5. Chapter 5
Sunny
"You're not dating him," Maya says, stabbing her fork into a cucumber. "Dating requires seeing each other's faces at least once."
The bistro around us smells like coffee and pretentious vegan pastries. Maya's been my best friend since college, but right now her practicality stings.
"We talk every day." My phone sits facedown on the table, but every nerve in my body stays aware of its presence. Last night, Beck texted a photo of Rex sleeping by the fire. The fourteenth time looking at it still made my chest warm. "Beck gets me in ways Josh never did."
"A month ago you sent this man your boobs by accident, and now you're planning your mountain wedding." Maya sips her green juice. Unlike me, she has her life together. She has an impressive marketing job, an organized apartment, and houseplants that don't die. "Classic rebound behavior."
"This isn't a rebound," the protest comes out sharper than intended, though doubt creeps in. My dating track record resembles a demolition derby. "And we've talked on the phone."
"Twice," Maya counts on her fingers. "Two conversations with a stranger versus two years with Josh."
His name still causes a twinge, but it's duller now. The social media post announcing his engagement sits undeleted in my feed, a scab that gets picked at during masochistic moments.
"Beck hears me." My fingers shred the napkin's edge. "Yesterday the bakery mixer broke, and frosting sixty cupcakes by hand made my fingers cramp. My boss screamed about deadlines while Beck asked how my hands felt, not whether the cupcakes got done."
"Josh would've asked about the cupcakes," Maya concedes.
"Josh would've explained how the mixer should've been fixed." The memory surfaces of him "helpfully" critiquing my technique after spending hours on a birthday cake. "Beck just sent a photo of his hands with the caption 'lending you these.'"
My phone buzzes. Maya's eyebrow raises as my entire body tenses.
"Check it," she sighs. "Your eye's twitching."
The screen shows another forest photo, morning light filtering through pine trees.
Beck: Morning hike view. Thought you'd appreciate the light.
Maya peers over. "At least he takes nice pictures. Josh's idea of romance was gym selfies."
"Beck notices things." The bakery opens at 5 AM, meaning proper sunrises haven't been seen in years. After mentioning it once, he started sending dawn photos daily. "He's thoughtful."
Maya's skepticism softens. "Meeting this guy soon?"
"Maybe." The idea terrifies and thrills in equal measure. "What if there's no chemistry?"
"What if there is?"
"What if he hates how my laugh sounds? Josh said it resembled a pig snorting."
"Josh was an asshole." Maya checks her watch. "Budget meeting with Dragon Lady. Promise me when you meet Mountain Man, you'll follow basic safety protocols. Public place, tell someone where you're going, text me hourly confirmation you haven't been murdered."
"And the reward for the most dramatic friend goes to..."
"This is serious." Maya stands, gathering her designer purse that costs more than my monthly rent. "Happiness is what matters to me, not featuring you on a true crime podcast."
After she leaves, Beck's photo gets stared at.
The coffee shop bustles around me, and I barely notice as a businessman spills his latte, teenagers take selfies in the corner, the barista flirts with a customer who's leaving an absurd tip.
My normal world feels distant from the mountain life Beck describes.
The day we almost called turned into an accidental FaceTime. The screen flashed his face for three seconds before he panicked and ended it. Just long enough to see the beard, the crinkles around his eyes. Hours were spent analyzing those three seconds.
His hands fascinate me most. From his photos, they're tanned and capable, with a small scar across the right knuckles he got from a childhood fishing accident. He uses those hands to build things, fix things, care for things. Imagining them on my skin happens at inappropriate moments.
Yesterday during a wedding consultation, the bride's question about fondant got missed because wondering if Beck's fingers would feel rough or smooth against my collarbone took priority.
Me: Beautiful. Keep wondering what it's like there. What you're like there.
The send button gets hit, then I can’t help myself and another message follows.
Me: Keep wondering what your hands feel like.
His response comes faster than expected.
Beck: Keep wondering. Maybe someday you'll find out.
The simple promise makes me nearly drop my phone into my coffee. The barista gives a concerned look as my face gets fanned.
Me: I dream about you sometimes. Is that weird to admit?
Beck: What happens in these dreams?
My heart pounds against my ribs.
Me: Sometimes we're just talking. Standing in your kitchen or walking through the woods. Other times...
Beck: Other times?
Heat floods my cheeks as fingers hover over the keyboard. Am I really doing this? It’s one thing not to have a filter in person, but to have written evidence?
