Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
HATTIE
I’m of the firm belief that Beck kept me from ruining Margaret’s wedding, but no one else seems to appreciate the fact that his sharp knife and even sharper wits forestalled disaster.
During the third time I try to tell the story—when both the Mercier and Milton families are up in front of the altar, taking post-ceremony pictures—Mom pinches the back of my arm like I’m six.
“No more talk of bras,” she scolds. “Smile for the camera.”
“But—”
“Honestly, Randall. You should take care.” Grandma Eloise’s voice cuts through mine. “What kind of young man brings a knife to a wedding, anyway?”
Dad murmurs something while I lock eyes with Beck, who’s standing a few pews behind the photographer, waiting for me.
The way his brow arches, I know he’s heard her.
CRANKY OLD TWAT, I mouth silently to him.
But a second arm pinch indicates I haven’t been totally silent.
When church pictures are finally done, I rush down the aisle to Beck, and he catches me in a tight hug.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against my ear. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you up there.”
I squeeze him back just as tight. God, he feels amazing. And the suit?
Knee-dissolving.
“I almost missed the vows, I was so busy looking at you.” Holy crap. Am I purring? “And I thought you were a smokeshow in a button down. Damn, Beck—”
The sound of throat-clearing behind me has us releasing each other. I turn and find my parents. They are smiling, but the kind of smiles that don’t reach above the lips.
“Oh—I—Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Beck Olivier.”
Beck greets Mom first, offering her his hand. “Mrs. Mercier, it was a beautiful ceremony. Thank you for having me.”
Mom blinks at Beck before shaking his hand, and, while I’m the last person in the world who could say anything about being socially awkward, it’s the first time I’ve seen this from her. Hillary Mercier is the Queen of Etiquette, so what the hell?
“Well… thank you, Beck… I know Hattie is glad you could make it,” she says with that growth-stunted smile.
“I am too,” Beck replies before turning to my dad, hand extended. “Mr. Mercier, it’s nice to meet you.”
My dad fares a little better than Mom. “Likewise. Hattie speaks well of you.” He takes Beck’s hand, pumps it, but then arches a brow. “Though I could have lived without that pocket-knife-underwire story.”
Beck’s gaze flicks to me and then back at my dad. Is it just the cathedral lighting or are his cheeks more persimmon?
I’m about to blurt out in his defense when Beck clears his throat.
“When my mom was going through chemo and radiation, I watched her do that to all of her bras to make them more comfortable—though she used sewing scissors and probably made a neater job of it.” He shrugs.
“Seemed a simple solution to make Hattie feel better.”
My Dad’s head cocks back. Something about Beck surprises him. I can’t tell if it’s the story about Beck’s mom or if it’s about Beck doing something to make me feel better.
Either way, it’s good. Because the lines of Dad’s smile lift to his eyes.
“Suppose you have a point,” Dad says. “Glad you could join—”
“We need to get to the reception,” Mom cuts in. “The guests will already be there. We should go, Randall.”
Mom grabs my arm. “Come on, Hattie.”
But I plant my feet and tug it back. Mom has no choice but to let go or totter off her heels.
“I’m going to ride with Beck.”
I say the words and feel like I stand a little bit taller. Because I don’t ask.
I don’t say, I want to ride with Beck.
I say, I’m going to ride with Beck.
And I feel the difference. It’s a declaration, and it’s non-negotiable.
Mom might feel the difference too because she looks at me, her mouth open like I’ve caught her mid-word.
“I…” She looks from me to Beck and then back again. “Very well… W-we’ll see you at the Gibson House. Soon.”
Margaret and Merrick couldn’t have picked a better spot for their reception.
The Gibson House, a late-Victorian estate on the north side of town, is a historically registered house kitted out with several refurbished outbuildings that have been converted to lodgings, a garden, a pool with a hot tub, and sprawling grounds.
Best of all, tonight the sprawling grounds are home to a big, fairy-light-festooned tent, a bandstand, and a dance floor, which means the music isn’t unbearably loud since this is all outside—instead of indoors crowded between walls and ceiling.
The eight-piece local band onstage is doing a kickass rendition of “Just the Two of Us,” and I squeeze Beck’s hand as we walk up the paved path. Except for the pictures we’ll take when Margaret and Merrick cut the cake—with those of us in attendance toasting them—I’m essentially free.
Free and with Beck.
The night is suddenly alive with possibilities.
We could go inside where the food is laid out, but that would mean having to talk to the old people—like Grandma Eloise and her cranky-old-twat cronies—who want to stay warm on overstuffed antique furniture, away from the music and dancing.
Nope. We can get food later. The wide front porch is set up with an outdoor bar, and that’s the direction I lead Beck.
“Will you do me a favor?” I ask, squeezing his hand again.
He squeezes back. “Anything.”
And considering the way he freed me from underwire on the church steps with his pocketknife, I know he means it.
I nod toward the bar on the porch. “It’s an open bar. Would you order me a Shirley Temple with whatever you’re getting?”
