Page 5 of In The Weeds
“Hey,” he whispers back. He exhales through his nose and pushes off the door frame, glancing once over his shoulder at the empty hallway behind him. I get a good look at the strong line of his jaw and have to clear my throat again. “Can I come in for a second?”
I nod and take a step back, letting him pass through the narrow door. All my hazy memories have apparently done the sheer size of him an injustice. He looks too big standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, pretending to study the painting of the pond hanging above the desk. I click the door shut and try not to think of the last time we were in a space just like this.
Gauzy white curtains. Tangled sheets. A warm hand splayed between my shoulder blades. His voice in my ear, telling me how good I felt. Totake it.
I shake my head and lean against the dresser, legs crossed at the ankles. I am doing myself no favors. “You wanted to talk?”
He nods, still distracted by that painting. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Social media influencer, huh?”
I don’t like the tone of his voice, the faint accusation I hear there. I didn’t offer my job, but neither did he. The both of us were focused on … other things during our time together. He didn’t recognize me when I walked into the bar and that had been a nice change. Refreshing.
Cheesy as it sounds, men typically don’t want to be with me for me. Usually when I’m approached by men, there’s something in it for them—a picture on one of my channels, a product plug. Once, a guy asked if I was up for a sex tape.
So when Beckett walked into that tiny bar with his inked arms and his gaze passing over me with appreciation instead of calculation, I took a chance. I took something formyself.
A lot of good that did me.
“Farmer, huh?” I mimic his cool indifference and watch the way his lips turn down at the corners, hands clenching into fists at his side.
“I’m just surprised, is all,” he says, still with that slightly sarcastic tone. As if he can’t believe he even needs to have this conversation with me. As if me being someone who works in social media is the most vile, repulsive thing he could possibly think of. He sniffs and rubs his knuckles against his jaw. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
Clearly I also didn’t expect to see him, given that I ran from the bakehouse at the farm this afternoon like the place was on fire. Doesn’t mean I’m going to be a jerk about it, though.
He watches me carefully, eyes narrowed. I wish the cookie tray was closer. “Did you know?”
“Did I know what?”
“Did you know I work here?”
I frown and tilt my chin up. Does he think I did this on purpose? Came to his place of work to … what? Harass him? Embarrass him? “Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again either.”
He smiles and it’s not nice at all. “Well, you made that abundantly clear, Evie.”
I blink at him.
“Sorry,” he tells me, his voice gruff. He is not sorry at all. “You probably prefer Evelyn.”
Something in my chest pulls tight at the sharp edge of his words. He sounds frustrated, uncomfortable. He’s holding himself too still in the corner by the desk, his eyes angry and upset. I don’t know why it hurts for him to call me Evelyn, only that it does.
But none of that matters. It doesn’t matter that he’s looking at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
It doesn’t change a single thing between us. Not what happened before and not what’s happening now.
It’s just … I had been Evie with him.
That had been nice.
The silence swells between us until it feels like there’s a weight pressing on my shoulders. Beckett doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry to fill it. He tugs his hat from his head with a grumbled curse, and drags his palm back and forth over the back of his neck. Into his hair until half of it is sticking up.
“Listen, I didn’t—“ he tilts his head and looks at the ceiling, twisting his neck to the side in a tense stretch. He sighs and straightens, leveling me with a look that somehow channels both irritation and exasperation at the same time. I have no idea what to do with it. I have no idea what to do with any of it. This version of him is so very different from the man with the soft words and careful touches—his laugh a quiet, husky thing in the dark.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t why I came here.” He clenches his jaw so tight it’s a wonder he’s able to say anything at all. “I came here because—because I want to ask you to stay.”
I can’t quite stop the sound that trips out of my mouth. If that’s him trying to convince me to stay, I’d hate to see what it looks like when he wants me to go. “Your pitch could use some work.”
“Evelyn.”
“I’m serious.”
