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Caleb
Yeah, but I’ll worry about it later. Lucie met Kate outside and misunderstood so I’ve got to deal with that first.
I grimace. I’m guessing Kate had plenty to do with thatmisunderstanding.
I’m behind the bar when Liam comes in later, meeting my eye and shaking his head as he takes a seat across from me. “What a fucking disaster.”
I resent this a little, on Kate’s behalf, but I get it. If life in Elliott Springs is like an elegant hotel at teatime, Kate’s the gunslinger who walks in, flips a table, and starts shooting at the chandeliers. Personally, I sort of like agents of chaos—it takes balls to be a villain—but most of the people we know don’t appreciate it much.
I pour him a beer and slide it in his direction. “I wonder if this will fuck up the divorce.”
He pulls the mug closer and takes a sip. “Probably. Trust Kate to swoop in at the last second and cause trouble.”
My jaw grinds. “She wasn’t away at a fucking spa. She was in rehab.”
“She was in rehabsomeof the time,” he counters. “And God knows what she was doing the rest of it. Are you really going to defend her after she stole his money then disappeared entirely? I mean, how many trips to rehab has he paid for at this point?”
I pull out the inventory checklist and start scanning it, trying to get a grip on my irritation. “She’s had a harder three years than I’d wish on my worst enemy. Cut her some slack.”
He sighs. “Whatever. I should have knownyou’dbe taking her side.”
My head jerks up. “What the fuck does that mean?”
He catches my eye, telling me something he isn’t going to say aloud. “Settle down. You had a bond with her the rest of us didn’t. You were always going to see it from her side instead of his.”
I could argue, but I don’t bother. He could have accused me of worse.
“You think she’ll stick around?” he asks.
I rub my eyes. “I don’t know.”
But if she does, then what Liam said earlier is absolutely true: it’ll be a fucking disaster.
3
KATE
Beck’s cabin is deep in the woods and straight out of every horror movie you’ve ever seen. You catch a glimpse of this house during any film—Saving Private Ryan, High School Musical—and you know someone is about to die. The seedy motel I stayed in last night is looking better and better.
He isn’t home yet, which is hardly a surprise. Beck rarely sleeps in his own bed. I wait on his front steps, my legs stretched in front of me, pale in the morning light, and it’s not long before a motorcycle roars in the distance.
As wheels rumble over the gravel lane leading to his house, my heart begins this weird, tripping rhythm—nerves, I suppose. I could take or leave most of Caleb’s friends, but Beck is different. I’ve thought of him a lot this past year, his image often resting behind my eyes like the screensaver on a dormant computer—the dark brows that make him look like he’s glowering any time he isn’t smiling, the wavy hair falling to his shoulders. And his eyes, that strange light brown, glimmering as if backlit by a fire.
The bike purrs to a quiet halt in front of me. Even when he’s seated, the sheer size of him is overwhelming. His arms, his chest—all the parts I’ve seen firsthand—are double that of a normal human’s. I wonder, as always, about the parts Ihaven’tseen.
He pulls off the helmet and raises a brow at me as he rises. My pulse speeds up in response. There’s something dark and slightly predatory about him, like a housebroken tiger—maybe he plays along, but that thing inside him is always one step removed from violence. It appeals to me more than it should.
He’s got a beard now. That appeals too.
He tucks the helmet under his arm. “I heard you’d come back.”
God, I hate small towns. I should have known they’d all be gossiping. “I’m about to start my period. Were they talking about that too?”
Beck’s smiles are rare and even then, barely noticeable, but his mouth moves slightly upward as he passes me to climb his front steps. It feels like a victory, thatalmostsmile.
He unlocks the door and I follow him inside without waiting to be invited in. Nothing has changed in the year I’ve been gone. Aside from the bathroom and two bedrooms off to the right, it’s just a small kitchen in the back and a tiny living area so empty you’d think he was in the process of moving out. There’s a table with two old chairs and a shitty, ancient couch facing the TV—not a single vase, photo, or lamp.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I say with a grin.
