The last twenty-four hours had been hell.
After the fiasco at the bar, I dragged Mathieu back to my house and finished where Beck had started. Laying into him for flying here without notice—which would be admittedly hard to do since I blocked him, everywhere—and walking into O’Malley’s? I wanted to strangle him.
Against my better judgment, I let him stay at the house but hardly talked to him after our initial confrontation. Yesterday I finally gave in to his pleas and let him say his piece. A flurry of sorrys and I love yous and, “It was the biggest mistake of my life,” and after making me feel as if I were crazy for having an issue with him cheating, Mathieu dredged up feelings I’d been trying to bury.
Letting him stay at the house had been a mistake. Between prepping food and coordinating with Beck—my feelings about him were as complicated as ever—I was forced to listen to more of Mathieu’s pleas, finally convincing him it was going nowhere. I’d told him I was headed out of town for the weekend, and he had to find alternative accommodations or, preferably, fly back to France, and it was only when his car was on its way that he mentioned taking a train to New York City to meet “a friend.” The fact that it really didn’t matter to me if the friend was male or female, maybe jumping from trying to get me back one day into another woman’s arms the next, told me all I needed to know.
In short, as I’d told Jules last night when she came over to talk about the whole fiasco, it had oddly been a good thing, him pulling that stunt. I was more over him than I’d realized. One of the reasons for it, according to Jules at least, was the very man pulling his pickup in front of my house.
My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance except that he looked… good. In a dark green “O’Malley’s Pub” tee and jeans, hair tousled and smile firmly in place, he was just soBeck.
“Mornin’, Mae,” he said, grabbing my overnight bag.
“Good morning,” I said, heading back to my front porch to grab the pastry boxes. Meeting me halfway down the sidewalk, he took those from me too.
“Careful. They’re tightly packed and can’t move.”
“Got it.”
We loaded up the coolers and stood behind his tailgate.
“I see the flat top strapped down.”
“Yep,” he replied, all business. “Deep fryer and extra propane are back there. Collapsable prep tables too. All of the coolers are labeled and iced down?—”
“We still have an extra-large rental cooler coming though, right?”
“I called them yesterday to verify. Should be dropped off by nine.”
“Good. Let’s go over the ingredients, just in case.” I opened up my notes app and scrolled. “Pastry filling’s packed in the cooler, shells are layered with parchment so they don’t stick. I’ve got the glaze in a squeeze bottle, the garnish in a separate container, and enough napkins to run a damn wedding. You grabbed the condiments, right?”
“Yep. Meat and cheese already packed, so we’re golden.”
“As long as you didn’t forget the poppers.”
“Poppers are prepped and stuffed and ready to be fried on site.”
“You remembered the oil?”
He tapped the dash. “Tucked in next to the propane tanks and flat top. I even brought your fancy sea salt. Don’t say I don’t love you.”
My stomach did a flip. “I’ll believe it when the pastries survive the drive.”
Business out of the way, I locked up the house and climbed into his truck. He slammed my door closed and joined me.
“Next stop, the printer’s, and we’ll be good to go.”
I gave him a sideways look, not able to recall the last time I’d felt weird around Beck. Between the conversation in my kitchen and Mathieu, my thoughts were a jumbled mess.
“We gonna discuss the elephant in the room?”
Beck looked around his cab. “A, this is a truck, not a room. B, don’t see any elephant.”
“Be serious, Beck.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” I said.