Me: Other times you're touching me. Your hands exploring every inch while you whisper what you want to do to me. I wake up so wet and frustrated that my own fingers aren't enough.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. The coffee shop feels too small, too public.
Beck: Fuck, Sunny. Think about touching you too. More than should be allowed.
The curse word sends electricity through my veins. Beck never swears in our texts.
Me: How often is more than you should?
Beck: Every time your name lights up my screen. Every time that voice gets heard on calls. I had to stroke myself in the shower after our call last night, imagining your mouth instead of my hand.
My breath catches. The businessman at the next table glances over as my phone screen gets clutched.
Me: Only once? Disappointed. Would've made you come twice.
Beck: Christ. You're playing with fire, Sunny.
Me: Maybe burning is what's wanted.
Setting my phone down, my hands shake. Last night's dream comes flooding back, and I flush. Beck pushing me against the industrial mixer, his mouth hot on my neck while his hands worked between my thighs. Waking up tangled in sheets, breathing hard, reaching for someone who wasn't there.
Josh never invaded my dreams like this. With him, everything was planned, scheduled, and appropriate. Date nights on Thursdays. Sex on weekends. A relationship that fit into calendar boxes.
Nothing about Beck fits in boxes.
The screen lights up.
Beck: When do these dreams become reality?
My stomach lurches.
Me: Scared won't live up to the fantasy?
Beck: Scared you'll exceed it. Scared won't be able to keep my hands off you once we meet.
His honesty knocks the breath out of my lungs. The man who chases bears from fences and lives alone on a mountain is afraid of meeting me. Not what I expected, but somehow perfect.
Me: This weekend. Saturday. Maggie’s Diner? Meet me there at noon?
Each second, waiting for his response, stretches into eternity.
Beck: Be there.
Reality crashes in. Meeting Beck means risking everything—the connection, the fantasy, the safe distance that lets bravery emerge. What if the chemistry that burns through our texts fizzles face to face?
Dozens of food truck business plans have been started and deleted. My apartment has half-finished projects in every corner. My relationship with Josh imploded. Being the queen of things that don't work out is my specialty.
My finger hovers over the keyboard, cancellation nearly getting typed, but I pull up my big girl panties instead.
Me: No backing out?
Beck: No backing out. Fair warning, though. I’ve been thinking about bending you over that diner table since you suggested it.
Heat pools between my thighs at his words.
Me: Scared too, if that helps.
Beck: Makes me want to comfort you. Among other things.
Me: What other things?
Beck: Making you forget every reason to be scared. Starting with my mouth between your thighs until you're screaming my name.
The coffee cup almost slips from my fingers. A woman at a nearby table shoots a disapproving look, probably sensing the sexual tension radiating from my corner.
Me: Keep talking like that and might not make it to Saturday.
Beck: Good. I want you desperate for me. Want you so wet you can’t think straight.
Me: Already there.
Beck: Show me.
My pulse spikes.
Me: Here? I’m in public!
Beck: Bathroom. Now.
The command in his text makes my core clench. Standing on shaky legs, I find the bathroom with me clutching my phone. The small space smells of expensive soap and desperation.
Me: This is crazy.
Beck: Crazy is what's needed. Touch yourself. Tell me how wet you are.
My hand slides under my skirt before logic can intervene. The dampness between my thighs confirms what my body already knew. I shiver, and take a picture of my wet fingers and send it before I lose my nerve.
Me: Soaked. Can’t concentrate.
Beck: Good girl. Saturday can't come fast enough.
The work schedule at the bakery pops into my head.
Saturday morning shift. Honey would never switch, her son has a soccer game.
If a no-show happens, we'll be short-staffed during the weekend rush.
Mrs. Henderson's unicorn-dinosaur monstrosity is due for pickup.
A million responsibilities and reasons to stay safe in my comfortable disaster of a life.
Instead, I brace my shoulders and text him.
Me: So Saturday. Noon. I’ll be the one looking terrified and trying not to trip over my own feet.
Beck: And I’ll be the bearded guy who doesn't remember how to talk to beautiful women in person. But knows exactly what to do with his hands.
Me: You think beauty applies to me?
Beck: Know you are. Going to spend Saturday proving it.
The barista clears her throat after I have returned to my table, and for twenty minutes, I’ve been clutching the empty coffee cup and grinning at my phone like a lunatic.
"Refill?" she asks, hoping the answer is no.
"Good, thanks." Good doesn't cover it.
Me: Three days until this gets real.
Beck: Already real to me. Already planning how to make you mine.