Chapter 28 #2
“Don’t look at me like that,” Beck says, rough-voiced and sleepy. “Yes, I wanna fuck you in this shower, but I guarantee Pop’s awake.”
I jolt. “How do you know?”
Beck shakes his head, chuckling. “Um, honey,” he nods towards his room across the hall, “did you just knock over your suitcase?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Maybe?”
His grin stretches. “And drop a bottle of shampoo?”
I blink. “It was conditioner.”
Beck cups a hand behind my neck and pulls me into a kiss. When he releases me—leaving me half-stunned—his amber eyes dance.
“You’re so fucking cute.” Then he shucks off his boxers and steps into the shower.
I join him a minute later, and I’m stunned again.
Head tipped back, eyes closed against the bliss of the hot water, throat all exposed and sinewed.
Rivulets of water slipping over his shoulders, down his chest and abs, and into the wet-darkened thatch of curls around his fully erect cock. Muscled quads and calves…
My God, the man is sexy down to his toes.
I will never stop wanting you.
Of course, his eyes open because I’ve said that out loud without exactly choosing to.
But the way he tugs me under the stream with him, I don’t really mind.
We kiss and caress, and it’s good.
Really good.
But before it can go too far, Beck pulls back and reaches for my shampoo. Without a word, he pops the cap and pours into his palm. And then with his free hand he tips up my chin so my head falls back.
And with so much love, so much attention, Beck washes my hair.
It’s gentle and thorough, and, holy shit, worshipful.
He nudges me under the stream and coaxes the suds from my hair while I run lazy fingers over his shoulders and chest.
Then he turns me in his arms, so my back leans into his chest, grabs my conditioner, squirts a glob into his hand, and works it through my hair.
The sigh that rushes through me is soul deep. I close my eyes and without warning, I’m picturing Beck kneeling over the side of this tub, washing the hair of a little girl, and my heart squeezes so hard, I lose my breath.
“Do you want kids?” I blurt, and, yeah, it’s loud enough that Pop probably heard it.
To his credit, Beck’s touch doesn’t freeze or falter.
“I do,” he says roughly. “Do you?”
I’ve always known in a vague way I wanted kids. But that little girl in the tub? I want her fiercely. I want the kids I have to be Beck’s.
“Yes,” I answer, throat tight. And then I just go for it. “Especially if they’re yours.”
He spins me in his arms so I’m facing him again. “Oh, they’ll be mine,” he says, leaving no room for doubt.
And I want to raise them here.
I don’t say this aloud, but this is what I want. What I want to work for. And despite the way he takes on every challenge, this is not just on Beck’s shoulders.
I need to help him.
And I will.
I know just where to start. Maybe for the first time in my life, I know what has to be done, and I know I have the power to do it.
The following afternoon, the reunion with my parents is almost comical.
They are ecstatic to see me.
Riveted to hear all about Summit House.
They practically levitate when I tell them about my plans to finish school and open Hattie’s Attic.
My dad pledges full financial support.
That is, until I announce that I am selling my new townhouse in order to help Beck buy out his uncle.
We’re in their living room when I drop this little fun-nugget, and my dad’s jaw turns to stone.
“Hats, that’s not funny,” he says, glowering.
I rock triple-time in the double-wide rocker, back straight. “It’s not a joke.”
Okay. It’s not a joke. But it is a bluff.
I do not want to sell my townhouse. But I would. If that were my only option, I would.
But it’s not my only option. Mom and Dad don’t know it yet, but this is a negotiation. I want access to my trust fund.
Mom tilts her head like a dog hearing a pitch humans can’t register. “But… you can’t be serious. W-we just bought you that house… for you to live in… o-on your own.”
I nod, acknowledging the facts as they exist. This is what they want. This is what I want. But I want something else even more.
“I know that. But I’d rather sell it so Beck can keep his farm intact,” I explain calmly. “As an investment, it’s a good option. Beck is expanding. He’s about to be the only producer of sweet potato vodka in this part of the state. The farm will be profitable.”
Mom and Dad look at each other, wearing matching frowns. It’s true what they say about long-married couples starting to look alike over the years.
My Dad whips his gaze back to me. “Was this his idea? Is he putting you up to this?”
I snort. “Beck doesn’t even know. I haven’t told him yet.”
