Page 1 of Promise To Marry You
Chapter one
Cam
“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath to whoever is knocking on my grandfather’s front door right now. My eyes glare at it, as if I’m able to will the person to go away, even as I drag myself up to stand from the couch and shuffle down the hall. The funeral is in three hours; whoever it is, why can’t they goddamn well wait until then?
This town, these people, they suffocate me. They always have. And now that Grandpa’s gone and they don’t need to hide their contempt for me, it’s a thousand times worse.
But I’ve never stooped to their level and I won’t disrespect my grandfather in his home now. So a polite, yet pointed, dismissal for whoever is here is ready on my lips when I open the door. But it falls away when I see the last person I expected standing there.
“Beckett?”
Strong arms pull me into a warm, hard chest. His steady pulse beats away underneath me as a large hand strokes up and down my spine. His dark hair is shorter than the last time I saw him, carefully styled. For a man who was probably just on an airplane, his shirt is smooth and unwrinkled, but that’s how he is. Always calm, always in control, always steady.
Which means I can finally let go.
I have no recollection of moving back to the couch. But when the tears finally slow down and the room comes back into focus, I’m tucked up against Beckett’s tall body, his shirt damp underneath my face.
“You’re here,” I croak, shifting to sit up and swiping away the moisture under my eyes.
“Of course I am, Cam. I came as quickly as I could.”
The reality that my best friend, a man I’ve known since university and who probably knows me better than myself is here, halfway across the country from where he lives, slams into me. It brings a fresh wave of pent-up emotion. “Thank you,” I whisper, feeling more fucking tears start to build.
Beckett’s deep brown eyes stare at me from behind his glasses, sympathy etched across his face. “You’re not alone. I’m here for you.”
I take a deep breath, in and out, feeling my lungs expand fully. With Beckett here, I might just make it through the emotional wringer I know this afternoon is sure to be.
Wilbert Byrne was a popular man in life; well-loved by everyone who lives here in Cliveden, Manitoba. You don’t get to be mayor of a small town for over a decade without earning some respect. Even after the stroke that brought me back to the town I swore I’d never return to, he kept on serving this area and these people. All the while, he was unaware of how they treated me behind his back.
He didn’t hear the accusations of nepotism when I earned the job of assistant to the mayor on my return. Sure, it was an easy assumption to make, if you don’t take into account I’m one of the few people living here with a university degree. A degree in business management with a minor in political science, no less. That and the fact the hiring process was overseen by a committee, one that my grandfather excused himself from.
I earned the job. But that didn’t matter. The majority of people still living in Cliveden decided I didn’t belong here a long time ago.
Whether it was my choice in clothes, my belly button piercing, or just the townsfolk being assholes to a grieving, brokenhearted girl who didn’t know how to behave, I was labeled the town misfit. My attitude definitely didn’t help matters as I grew up, with my teenage years being the worst. I was full of angst and emotion, and that came out in various forms of rebellion as I tried to navigate that phase of life without a mom or dad to help me.
Yes, I spray painted the inside of the tunnel that crossed below Cochrane street. But at least I did something artistic and not rude. Okay, fine, I also may or may not have been responsible for letting Mr. Ashington’s cows loose during my short-lived vegetarian years, but I was convinced he was mistreating them. I was wrong, but good luck telling that to teenage me.
I guess you could say I earned the role of misfit.
“What do you need from me?”
I blink at Beckett’s gentle words. My gut reaction is to deny that I need anything from anyone. But he’ll see right through that, like he always does. Besides, where offers of help would feel like they come with a price if it were anyone else, from him they feel genuine and freeing. There’s no weight of expectation from Beckett. There never has been.
“Come with me to the funeral and don’t leave my side,” I blurt out.
His eyes flare wide, and I realize belatedly he must not have known the funeral is today. Makes sense, seeing as I haven’t spoken to him in three days. Not since I called, sobbing, to tell him Grandpa had dropped dead of a heart attack on the golf course. I didn’t even expect him to come to Manitoba in early April, right in the middle of tax season. I know how exhausted and how busy he must be, just like any accountant would be, so I certainly wasn’t going to ask him to fly out. No matter how much I wanted him to.
And in true Beckett form, he recovers quickly from my revelation about today’s plans and goes back to his usual unflappable self.
“I won’t leave your side. When does everything start?” he asks calmly.
“In a few hours.”
Beckett unfolds his tall body and stands up before extending his hand to me. “Then it’s time for you to go and take one of your absurdly long showers.”
I let him pull me up to standing before dropping his hand and taking a step toward the hall that leads to the bathroom and bedrooms. Pausing, I turn back to see him watching me.
“I’m really glad you’re here, Beck.”
