My eyes sting. Pressing my hand over my mouth, I will myself not to cry on a sidewalk in a town I've known for two days.
"Jada." His voice drops. Raw. "I need to tell you something. And I need to say it in person."
"You told me to leave, Beck."
"I know."
"You looked me in the face and asked me what I was doing there. Like the answer wasn't obvious. Like I hadn't been sleeping in your bed, cooking in your kitchen, falling for you in real time while you pretended you couldn't feel it too."
"I know." Quieter now. "I'm in town."
My eyes snap open. "What?"
"Crimson Hollow. Parked by the café. Duke's with me." Another pause. "I told myself he's the reason I came. But I've been sitting in this truck for thirty minutes trying to figure out what to say to you and the truth is the dog was just the excuse."
Pushing off the wall, I walk toward Bean & Bloom. Past the salon. Past the bookshop. Around the corner where the main street curves.
His truck is parked at the curb. Green. Mud on the wheel wells. And inside the cab, Duke's giant head is out the passenger window, nose working the air. The second he sees me, he starts barking. Full body, tail going insane, scrambling for the door.
Beck gets out. Walks around the hood. Stands on the sidewalk in his flannel and his boots, beard unkempt, eyes red like he hasn't slept. In his hand, a folded piece of paper.
"I looked you up." He holds the paper out. "Jada Williams. Head of Events, Pinnacle Hospitality Group, Atlanta. Employee of the year three times. Organized a thousand person charity gala that raised two million dollars. Your LinkedIn says 'reliable, dedicated, tireless.'"
"Why are you telling me things I already know?"
"Because you asked me to tell you something. On that porch. You asked me to tell you why I quit, why I'm up on that mountain." His jaw works. "I couldn't. So I'm gonna tell you something else first."
He unfolds the paper. His hands are shaking. Beckett Hale's hands, the ones that split wood and built bookshelves and held my hips while I came apart, are trembling.
"I Googled you because I wanted to know what I was losing. And every article, every award, every quote from your bosses says the same thing. Jada is the one who shows up. Jada is the one who stays. Jada makes everyone around her better." He looks at me. "And not one of them mentions what Jada wants."
My breath catches.
"You asked me what I'm carrying. It's guilt. A building I designed collapsed because the developer cut corners. Three people died. I was cleared but that doesn't matter because I drew the plans. I put the lines on the paper. And I couldn't live with that, so I stopped drawing. Stopped building. Stopped wanting anything because wanting is what got people killed."
Tears fall. Mine. His eyes are wet but he holds.
"Then you showed up with your sundress and your omelets and your goddamn road trip, and I wanted something again. Wanted you. That scared me so bad I did the only thing I know how to do. I pushed."
Duke is losing his mind in the truck. Barking, scratching at the window. Beck doesn't look away from me.
"Jada, I'm not good at this. I don't know how to let somebody in without breaking what they bring. But I turned on my phone this morning and called my mother. Called my brother. Called Theo. Told all three of them I met a woman. My mother cried. My brother said 'about time.' Theo said 'Beck, listen.'" A choked laugh. "Because he always says that."
Moving toward him, I stop a foot away. "What do you want, Beck?"
"You." No hesitation. "On my mountain. In my kitchen. Reading my books. Annoying my dog. I want your terrible singing in the shower. I want your omelets every morning. And I want to build you something. Anything. Whatever you need."
"I sing beautifully."
"You really don't."
Grabbing his flannel, I pull him down to me. Kiss him in the middle of Crimson Hollow's main street while Duke howls from the truck. His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off the sidewalk. My legs hook around him. Someone whistles from across the street. Might be the blue haired mechanic.
Pulling back, I hold his face. Thumbs against his cheekbones. Gray eyes, wet, open, terrified.
"I want a real bed frame. Not a mattress on the floor."
"Done."
