We stand around the table until Beckham ushers me in first. I slide to the middle, followed by Beckham and Dane. Uncle Leo takes my other side. A gum-smacking waitress not much older than nineteen moseys up to us. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail that hangs down one side of her face.

“Hey, guys.” She leans in, her palm on the table as she hunches over and flashes a wide smile at everyone but me, her lashes batting one too many times. “Haven’t seen my favorite customers in a long time. Where you been hiding?”

“These guys.” Uncle Leo bats his liver-spotted hand. “You know how they are. Busy building their empires one windmill at a time.”

“How’s your father liking his solar heated pool?” Dane asks.

“I don’t know about him, but I’m loving it.” She widens her stance, cocking her head and smiling dreamily. “You guys are all welcome to come by sometime for a swim.”

That’d be a sight to see.

“You’re kind to offer, Becca,” Dane says. “Anyway, what’s the special tonight?”

She rattles off a memorized list of soups, hot dishes, and pies before taking our drink order and scampering off.

“Feels like forever ago that you two wandered in here.” Leo smiles, blinking away the speck of nostalgia caught in his eye. “A couple of hungry, scraggly-haired boys with dirt on their chins and sunken eyes.”

“Is it necessary to re-live that moment for the hundredth time?” Beckham sits back, adjusting his posture and gazing around the diner. The space feels tighter as he fidgets.

Try as I might, I can’t picture Beckham as some mangy-haired little boy. He’s clean-cut. Overly confident. Unapologetically prosperous.

Leo’s thick-knuckled, liver-spotted fist pounds the table. “Yes, Beckham. Damn right we do. The worst thing you can ever do is forget where you came from.”

Dane and Beckham exchange looks. I get the impression Leo likes to lecture them. They probably need it.

“We could never forget.” Dane’s voice is low, his jaw set.

I’m regretting my decision to join them for dinner tonight, only because the awkwardness from earlier is quickly compounding with the awkwardness from the present. I’d have gladly made myself a peanut butter sandwich and curled up with a book in that elaborate guest suite at the top of the winding stairs.

I peruse my menu for the tenth time, settling on a chicken club with a side of greasy diner fries. It’s nice to order what I want for a change. Jeremiah used to scoff if I ordered something that wasn’t worthy of a picture on Instagram.

Becca returns with our drinks. By the time she finishes scribbling our orders, I mutter an excuse about washing my hands and slip off to the ladies’ room for some space. The diner’s dead for dinnertime on a Wednesday night. I wash up and then loiter outside the bathroom, out of sight from the guys. Slinking up against the wall, I take my phone from my bag and fire off a day-late text to Carly, letting her know I’m in Utah, and I’ll be back this weekend.

Buying more time, I pull up some old messages from Jeremiah, seeking validation that we were happy together once upon a time and that it wasn’t all in my head. My eyes mist as I peruse the over abundance of sweet texts that to anyone else wouldn’t mean much.

Fingers tingling, I fight the urge to send him something. We had a great Friday night together. After cooking me dinner, he stayed over. I fell asleep in his arms, and he kissed my forehead the next morning before slipping out the door.

I hadn’t slept that well in weeks.

But Jeremiah asked for space, so space is what I’ll give him, even if my heart is pulled in seven different directions every time I’m reminded of him. Mom said it’ll do him some good to see what life’s like without me. She gave me the whole ‘grass is never greener on the other side’ speech and assured me my cousin Melissa’s husband got cold feet just before their wedding too. Now they’re happily married with four kids.

Some nights, I lie in bed for hours and replay the last month or so, frame by excruciatingly detailed frame, searching for a hint or a clue that he was having second thoughts. But I always come up with nothing.

And then I imagine my life alone. Without him. And it’s actually not that bad.

“Oh, there you are.” I yank my phone down and find Beckham straight ahead, head cocked like he’s trying to get a read on me. “Food’s here.”

“That was quick.”

“What were you doing?”

“Washing up.” I slip my phone into my pocket and shrug.

“With what? Travel brochures and gumballs?” His hands hook his narrow hips. “You wanted to get away.”

“The conversation was getting a little…personal.”

“That’s how Uncle Leo is. You earn the right to be brash when you’ve lived as long and hard as he has.” His face tightens. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I take a step but he doesn’t budge.

His rigid stance blocks me in. “I owe you an apology. From earlier.”

I don’t want to have this conversation here, at this greasy spoon. I didn’t want to have it at all; I wanted to forget it happened.

“I shouldn’t have said you weren’t special. I didn’t mean it.” He slicks his hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful of dark strands and tugging on them before exhaling. “And that just came out wrong.”

“Beckham, please…”

“I don’t know how much you heard, but if I hurt your feelings…” He shakes his head, our eyes catching.

This is Beckham.

This is Beckham being nice.

Genuinely nice.

For a second, I stop breathing, and I’m not sure why. Intimacy filters into this exchange, and I’m not sure how it got there.

“You didn’t hurt my feelings.” It’s the truth. His words didn’t hurt because they were a lie. He lied to his brother. He absolutely thinks I’m special and worth chasing. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have accused Dane of eye-fucking me from across the table. A man who doesn’t find a woman interesting wouldn’t have been upset over the prospect of losing her to someone else. He staked his claim with one pointed accusation whether he realizes it or not.

Beckham King likes me…

Which is absurd because he doesn’t know me.

He’s intrigued by me, enthralled by the chase.

“Food’s probably getting cold.” I point toward the end of the narrow passage, but he still won’t move. My gaze traces along the bottom of Beckham’s lip, the memory of the way he tasted two weekends ago floods my mouth.

His stare heats me in this tight space, raw energy zipping up my center, swirling in my chest, and radiating through my fingertips.

I squeeze past him and weave through pulled out chairs and oddly placed tables, mentally conjuring an image of Jeremiah for experimental reasons.

My body stays tepid. Not a single thunderous pound hits the inside of my chest. No melancholy ache in my heart.

I try to remember what Jeremiah smells like, tastes like, but every sensory memory is replaced with ones of Beckham. Every inhalation brings a flood of Beckham’s clean aftershave, like I’ve memorized it without even trying. I feel the weight of his stare from behind, watching as I lead us back to the table. Leo and Dane stand when I return, and I scoot back into my spot between them all.

My appetite vanishes when Beckham’s hand slides over mine under the table. I glance down and it’s gone.

Chapter Thirteen

BECKHAM

“Odessa.” I catch her seconds before she disappears into her suite for the night.

She pauses, her hand flush against the wooden door. “Yes?”

We haven’t spoken since my apology in the diner, where she proceeded to keep her attention focused on Uncle Leo and Dane the rest of the evening and pretended to rest her eyes on the car ride back.

“You sure we’re okay?” I invade her space like I own it. Spending the rest of the week with my tail tucked doesn’t appeal to me. Plus tipping the power balance back to my favor requires a small dose of chivalry.