Chapter 11
Ellery
Ihave been avoiding Beckham for the last week.
And, to a lesser extent, my brother. Simon will most definitely have questions, and I’m not equipped to answer them without revealing that Beckham and I had sex.
I’m a wreck. The whole situation is a tangled web of complicated emotions.
So I do the only thing I can think of:
Avoid the problem.
Not the most healthy coping mechanism, to be honest, but it seems to be working. Besides, I have plenty of things on my to-do list. Moving out of Simon’s house has been number one. Luckily, Lena and I were lucky enough to find a small townhome to rent that is just a ten-minute walk from downtown. So I have spent the last several days moving, sorting, and unpacking our things. Getting everything ready for Lena’s imminent arrival.
Then there’s the art center. The renovations are coming along well, though I’m going to need to hire someone to handle some of the more extensive repairs.
Beckham is the first to come to mind. I did my research. His company is by far the best choice. Not only do they do amazing work—work that has won awards, no less—but they are reasonably priced and local. But the idea of working with him in such a close capacity…
Dammit. Now I’m thinking about him again.
Is there a ten-step program for unrequited love?
With a sigh, I set the mop in my hand down and step back. This morning was spent sweeping, mopping, and scouring every surface inside. Now I am standing in the middle of the downstairs open floor plan, nerves alight with anticipation.
Oh, the plans I have for this place. With luck and a ton of hard work, I hope my art center will accomplish a lot in the years to come.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me from my daydreams.
Lena: Special delivery!
Ellery: ???
Lena: There’s a surprise for you on the front porch.
What in the world has she done now? Knowing Lena, it could be anything. I open the front door with a bemused smile, immediately looking for some sort of package.
Lena stands there instead, grinning brightly with outstretched arms.
“Hey, bestie!” she cries out.
With a squeal of delight, I launch myself at her. She laughs and stumbles back. But she rights herself quickly, squeezing me just as tightly in return. The tension that I have been carrying for days eases.
“I am so, so glad to see you.” Suddenly, I rear back and smack her shoulder. “Brat! You told me you wouldn’t be here until Monday. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I wanted to surprise you, silly.”
Of course, she did. Helena Morgan is all about grand gestures. Daughter of the French actress, Genevieve Baudelaire, and the affluential U.S. film mogul, Rhys Morgan, she grew up in the limelight, so I’m not sure she knows any other way.
Everything about Lena is larger than life. Her personality, empathy, and heart. Her ideas. Even her statuesque figure commands attention, as does the designer fashion she wears.
“You know I kind of hate you, right?” I say fondly. “You and your perfect… well, everything.”
My hand motions to Lena. Trendy clothes show off her slender willowy frame—loose, tailored jeans are paired with a cropped off-the-shoulder top layered over a silk camisole. She has adorned her ears, wrists, and neck with chunky statement jewelry. Her raven-black hair is artfully arranged in loose waves over one shoulder. She is fresh-faced with minimal makeup. Everything about her perfectly embodies the kind of classic beauty seen in the Golden Age of Hollywood. She could be Audrey Hepburn’s long-lost granddaughter.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Hate you.”
Pouting, I look down at my outfit: ripped jeans and a t-shirt tied at the waist with the words, Talk nerdy to me, across my chest. My hair is pulled into a messy top knot, flyaway curls barely tamed with a bandana.
“Pfft. No, you don’t,” she says. “You love me.”
“Eh, to-may-to, to-mah-to.”
Lena laughs. “Oh, Elle, I missed you.”
“Missed you more.”
“Not possible!”
“Please. I wasn’t the one who spent the last few weeks in my parent’s beach house on the French Riviera to celebrate my birthday.”
“You could have been,” she replies in a sing-song voice. “I did invite you. Several times.”
“Yeah…”
The reminder makes me cringe.
“Honestly,” I admit, “I kind of regret not taking you up on the offer.”
Lena pulls back and stares down at me. I start to fidget under her concerned gaze. Her brows furrow and she says, “You were so excited to head home and start on everything. Did something happen?”
“Yes… No.” I sigh and drop my head to her chest. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says, drawing out the word. “You and I need to have a serious conversation, and you are going to tell me everything. But, first, I want to see my investment.”
Lena sidesteps me and walks through the open doorway.
She asks, “This is the place, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.”
It takes her so long to look over the space that I start to fidget. I’m dying for her to give me her thoughts now that she is here in person. The waiting is killing me.
Just when I am about to burst, she steps back in front of me and throws her arms wide. “I love it!”
“Really?” My shoulders sag with relief.
“Really. The space is extensive, plus it has a lot of quaint charm. Perfect for your vision.”
“Our vision,” I argue.
She shakes her head, reaching forward to take my hands in hers. “This is your vision, babe. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Helena Morgan,” I scold. “You are investing a huge amount into this dream of mine. You have been my number one supporter, and you are here to make that vision come to life. You are so much more, and you know it.”
“Okay, okay.” She waves away my praise, blushing. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
We stand side by side for a moment, staring out at my passion project and daydreaming of the possibilities, until Lena shifts and nudges me with her shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but I need coffee. And, breakfast. Definitely breakfast.”
