 16 #2
I carry my dishes to the sink where Beck and his dad’s breakfast dishes sit.
Surveying the kitchen, I find some plasticware and put the rest of the cinnamon rolls in the fridge.
After I rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher, I wipe down the counters, dump the coffee filter, and give the basket and carafe a rinse.
It’s a quarter after eleven. Beck will break for lunch in about an hour.
Plenty of time to fix him something to eat.
I look through the fridge and pantry, cataloguing what I have to work with. Eggs, bacon, lettuce, avocados, apples, some leftover rotisserie chicken. Hot dogs, but no buns. Jelly but I can’t find peanut butter.
Not that I’d make him a PB and J, call it lunch, and still be able to look him in the eye.
My cooking prowess is pretty lame, but I have a phone and the internet.
Making a decent lunch can’t be that hard, right?
Beck walks into the kitchen an hour later to find me on a step stool, elbow deep in the microwave, sweating and cursing.
He halts in the doorway, surveys the damage, and then frowns at me.
“You okay, gorgeous?”
I push a loose lock of hair behind my ear, not exactly meeting his eyes. “Did you know you can’t boil eggs in the microwave?”
A choking sound tries to escape his throat, and when I make myself look at him, he’s biting down on both lips, eyes wide.
Beck clears his throat. “Um… yeah, I knew that.” His gaze trails to the cast iron skillet on the stove. The grease inside of it is black.
“Also, I might’ve had the flame up too high on the bacon,” I confess. The carnage is hidden in the trash under grease-soaked paper towels, but the smell of charred pork hangs in the air.
“Where’s Pop?”
I wince. “He… decided to go sit on the back porch…” I make myself say it. “After the smoke alarm went off.”
Beck’s eyes widen. He crosses the kitchen and gently takes me by the wrist, inspecting the bandage on my left hand.
“Did you burn yourself?”
“Yes, but that’s not from the burn. That’s from slicing tomatoes.” I pull my hand away, shaking my head as I hop down from the step stool. “But don’t worry. I didn’t get any blood in the salad.”
“Salad?” He scans the counter, taking in all three of the cutting boards I could find. To say that the tomatoes, avocados, lettuce, and rotisserie chicken piled on top of them are sliced would be a bit of a stretch. But the food is definitely in pieces.
Of course, now that I’m looking at them, I don’t think I’d want to put any of those pieces in my mouth.
I doubt he will either.
“I… I was trying to make us a Cobb Salad.” The fact that I’ve failed doesn’t really need to be stated.
My nose stings and I swallow hard.
Do. Not. Cry.
But it’s a hard fight. If I can’t even make lunch, maybe Mom is right. What business do I have living on my own if I can’t feed myself. If I set off the smoke alarm just making a damn salad.
“I’ll clean up the mess,” I say, voice a little wobbly. “I’m sorry.”
All at once, Beck’s arms are around me, and I’m pressed to his sexy smelling chest. When I look up at him in shock, his mouth dips down to mine, and Beck kisses the hell out of me.
“You made me lunch,” he declares, a little breathlessly, a long moment later.
I’m glad his arms are around me because I feel a touch lightheaded. And I don’t think it’s all from the burnt bacon fumes.
“Technically, no.” I shake my head. “There’s no blue cheese, and I didn’t even think about salad dressing. Honestly, what’s the point of a salad without dressing? If I’d saved the bacon, that’d be—”
He’s kissing me again.
Oh my gosh, he’s so good at it.
The pressure of his lips, firm and yet soft. The caress of his tongue seeking mine, both erotic but in control. The way his hand at the back of my neck and his arm banded around me choreograph perfectly so that my head angles back for him while my breasts squish deliciously against his chest…
He could post videos of his kissing technique on YouTube, and he’d never have to work again. He’d totally save this farm.
Which reminds me.
“I-I just wanted to help.”
Beck dips his nose against my neck—just below my ear—and inhales. Chills sprinkle down my spine like pixie dust.
“Just having you here helps,” he murmurs. “I fucking loved waking up with you this morning.” He kisses my neck, and I’m in danger of liquifying right here in his family kitchen. “Coming in and finding you still here is like getting a birthday present.”
I pull back, blinking at him. “You thought I’d leave?”
He shrugs. “There’s always Uber. You might’ve had stuff to do.”
