“Her?” Beckett’s jaw clenched tight. “So you think this is Del.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course it’s Delilah.”
I unlocked the truck, opened the passenger door, and threw the sign and my phone inside before turning to face him.
“I’ll make a detour to city hall on my way to the bank,” I told him.
Worry flashed over his face, followed by anger and regret. “You have enough to do. I need to drop by the mayor’s office with the budget numbers anyway. I’ll talk to her. If this was her, she won’t bother you again, Maisey. I promise.”
The surety in his tone should have relieved me, but I knew better. Delilah hated me as much, if not more, than she hated my sister.
She and Chelsea had been bitter rivals from middle school on. In high school, Chelsea had taken it to a whole new level, spewing rumors about how Delilah was willing to spread her legs for anything on two—or four—legs just like her dad’s mistresses. Chelsea had never let up once.
My sister’s smear campaign, on top of everything happening in the press with Delilah’s parents, had sent Delilah off the edge in her senior year, and it had been Beckett who’d ridden in like a white knight to save her. From that moment on, the crush she’d had on Beckett had become an obsession, and Delilah had always seen my friendship with him as the one thing in her way.
Finding out we were engaged would be just the thing to set her off.
But I also knew Delilah wouldn’t be inclined to listen to me today any more than she’d listened a decade ago when I’d told her she needed to get out of Swift Rivers for a few years for her mental health. If there was anyone who had a hope of reaching her, it was Beckett. He was the one person she really wanted. The one person who’d been a friend to her more than anyone else.
“Fine,” I said. “You talk to her.”
I slammed the passenger door and went to move around the truck to thedriver’s side, but he grabbed hold of my hand one more time.
“I’m sorry, Maise.”
When I looked up, he was studying my lips. This time, he wasn’t apologizing for Delilah’s note. He was apologizing for kissing me, like he had when I was twelve. I beat back the humiliation before it could hit fully.
I tugged my hand away, putting the truck between us before responding. “Nothing for you to be sorry about, Beckett. You don’t owe me a romance novel for that kiss. We both knew it would take a lot to convince people we were a real couple. I’m not going to pass out from shock or expect more.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I didn’t respond. I just jumped into the truck, celebrated when the engine started, and pulled away from the curb while Beckett watched from the sidewalk. He had his hands shoved into his pockets and a frown between his brows. Was the frown because he didn’t believe me? Or because he did?
Because my heart absolutely didn’t believe a single syllable of the lie I’d uttered.
I’d always wanted Beckett for real.
My sister’s words from fourteen years ago, when I’d come out of the bathroom with my headgear on after Beckett’s first kiss, rang in my head.Don’t do something stupider than normal and start to think that kiss was the real deal, Cornlette. You’ll only end up with a twisted heart to match your twisted jaw.
I just had to find a way to make sure my heart got the picture this time.
? ? ?
While Beckett was at the station for the last three days of his shift, I spent my after-work hours moving most of my belongings to his house. I still had the larger furniture and the heavy boxes of books to move, as well as Dad’s bedroom set and whatever else he wanted with him, but I needed Beckett’s help for most of those things.
Spending time in Beckett’s home and seeing all the beautiful renovations he’d done made walking into the burnt remains of my childhood home with Dad on Thursday even more painful.
Dad’s eyes filled with tears as he took in the charred walls and the boarded-up door and window. His raw pain echoed mine, and I had to blink rapidly so I didn’t break down in front of him.
“What did I do?” he whispered angrily.
At least he was fully aware right now. He wasn’t calling me Marjorie and telling people I was coming home from school. While he’d been in the hospital, he’d had several more bouts that had sent him reeling into the past. The doctors told me it was a side effect of the transient ischemic attack, ormini-stroke, he’d had when he’d crashed his rig. The cognitive decline and vascular dementia should be temporary, but the knot on his head he’d earned the day of the fire, and the stress of the disaster itself, had likely exacerbated the effects.
While I wasn’t sure what I’d do with Dad when I was at work if he continued to forget where he was, what he was doing, and what year it was, I knew it was important to keep him calm when we were together. So, even though my heart was bleeding at the damage to the house, just as much as his was, I looped my arm through his and tried to lighten the mood.
“This is the last time I ever let you try to cook anything again.”
Shock traveled over his face. “I was cooking?”