Dad side-eyes me. “So this is just a thought you’re kicking around. Nothing more than that.” It’s not a question. I can see he’s already eager to dismiss my plans.
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”
Okay, this is a bit of an overstatement.
It actually hasn’t been that long. The idea sprouted like a little seed in the back of my mind after Beck and I started talking again last week when I learned that he hadn’t found a good option to save his farm.
But my plans really took root yesterday when I saw him looking so tired and a little defeated.
I can’t stand it. Time is running out for my favorite person in the world, and even if we don’t last as a couple—a prospect I really don’t like imagining—I want him to have this.
And I have it in my power to help him.
Yes, I know my parents have established a trust to help support me. But if they are expecting me to finish my business degree—and for the first time in my life, that actually is something I expect of myself too—then, as a businesswoman, I should have a say in how those investments are managed.
Mom scoffs. “But where will you live? That property is supposed to be your housing. Indefinitely. So you could—” She stops herself before saying move out, but of course that’s what she was going to say.
It doesn’t hurt my feelings. I’m ready to move out.
“Don’t worry. I’m still moving out.” And the way she jolts tells me I might have said it a bit too loudly. I take a breath and explain. “Even though Beck doesn’t know about my intentions yet, I’ve shared them with his dad. Their third bedroom is officially mine.”
Technically, this is true. If Plan A doesn’t pan out and I can’t use some of my trust to help buy out the farm, then Plan B is to sell my townhouse to do just that. And Pop made it clear that I am welcome to live with them and I don’t have to share with Beck if I’d rather have my own space.
Of course I want to share with Beck, and that third bedroom would make an excellent sewing studio and launchpad for Hattie’s Attic.
If I have to sell my townhouse.
Mom and Dad exchange shocked looks.
I don’t mention that I shared the plan not only with Pop but with Griffin and Kennedy—this morning—who are also on board.
And it was Griffin’s idea that Olivier Family Farms go from four owners to five. Which is perfect since my contribution, whether in the form of my trust or my townhouse would only be about $250K.
That leaves one hundred thousand to go, but Griffin reassured me that Beck’s line of credit could cover half of that. The other half? Griffin’s husband Kennedy will be investing in the family business too.
I like that.
I like the words “investing” and the words “family business” and the word “too.”
The suggestion that we are family. That I am a part of their collective.
Even if Beck has no inkling of this plan. Yet.
When Dad looks back at me, he’s frowning. “Are you sure that’s wise? The two of you have only been dating a short time. He…” Dad crosses his arms over his chest before shrugging. “He may not love the idea of you moving in.”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously, I’m going to tell Beck before anything is official. And I’m not asking him to marry me.”
Though the idea has enough appeal to have me fighting a smile.
I get that we’re new. I understand odds and statistics.
But I also know what I feel.
That image of Beck washing a little girl’s hair? I’m all about it.
And Pop? I’m a big fan of that grumpy old man.
He’s all show, by the way.
Not at all like Grandma Eloise, who’s like a bottle of nail polish remover. Hard, see-through plastic on the outside. Pungent color-melting chemical on the inside.
This morning, when I found Pop watching the Today Show, I teased him about having a crush on Savannah Guthrie. And, holy hell, the man actually blushed. He does have a crush on Savannah Guthrie, and I’ll bet I’m the only one in the universe who knows it!
Pop needs someone around to notice him. To give him shit and ignore his moods. And Beck needs someone to help him manage that fucking planet he’s got balanced on his shoulder.
There’s not a ton of stuff I think I’m good at, but I feel like I could be good at that. So there are way worse outcomes than living with them.
If I were ready to sell my townhouse. Which I am not.
My dad scatters these thoughts when he starts shaking his head and doesn’t stop, even when he speaks. “You can’t do this. You can’t throw away this nest egg your mother and I secured for you.”
I scoff. “I’m not throwing it away. I’ve done the math. I can show you the receipts,” I say calmly. “I project that it won’t even take Beck two years to turn a profit from his distillery.”
And this is my moment. This is when I need to offer up the alternative. And I really don’t know if they’ll go for it.
“Of course, I wouldn’t need to sell the house if I could invest money from my trust fund.”
Mom and Dad both flinch. Simultaneously. They couldn’t have nailed the gesture any better if they were synchronized swimmers.
