Beck winced, as if embarrassed at what he’d admitted. “Let’s get you back,” he said, trying to pull his hand out from mine. “Before I lose my bad boy persona entirely.”
My eyes dropped to his mouth, to his barely parted lips, where his upper was fuller than his lower. My fingers tightened on his as if it were my last thread of sanity. “You were never a bad boy,” I whispered. “Just a hurt one.”
“Well,” Beck said with a little scoff. “That makes it sound even more path?—”
I didn’t let him finish. The tension in me snapped, and I pushed up onto my tiptoes, pressing my lips to his.
There was no moment of hesitation, not on my end. I kissed him deeply, not caring about the pinch in my toes, not caring about anything but him. The last time I’d kissed Beck, it’d been from a place of innocence. Foolish. Soft.
This was not that.
I pressed forward, deepening the kiss, my hand sliding up his arm to hook behind his neck—hishotneck. His skin burned beneath my palm, as if the fire inside me was catching on him, lighting us both from the inside out.
Beck made a quiet sound against my mouth, and his hand rose, brushing my arm. For a beat, I caught his lowerlip between mine, savoring the tiny moment that belonged entirely to me, prepared for him to break away.
But Beck didn’t.
Beck’s hand came up to my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek like he meant to tilt my face the way he wanted. His hand slid from my arm to my waist, and then from my waist around to the small of my back. All five of his fingers splayed wide on the back of my dress, pressing me closer.
I tightened my fingers at the back of his neck, bringing him a little closer and changing the angle before he could. He paused—just long enough for me to feel his surprise. Beck followed my pace instead of setting it, and when I pressed a little closer, he breathed out softly like he’d been holding something in.
I fell back from my tiptoes, and Beck chased the distance as if magnetized, shuffling his feet apart so he had easier access. I curled my fingers into his bleached hair, tugging on the strands, content with the idea of staying here forever.
There were no words to spell, no letters in my mind, just the roar of blood in my ears and butterflies in my stomach. His lips pulled back a fraction of an inch to kiss me once, twice, again and again. Surely I was about to explode, or float right away, and I knew I’d repeat this moment in my mind, over and over again so I’d never forget it.
From the beginning to the end.
“See, I told you! I told you I thought I saw them go out to the garden together!”
And just like that, the narrow window of timeslammed closed at the sound of Lydia Johnson’s piercing voice.
Beck flinched away from me as if jolted by an electrical shock, but his hand still held my arm. The blood rushed into my head as I turned toward the horror scene to my right.
Lydia stood between a set of rosebushes, but she wasn’t the only one. She stood beside Mrs. Pembleton, with Dr. Pembleton behind her, and Carter beside his mother. The only other person was Daisy, whose eyes were wide, but in adang, girl, get itsort of way.
“Carter, didn’t you say Nellie wasyourgirlfriend?” Lydia reached for Carter’s hand. “She’s cheating on you already!”
Despite the horrifying scene, heat spread through me. I took a step toward her, ready to pop her air-filled head right off.
But Beck’s hold on my arm tightened. He, too, looked pale, except for the red kissing the tops of his ears.
My parted lips tingled, my mind too slow to do anything but cast letters around me like alphabet soup. “Nellie—she—it isn’t what it looks like,” I heard Daisy say, fumbling to save the scene before everyone. “They were just… talking.”
“Thatclearlywasn’t what was happening,” Lydia replied, far too many theatrics in her voice. Almost as if she were reading off a script. “They were clearlykissing!”
All of my anger in this situation was directed toward Lydia, narrating a scene that people with eyes could see. If she were smart, she would’ve kept silent. She wouldn’thave given anyone room to question whether or not this was a setup. But Lydia was not smart. Lydia did not think things through.
I’m not like you, who thinks things through and follows their strategy down to the letter. I am far more impulsive.
I thought of the way Beck’s eyes kept flicking to the mouth of the serenity garden, as if he heard someone.
Or was waiting for someone.
Someone like Lydia.
For a moment, I just stood there, fighting the urge to laugh.I-R-O-N-I-C.
Mrs. Pembleton stepped forward, past her dropped-mouth husband. “Are you two-timing our son?” she demanded, the bobbles on her earrings swaying violently with the way she threw her head. “How could youhumiliatehim like this?”
