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“I’ve never washed a dish or a piece of clothing in my life. I’m needy and antsy when I haven’t been paid enough attention. And those people? They won’t stop looking until they’ve found me. They’ll come back, I’m sure of it.”
“Is that all?” I taunt, unfazed by his little outburst.
He sputters in disbelief. “Is thatall?”
“Yeah, are you done?” I ask.
Beck looks like he can’t believe what he’s witnessing. “That’s notenoughfor you? Were you listening to me? Why aren’t you kicking me out?”
“Do you always self-destruct when you feel unsteady?”
His mouth falls open, eyes swimming with incredulity. “Unsteady?”
“Unsteady, insecure, uneasy…” I could go on, but I rephrase instead. “When you’re unsure of your place or feeling vulnerable, do you often sabotage yourself, or is this a new development for you?”
Dumbfounded, he doesn’t know what to say, just blinks back at me.
“Either way, your reaction is misplaced,” I tell him easily. “I don’t need anything from you. There’s no exchange that needs to be made. If you feel the need to help out whilst staying here, you can cook a few meals every now and again. Or I can teach you to do laundry and dishes; trust me, it’s not rocket science.”
“I—”
“And if you think I’m concerned about the people looking for you, you’re wrong. Though, I would appreciate knowing more about them in order to keep you safe and secure.”
The silence is too loud, until… “I don’t deserve it,” he mumbles, eyes planted firmly on his twiddling fingers. “I’m not worth the help or your kindness.”
“Why don’t you let me be the one who decides who’s worthy of my help, hm? It’s mine to give away after all.”
Another long pause stretches between us.
“If you’re su—”
“I’m sure,” I interrupt firmly. “Now, tell me about yourself, Beck. Anything you think I should know or that you want to tell me.”
“Beckham,” he whispers. “Beckham Clarke. That’s my actual name, but my father—he called me Beck… before he died.” He coughs to clear his throat. “I like Beck best.”
“Beck then,” I agree.
Another awkward clearing of his throat, and suddenly his voice shifts. “And I’m notreallyAmerican, so, yeah. The accent is fake, sorry,” he confesses with a new sound to his voice.
“You’re English?” I ask, surprised. “How the hell did you end up in the mountains of Montana?”
“Well, it’s complicated, I guess. I have dual citizenship because of my father. How he got away with it withoutherfinding out is a marvel to me.”
“Still confused here,” I point out.
“I’m a Lord,” he admits, brows furrowed. “Or well, I was, or would be? Long story short, I’m not supposed to exist. Dad had a one-nighter with my mother, and when she found out she was pregnant out of wedlock she freaked out. Had me in secret and tossed me at Dad before running away back to England.
“When I turned eight, her parents found out and demanded that she make it right. She forced Dad to take me to England to meet everyone. The accent developed from there, I suppose. I became her heir, and she despised me for it.”
Still lost,but I don’t say it again.
“Lots of fighting, confusion, and years later, here I am. I surrendered my title and fled back to America last month before anyone could stop me. Royals aren’t typically allowed citizenship in the U.S. while carrying a title, but since I had it before, my father was able to keep it for me.
“He told me about it, gave me all of my information, and said that if I wanted to run, my time was now. He’d been slowly leaving me for a while by that point.” His throat catches. “Cancer... so, yeah. When I woke up a few days later, he was gone, and I decided so was I.”
My heart aches for him. “I’m sorry for your loss, Beck.”
“S’fine,” he mumbles. “I got to California on a secure flight and made it a few weeks traveling north until I noticed I was being followed. Ended up in your woods just running as a last-ditch effort to remain hidden last night. And now I’m here.”