A grin streaks across his face. “Of course.”
I duck my chin and make a conscious effort to lower my voice. “Lots of cherries.”
“You got it.”
And when he orders, I have my back to the bar, so I don’t even have to see the smirk the bartender might wear. Given Beck’s size and the way he fills out that suit, no one behind the bar dares to say “What, are you eight?” at my order.
Besides, anyone who says they don’t like a Shirley Temple with lots of cherries is straight up lying.
Beck tips the bartender, and we carry our drinks toward the tent. His glass is not even half full—not a cherry in sight, not even a lime wedge—and the amber liquid inside looks positively lethal.
“What is that?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
Beck eyes his glass as if he can’t believe what he’s saying. “It’s Isle of Skye 21 YR Scotch.”
“Oh, that.” I roll my eyes. “My dad can’t stop talking about that stuff.”
“It’s $90 a bottle,” Beck says under his breath. He looks back at the bar over his shoulder. “There were three bottles on the back bar besides this one.”
I snort. “Crazy, right? Why would someone pay that much for a drink that tastes like kerosene?”
Beck raises the glass to his nose. He makes a noise in his throat I like so much my ovaries stand at attention.
So I miss nothing when he licks his lips, puts the glass to them, and tips back a sip. Jaw open, lips closed, he hollows his cheeks and holds the liquid in his mouth as his eyes drift shut.
Damn. This is hot.
As I watch him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his crisp collar, heat rushes up my thighs.
Again, he makes a noise that’s more like a soft growl. Then he shakes his head and his eyes flutter open.
“Definitely doesn’t taste like kerosene.” The words are throaty and satisfied, and all the sudden, I want to snatch a whole bottle of the stuff just to watch Beck do that again.
And again.
But my runaway fantasy is upended when I catch a scrap of Beck’s muttered words.
“...Beats sweet potato hooch brewed in a dirty shed…”
I go still. “What did you say?”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” the band’s frontman booms. “GIVE IT UP FOR THE NEWLYWEDS! MARGARET AND MERRICK!”
And Merrick leads my sister to the dance floor where a circle of guests is quickly forming. The band breaks into a blaring, joyful rendition of “You’re the Best Thing.”
Beck takes my free hand. “C’mon. We shouldn’t miss their first dance.”
We move closer to the action before I stop. Even though we’re outside, the band’s volume hits me like a force field.
“Can I have my Loops?”
Proving his status as The Best Boyfriend Ever, Beck offered to hold my Loop earplugs and my phone when we got out of his truck. Because, of course, no one thinks of adding pockets to a bridesmaid’s dress.
Even though bridesmaids have so much shit to hold. So stupid.
Beck releases my hand to reach into his coat pocket and pulls out the little disk. I take it and pop the lid.
“Those things work?”
I give a half shrug and slip one of the earplugs into place. “Not as good as my Bose, but they’ll do.”
Beck’s tiny frown is so damn cute. “Did you bring your Bose?”
I snort a laugh and adjust the second one. “Mom forbade me to pack them.”
That frown of his sharpens. “Why?”
“We can’t have those in the pictures, honey,” I say in a damn good imitation of my mother. “Besides, they’ll ruin your hair.”
But judging by the look on his face, my Hillary Mercier impression doesn’t amuse him.
“Screw the pictures. You should be comfortable so you can enjoy yourself. Make great memories.”
Oh man.
Denying it is just dumb.
I am falling for Beck Olivier.
“We can watch from here,” Beck offers.
I look toward Margaret and Merrick, but mostly, I see the back of people’s heads.
“Nah, let’s go closer.”
The Loops make it bearable to close in, but with a saxophone, a trumpet, percussion, drums, bass, two guitars, and a keyboard that make up the band, I still turtle into myself when we part through the crowd.
That is, until Beck closes in behind me, pulls me against his chest, rests his elbows on my shoulders, and covers my ears with his arms.
I am instantly cocooned.
It’s like… snapping into a charging station.
Like docking into warmth.
And strength.
And love.
Shit.
I’m not falling for Beck Olivier.
I’ve already fallen.
If I wasn’t sure when he performed undergarment field surgery on the steps of St. John’s cathedral, I’m sure now.
Because nothing in my life has felt like this.
I’ve never felt so…
Chosen.
As though my happiness—not someone else’s, not everyone else’s—is the priority.
And not just my happiness. But my comfort.
My experience.
Shit, my existence.
I suck in a shaky breath as the full force of this feeling moves through me.
The lead singer and the bass player harmonize together: “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me… You’re the best thing that ever happened to me…”
I try to swallow the bocci ball that’s suddenly lodged in my throat.
Swaying on the dance floor, Margaret and Merrick have locked eyes, smiling at each other like they are the keepers of the biggest, sweetest secret.
But they aren’t the only ones who know what it means to have the best secret.
Because I’m in love with Beck Olivier.
And it’ll be the fight of my life to keep that under wraps.