“The Quill?”
“You know me so well.”
“Let me call in reinforcements. We can do brunch.”
Lena nods and moves to grab my purse from the ground while I shoot a group text off.
We have always been close, my girls and I. But our group has expanded over the years. Making room for people like Lena, who I brought home with me from college freshman year. They quickly brought her into the fold.
Now we are all inseparable.
Stepping outside with Lena in tow, I watch the sun shine brightly over the bustling town. Not brightly enough, however, to warm the uncharacteristically crisp morning air. South Carolina clings to summer until at least late September, but sometimes little bits of autumn weather like to peek through.
I love weather like this.
We start a stroll down Main Street, arm in arm, heading in the direction of our favorite restaurant. Unfortunately, the peace I feel quickly shatters.
Right as we come across the entrance to The Apothecary, the front door swings open and Beckham steps out onto the street. I stutter to a stop. Lena gets tugged back by the elbow. She looks back at me in confusion but, before I can explain, Beckham turns. When he catches sight of us, he lifts his sunglasses onto his head and smiles in greeting.
On closer inspection, I notice that his smile is strained. He looks almost contrite. But his expression is too hard to get a true read on. My heart gives a traitorous flutter. I have to remind said heart, silently and repeatedly, that we are angry at this man.
He should feel bad.
“Morning,” he says in greeting.
My eyes are as traitorous as my heart, gaze locking onto Beckham and drinking him in. Because, goodness can that man rock an outfit. Dark denim and a pale blue, pinstriped button-down shirt that pairs with a navy blue vest. Colors that perfectly complement the glacial blue of his eyes.
My skin warms when I think about the way those eyes devoured me. The memory of his hands worshipping my body sends an unwelcome shiver of pleasure down my spine.
“Beckham,” I respond hoarsely. We stand there for a bit, trapped in a silent staring contest. It seems neither of us are sure what to say next.
Beckham breaks contact first. His gaze lands on my ratty old paint shirt, lips twitching when he reads the words. I quickly cross my arms across my chest, face flaming. Of course, I’m a mess when he looks like he stepped off the cover of a magazine. Not a stitch of makeup on my face. Probably covered with smudges of dirt and dust.
Next to him and Lena, I look like a troll.
Dammit. Lena. Just as I remember her presence, she clears her throat loudly from my side. Waiting expectantly for an introduction.
“Whoops. Sorry,” I say. “Beckham, this is my best friend, Helena Morgan. Lena, Beckham James.”
“Beckham James…” she murmurs with a squint.
All at once, recognition lights up her face. Her grin widens, turning almost wicked. Then her gaze flits over to me before locking onto Beckham again.
“What a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says cheekily.
“Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. I frown and a sudden, irrational jealousy floods my system. I quickly shove it back. Then, looking for a swift subject change, I lift my chin toward the bar and ask Beckham, “Starting a little early in the day, aren’t we?”
“Not drinking, shortcake.” He chuckles. “Jude is a client of mine.”
Jude Warren. She owns the Apothecary. Well, I feel silly. That would certainly explain his midday visit to the popular bar.
“What kind of work do you do?” Lena asks.
“Renovations. Construction. That sort of thing.”
I already know all this, but Lena looks intrigued. She gets this glint in her eye like she’s getting an idea. I have a feeling I’m going to hate whatever it is.
“Renovations, huh?” She blinks, all innocence. “We’ll have to keep you in mind. I’m sure Ellery mentioned that we’re renovating the McAllister estate.”
“Yeah, I may have heard.” His intense gaze is locked on mine while he tries to gauge my reaction to Lena’s request. “I’d be happy to set something up if you’re interested. Just let me know.”
His lips part like he wants to say something else. My lungs seize in anticipation—or maybe worry. But, to my immense relief, he redirects and lowers his sunglasses. The shades let me breathe a little easier.
“Lena,” I say bitingly, “we need to hurry or we’re going to be late.”
My words deflate whatever mischievous plan is expanding in her brain. With a barely concealed pout, she agrees. I would laugh if I wasn’t solely focused on escape.
“I suppose I’ll see you ladies around, then,” he responds with a smile. “Enjoy your day.”
“Bye,” Lena says absently.
She then stares after him in open admiration while he walks away. We both watch him cross the street and head south. Once he has turned a corner, I shove Lena on the shoulder, and she jolts in surprise.
“Stop drooling,” I whisper-shout.
“Girl.” She fans herself. “That man is your brother’s best friend?”
“Yep.”
“I see why you’ve been pining after him all these years.”
“Ssh!”
In a town this small, gossip spreads like wildfire. All I need is for something like that to make its way back to Beckham. Only when I’m sure no one else is around, I say, “Coincidentally… he’s also the topic of that serious conversation you mentioned.”
Her face softens. “Oh, hun. I think we may need more than coffee for this conversation.”
“Which is why I picked the Quill. They serve bottomless mimosas with that amazing brunch menu.” My mouth waters just thinking about it.
I have barely gotten the words out before Lena grabs my hand. “Darling,” she says, propelling me forward, “you had me at mimosas.”