I snort. “I’m missing church with the family, including Grandma Eloise. No way I could face that with a hangover.”
Beck laughs but cups my face in his hand. “How ya feeling?”
Now I shrug. “The BioLite helped a lot. Thank you. So did the coffee and the cinnamon rolls.” I glance at the unassembled Cobb salad on his counter—sans bacon, eggs, blue cheese, and dressing—and wrinkle my nose. “But my lunch efforts don’t look real appetizing.”
Eyes narrowed, Beck surveys the counter and presses his lips together. “I might have an idea. How do you feel about burritos?”
I perk up. “I’m listening.”
Beck releases me and wastes no time producing tortillas from the freezer and a can of refried beans and a jar of salsa from the pantry.
Ten minutes later, we take our burritos—stuffed with lettuce, tomato, avocado, rotisserie chicken, refried beans, and salsa—out to the front porch.
We sit on the steps side by side, and when I take a bite, a little bit of my hope is restored.
Yes, I fucked up my Cobb salad plans, but all is not lost.
Maybe I won’t starve when I live on my own.
Beck laughs. “Of course you won’t.”
Oops.
“Didn’t mean to say that out loud,” I mutter around a mouthful.
Beck munches quietly beside me for a moment. “You know you don’t have to check your thoughts with me, right?”
Breath leaves me in a rush.
I peek at him. Those amber eyes of his are the warmest things I’ve ever seen.
“Maybe… maybe I do know that.” I gnaw on my bottom lip because this is new and untested. I feel like the first person stepping out onto the Grand Canyon Skywalk. “I’m just not used to it… Sharing what I really think gets me into plenty of trouble.”
Beck narrows his eyes and growls menacingly, a threat to anyone who’d hassle me. I bust out a laugh. Then he does too, those adorable sunshine footprints squeezing tight.
He grins before taking another bite and nods approvingly at the burrito. “Mmm. This is really good.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks to you.”
“Nope. I wouldn’t have thought about putting all the veggies in it. Cutting all that up takes time and I’m always in a hurry.” He holds up his half-eaten burrito like a trophy. “This is a lot healthier than our usual lunches. And that’s thanks to you.”
It shouldn’t, considering the mess I’ve made of his kitchen, but a little flush of pride climbs my cheeks.
“If my mom had walked in and found her kitchen in the state yours is in, she would lose her shit.” I wrinkle my nose. “It’s probably why I’m so bad at cooking.”
He leans over and bumps his shoulder with mine. “You’re not bad at cooking.”
I give him a dry look. “I triggered the smoke alarm. My bacon was carcinogenic.”
Beck stifles a laugh, but I don’t stop there.
“Your ailing father fled for his safety.”
This time he cracks, shaking his head through his laughter. “The fresh air is good for him.”
“Especially when the air inside is toxic.”
Beck coughs through another laugh before clearing his throat. “You just need practice. Everyone needs practice when they try something new.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I just feel bad that I made such a mess.” Then I give a shrug in concession. “The burritos are pretty good.”
Beck pops his last bite into his mouth, chews, and swallows, watching me silently the whole time.
Then he clears his throat. “You know the funny thing about messes? You can clean them up. No big deal.”
My eyes almost bug out of their sockets. “WHAT?!”
I’m half-joking. But only half.
Silent laughter dances in his eyes and sexy parentheses bracket his mouth. Damn. What a smokeshow.
I lower my voice like I’m sharing a state secret. “Cleaning up—for someone with ADHD and the tisms—is a very big deal.”
His eyes soften.
“It’s one of the reasons my mom isn’t so keen about me moving out. She’s afraid I’ll turn my place into a three-bedroom rat hovel,” I stage whisper, on a roll now. “Confession: it’s not outside the realm of possibility. A bacon grease fire in a clothes-strewn rat hovel? I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Shut up, Mercier!
But the words are already out.
Beck’s brows pinch, and he stares at me for a long moment.
Oh crap. I just broke it. Whatever attraction he had for me, I just burned to the ground. Just like my clothes-strewn rat hovel.
“So… it’s your mom… who’s worried about this scenario?” He ends the question with a head tilt that I’m not sure how to interpret.
“Um… yes?”
His head tilt angles down just a little more pointedly. “Just her?”
