Chapter 8
Eleanor
When I crest the most northern hill leading toward the dock and Beck’s home, I spot him opening his front door like he knew I was coming. The way his entire face lights up the moment our eyes meet does some funny things to my heart, and my answering grin matches his.
“Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting your schedule,” I say when I’m within human hearing distance, hastily checking my watch.
Beck shakes his head, his smile still in place as I come to a stop in front of him. “You’re not, but even if you were interrupting something else, I’d still be happyto see you.”
My heart practically skips a beat as he meets my eyes. “Me too,” I admit. “I was just asking because I remember how aware you were of time when we were small and you always liked sticking to a schedule. Maybe you still do?”
Tilting his head to the side, Beck stares at me with unguarded curiosity. “You remember more about me than I thought you would.”
I shrug and study my sandals in an attempt to hide the color rising to my cheeks. “I could say the same about you. Like the other night when you asked me if I still write notes in the margins of books. And how much I like lemonade.”
A few charged seconds stretch between us before Beck brings the conversation back to neutral ground. “How was Lucille? Do you like the shop?”
My head snaps up and I jokingly touch the back of my hand to my forehead. “Do you have a couch? I think I might swoon if I start thinking about how perfect The Dancing Daisy is.”
Beck instantly steps backward and holds the door open for me. “Oh yes. Come in. The couch is in the living room, straight through here.”
I mentally smack myself on the forehead for confusing Beck with my stupid choice of words and renew my silent vow to be more careful with my phrasing as I stop to take in the interior of his home.
It’s otherworldly. Ancient. Masculine. And yet, homely.
Exposed brown stone walls surround us on all sides, and a large pillar juts up from the open-plan ground floor, through the mezzanine level and up to the soaring ceiling with woodenbeams running across it. Against the right side of the pillar is a giant gear that controls the water mill on the outside.
My eyes drift toward the kitchen, the medieval fireplace and antique stove where I imagine Beck creates his breads. Pots and pans hang from hooks against one wall and large windows let in warm light, the ocean an ever-present companion to this old cottage.
Turning toward him, I say, “You have a really nice home. It looks like it has a rich history.”
“I’m happy you like it,” Beck says, relief bleeding into his tone as he lowers himself down onto the edge of the large kitchen table. “It’s one of the oldest homes on the island.”
“You know what?” I ask, stepping toward the living room, spying his game setup, hand-drawn map, and empty glasses waiting on the table for tonight, savoring all these little glimpses of who Beck is and what he values.
Beck hangs back in the kitchen, arms folded across his chest. “What?”
“I think… I never imagined a grown-up version of you. You somehow remained stuck at twelve in my mind, like the last time I saw you. You’re definitely not twelve anymore.” This mature version of Beck may not be what I expected, but it’s so much better. Turning to meet his gaze, I brush some hair behind my ear before I add softly, “Thank you for inviting me here. I’m glad to get to know you again at this time in our lives.”
“It’s really nice to have you here. My oldest friend in my old home,” Beck says, his eyes not leaving me for a second as his pearlescent scales luster in the afternoon light streaming in through the kitchen window.
I’ve never believed in fate or unknown powers controlling my life, but it feels like the universe is somehow conspiring in our favor to bring us back together again at this specific point in our lives. I don’t know what it means, yet, but for the first time in more years than I care to count, there’s a tiny effervescent bubble sitting in my chest, really excited about the future.
Leaning against the thick pillar, I say sheepishly, “I’m really sorry about earlier, the fainting thing was a manner of speaking and not a real situation. It’s just that I adore The Dancing Daisy and my brain is still spinning with everything I’ve seen and heard today.”
“That’s okay,” Beck says, bracing his arms comfortably behind him, inadvertently putting his broad shoulders on display. “When you didn’t immediately run to the couch, I figured I might have misunderstood.”
“Still, I’ll take more care with my words in the future,” I promise both Beck and myself.
“Me too.”
Fidgeting with the fabric of my dress, I look down and try not to ogle those shoulders. But I have eyes and this girl is weak.
You’re friends,I remind myself.New friends. Technically old friends who are new friends again. But friends. And friends don’t ogle friends.
Clearing my throat so I can interrupt my own thoughts, I start hesitantly, “Talking about the future, I might have a favor to ask you.”
“Anything,” Beck states, the word sounding like a promise.