I swallow hard and press on. “Th-The value of the townhouse,” I blurt. “Two hundred fifty thousand.”
The fact that neither of them chokes confirms what I suspected. That trust isn’t small. Margaret said as much, though I’m not even sure if she knows how much Mom and Dad have set aside for me.
Still, it’s Mom who balks first.
“Harriet.” Mom shakes her head, frowning. “You hardly know him.”
Her words land like a shove instead of a punch. And I absorb them. Test them against what I know is true.
No.
Not true.
I know Beck and he knows me.
And it’s in this moment I see that it’s because they don’t know him that my parents are so against this.
They are afraid, and they love me. Two things can be true.
Plus, they underestimate me. Three things can be true.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I scan my body. The rhythm of the rocker is something I need. I couldn’t sit still if you paid me.
But even though I don’t like hearing what my parents are saying—how they are taking in my wishes—it’s not overwhelming me. One reason may be because their reaction doesn’t surprise me one bit.
It’s what I expected. What I prepared for.
Another reason may be that—for once in my life—their opinions don’t really hold much power over me. They hold no power financially because the townhouse is legally mine. I can do what I want with it. Keep it. Sell it. Rent it to a coven of witches.
All they can do is deny me access to the trust. Otherwise, I’m free to do what I want.
And that autonomy is no small thing. I’m not about to take it for granted.
But Mom and Dad’s opinions—also for the first time in my life—no longer have the same emotional power.
And that’s because of what Summit House taught me.
Then the truth of it—the sheer beauty of it—hits me, and before I know it, tears flood my eyes.
They come so fast, my throat knots up and I choke on a sob.
Mom and Dad glance at each other, and I swear, I see a hint of hopeful triumph in their eyes. And it’s enough to blend laughter into my rapidly spilling tears.
“Ohmygodyouguys!” I wail when I can finally speak. My breath hitches a few more times before I can draw in enough air to continue. “You are the b-best parents I could a-ask for.”
Mom and Dad clock each other again, this time clearly confused.
I shake my head and swipe a knuckle under my streaming nose, trying to get things under control so I can explain.
“I-It’s because of you.” I sniffle and legit try to stop crying, but it’s no use.
“What you gave me. You gave me that townhouse, and I might not use it the way you intended, but I’m so, so grateful.
A-and you sent me to Summit House. I fought you.
I didn’t want to go. But I’m so glad you sent me.
I learned so much there and figured out what I want next. It’s—”
I futilely wipe at my eyes, but the image of my confounded parents just blurs behind fresh tears.
“It’s all because y-you gave m-me the means and the tools to b-be independent that I can do any of this. Th-thank you so much!”
Mom’s face pales. Dad looks like he’s trying to chew chalk.
They don’t look happy. And that changes nothing for me.
“You did your jobs.” I give up and use my sleeve to mop my face. Mom winces. “Where it counts, at least.”
A long moment passes as my sniffles and hiccups subside. My parents look at each other again, this time with something like anemic resignation.
Dad wraps an arm around Mom’s waist before facing me again. He’s quiet for a long time.
“There’s no way we can talk you out of this, Hats?”
I shake my head and give a watery, “Nope. I’m buying a share of Olivier Family Farms one way or the other.”
My parents look at each other again, that married telepathy humming at high speed. Mom’s eyebrows lift just a little. Dad nods and gives her a squeeze before facing me.
“You’ll keep the townhouse if we give you access to your trust for this investment?” he asks. I swear, he looks… kinda defeated… but not entirely mad about it.
Fresh tears wet my lashes. “I will,” I promise. I’ll keep the townhouse. At least for now. “And I’ll start moving in next week.”
Dad sighs, and I swear it’s equal parts resignation and relief. “Then we have an agreement.” Dad glances at Mom again and shrugs. Then he gives her a flirty little wink that must be code for We’re about to have the house all to ourselves, and
EEEEWWWWW!
I leap out of the Hadley rocker like it’s radioactive. “I-I—Thank you. Both of you,” I stammer. “I love you guys, and you won’t regret this.”
Maybe it’s rude that I beat a path to the door immediately after securing this victory, but I need to get back to the farm and talk to my guy. He needs to know we’re partners in all the ways that count.
And I’m not even sure my parents notice. They’re too busy gazing at each other. Like I said.
Eew.