I’ll be the first to admit that I miss a lot of subtext. I think I was fifteen before I really got sarcasm. Growing up, picking up on tone was like trying to learn a second language. And not even one of the easy ones. But the Slavic kind with the weird alphabet.
“Are you implying that I’m the one who’s worried?”
Beck purses his lips in thought, which is really unfair because it distracts the hell out of me.
“Are you?”
I blink at him. Of course I am worried. It’s just by the grace of Merrick that I’m not looking at group homes or conservatorship. The people who know me best—who’ve known me the longest—have real doubts about me managing on my own.
Which means I have doubts too. How could I not?
But even though Beck is really good at making me feel safe, sharing these doubts with him feels decidedly unsafe.
I never want him to doubt that I can take care of myself. That I am independent.
That I am his equal.
I need to steer this conversation away from that particular ravine. So I swallow hard, pushing down these doubts that want to bob to the surface like crab trap buoys.
“Not… really,” I try to lie with confidence, but I’ve always been a terrible liar.
Beck watches me for a bit, and I’m pretty sure he knows I’m full of shit because the glint in his eye says I’m not fooling him.
For a long moment, I’m sure he’s going to press me about it. And then I’ll spill the whole ugly story about supported decision-making and power of attorney and a long-term care trust.
Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up all over again.
But when Beck opens his mouth, it’s not to question my competence.
“Can I tell you something bad?” he asks, wincing a little.
My heart takes a nosedive and my worst fear yeats from me. “Are you breaking up with me?”
Beck’s mouth drops open and his brows slam together. “No! God, no.”
In the next instant, he has shoved our plates aside and hauled me into his lap.
“Hattie, look at me.” Beck takes my face in both his hands, but he doesn’t need to. I don’t want to look at anything else. His emphatic no has all of my attention, and I want to hear more.
“Being with you? It’s the one thing in my life that doesn’t feel like… like climbing Everest. Everything else—”
Beck’s chuckle is the saddest chuckle under the sun. He shakes his head, his gaze sweeping the landscape behind me. For a moment, his amber eyes stare ahead unfocused. Like he’s not looking at his farm, but at a view he doesn’t recognize.
And it’s the sad chuckle and the look in his eyes that makes me forget what I’m afraid of. I place my hands on his cheeks, and his gaze snaps back to mine.
“Everything else feels like a fight to survive.” His eyes blaze. “Being with you is… oxygen. As easy as breathing and better than laughing.”
My smile cracks wide open.
The corners of Beck’s lips tug up before he presses his forehead to mine. “A hell of a lot better.”
I’d like to kiss him right now.
I should kiss him right now.
But intrusive thoughts don’t wait for an invitation.
“I heard your dad on the phone this morning.” I try to meet his gaze, but with our foreheads touching, I just go cross-eyed and have to pull back. “Is… is the farm in trouble?”
His brows shoot up. “You heard Pop on the phone? Who was he talking to?”
I wince, remembering the pain in Mr. Olivier’s voice. I was eavesdropping, and now I’m confessing as much to Beck. What’s wrong with me?
“Someone named Paul?” I squeak.
Beck shuts his eyes and lets out a sigh that sounds both exhausted and hopeless.
Without even consciously choosing to, I run my fingers through Beck’s hair, wanting to soothe him. Wanting to make it better—whatever it is.
His eyes open slowly, and for the first time, I see real worry in them. And, God, it’s like a punch in the stomach.
“Yeah… Yeah, the farm is in trouble.” And then he tells me about how the farm is family-owned.
How his uncle only holds a share of it, but he wants to sell that share.
About how if he can’t raise the money to buy it, losing that share will be a major blow.
One that Olivier Family Farms might not recover from.
And as he tells me about how he stands to lose everything—and how he’s trying to figure out a way to bring in the harvest, secure a loan big enough to buy out his uncle, keep from going bankrupt, launch a side gig, and take care of his dad—I realize that I might just be falling in love with him.
Because hearing about this hurts like hell. Like it’s not just happening to him, but it’s happening to me too. Like his heart has imprinted on mine, so his pain is my pain.
And even though none of this is joyful, I know without a doubt that Beck’s joy—however it comes, whenever he feels it—is my joy too.
Without a doubt, I want to help him. I want to help him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
But what can I do?
I can’t hold down a job. I may or may not be able to live on my own.
Hell, I can’t even make a decent Cobb salad.