Chapter 22
Ellery
Lenais acting strange again.
I have been on edge all day because of it.
The last time she acted like this, all cloak and dagger—and just plain wacky—Beckham had surprised me with a romantic weekend away. No romantic getaways anymore, not for this girl.
And not for a very long time.
Because I am one hundred percent done with men. I’m going to rescue a dog, instead. One of those cuddly fur-balls will love me unconditionally. Maybe I’ll adopt a kitten or two. Then I can become one of those crazy cat ladies… or, pet ladies. Whatever.
I can only surmise that whatever is making Lena act so out of character must be unpleasant. Like, maybe she’s trying to tell me she has cancer. Or that we have to sell the estate and live on the streets. Or that she’s running away to—oh, I don’t know—fulfill her lifelong dream to be a circus performer.
Yeah, I think I may have inhaled a bit too much construction dust.
Today is Lena’s and my day to work on renovations. Since the incident (as Lena likes to call it) she has set up a schedule with Beckham and his crew so that there is zero chance that I will run into him when I’m on site. Lena has become a buffer between us.
Not that I’m concerned with Beckham. He’s a professional. His business has a sterling reputation, and I know that he can leave his personal feelings at the door.
No, I’m worried about myself.
Beckham made it clear how he felt about me. But there is no way that I can take a lifetime of being in love with the man and shove it all down every time I see him. No way can I spend hours with him, working side by side, and not shatter into a million pieces.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
So Lena is my go-between. Beckham seems fine with the arrangement, which hurts in a completely different way. (But that’s a topic of conversation for my therapist, who is getting paid overtime during this mess.)
“Don’t know about you, hun,” she says, “but I’m ready to call it a day.”
I stretch my sore muscles and look around the space. We just finished restoring one of the large bedrooms into a studio classroom this week. Today, the focus was on painting and decorating. My two favorite things in this process.
“Yeah,” I respond, smiling. “We did good today.”
And we did. The space has been completely transformed. Soft, neutral colors cover the walls—colors that won’t feel busy or compete with all the artwork in progress. Several easels and stools have been set up around a center platform. It is the perfect place to set up a still life or have a live model pose.
“Time for a long shower and some takeout and wine, I think.” I turn back toward Lena.
She is stopped in the doorway to the room. Her phone rests in her hand and she is frowning down at the screen.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“No, not exactly.” With a sigh, she explains, “One of the guys needs me to sign off on the plans for the kitchen area. I’m going to run over there now so you don’t have to and, you know… risk seeing he-who-shall-not-be-named. I think he’s in the office today.”
“Lena,” I admonish, laughing lightly. “Beckham is not Lord Voldemort. You can say his name.”
“You’re right.” She sniffs. “He’s worse.”
I shake my head, smiling sadly. “We can leave off pretending Beckham doesn’t exist. Yeah, he hurt me. But I am also an adult and a professional. I’m not going to let my heartache bleed into every aspect of my life.”
“You are such a badass, babe.” Lena throws her arms around me. “Okay. Will you be able to lock up or do you want me to come back when I’m done?”
I practically shove her out the door. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Go take care of business and I’ll see you at home. Probably with Chinese food.”
“Mmkay, love you, bye!”
Shaking my head, I head back into the house to start cleaning up. I have only just started when I hear a loud knock.
“It’s open!” I shout, laughing.
Just like Lena. She always forgets something.
A few moments later, I hear heavy footsteps coming closer. When a familiar, crisp male scent wafts into the room I am in, I whirl around in shock—and no small amount of panic.
Because Beckham is standing here in front of me. No. This isn’t some tasteless joke or fever-induced hallucination.
He is really here.
Nope. No. No way.
My first instinct is to flee, but Beckham’s large frame blocks the doorway. With no other choice, I take a few steps back, retreating farther inside the safety of the room. I am shaking my head in disbelief, holding my hands in front of me. Warding him off.
“You’re not supposed to be here. That was the deal.”
Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.
“Ellery…” His voice sounds as wrecked as I feel.
“No.”
“Can we talk?”
“Again, no. You wasted your time coming here.”
He takes a single step forward. I take two steps back.
“Please, Elle.”
He is trying to placate me with words. Even I can see it. And, I know I must look like a caged animal.
Right now, I feel like a caged animal.
Trapped with no escape.
“I’m not ready, Beckham.” My chin starts to quiver, which just pisses me off. The anger then bleeds into my voice. “I don’t know what you need to say. I don’t care. I’m not ready to listen.”
He runs a palm down his face. I can hear him mutter, “Shit. I’m already fucking this up.”
I clench my fists against the desire to go to him. To let him say what he wants to say. I’m angry, but I still hate to see him like this. Vulnerable. It twists my chest up in knots.
Screwing my eyes shut, I gather up every ounce of resistance I have to say, “Please leave.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
My gaze snaps to his at the easy admission. I feel each word like a knife to the chest, tearing open the wound I had only just begun to mend. I notice his hands clenching at his sides—like he wants to reach out to me but is forcing himself not to.
Good. If he so much as touches me, I’ll break.
“No, you don’t,” I whimper.
“I do. So much it scares me.”
“You said you didn’t love me. You said it wasn’t real.”
My voice breaks.
Do. Not. Cry.
He looks so damned miserable.
“I lied,” he says.
“Well, which lie is the real lie, then?” I throw my arms wide. “Which lie should I believe? Because I don’t have a clue.”
“I know that I fucked up. Hurt you. You have no reason to forgive me. No reason to even hear me out. But, I’m begging you,” he pleads.
There is so much pain in those words, and he looks more serious than I have ever seen him. I have no clue what to do with that information.
Not until he says, “Please let me try to make this right.”
My body sags against the wall behind me, heavy with the weight of his request. Part of me wants to. A surprisingly large part. But the frightened part of me is stronger, and I know he can see the refusal forming on my lips.
But I surprise him—and myself. “I’m scared,” I whisper instead.
“Ellery…” Beckham says my name like a prayer. When he slowly steps closer, I let him. When his hands gently grip my shoulders, all of the fight drains out of me.
My eyes drift to the ground. I want to hide from his pity. But then his hands slide up to my neck, and he tilts my head up so that I have no choice. Only, what blazes in his eyes is far from pity. Instead, an entirely different emotion shines back at me.
Something I am too afraid to name.
His touch is so soft, so reverent, that all of the tears I’ve been fighting back start to bubble to the surface. I close my eyes, hoping to stem the flow. There are too many. They spill over and track down my cheeks.
“You let me think we had something special”—my voice goes wobbly—“until things got too hard.”
“We did—we do have something special.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know.”
“Being with you is like walking in a minefield.” Frustration seeps into my voice. “I never know when something is going to trigger you or explode in my face.”
“We can navigate it together.” His gaze is so intense, the way his eyes are trained on me. “You’re not alone. I swear. And I’m not going anywhere. Never again.”