by Melissa Tagg
Beckett felt his own jaw drop. “Did we suddenly step into an English parlor?”
Elliott’s gleaming grin was as shrewd as it was annoying. “Mock my impeccable manners all you want, Walker. I don’t think you’ll find the lady complaining.”
“Except the lady would kindly appreciate having her hand back.” Kit pulled her palm from Elliott’s grasp with a tone half scolding, half teasing.
And wholly curious, he could tell. Was she trying to picture him working here, in a polished suit just like Elliott’s, with an office and assistant and overcrowded calendar? Was it as discordant a scene in her mind as it felt in his just now?
Had it really been only six weeks ago he’d spent more hours each week amid this drone of ringing phones and clacking keys and closed-door conference rooms than his own home?
Elliott smoothed his lavender tie. “Honestly, I’m a little surprised to see you here after the way things went down. You should hear all the rumors flying around about what made you miss that Stanley Oil meeting. Mysterious illness. Criminal background. Secret lover.” His repeat glance to Kit wasn’t nearly swift enough. “Though, judging by your tan, I’d go with sudden inheritance and life of luxury on an island somewhere.”
“Actually, criminal background is a lot closer to the truth.”
“You’re not serious.” Elliott turned to Kit. “He’s not serious. Is he?”
Beckett strode past Elliott, toward his old office. “We’re just here to pack up my stuff,” he called over his shoulder. “Won’t take long and we’ll be out of your hair.”
He heard Kit’s double-step behind him until she caught up and laced her arm through his. “He’s a character,” she whispered.
“Good guy, but total goofball.”
And then Elliott’s voice again. “But your stuff isn’t in your office.”
Beckett paused, turned.
“That is, it’s not your office anymore.” Elliott slid his hand along the tall half-wall separating the open space of assistants’ desks from the row of office doors. “You’ve been gone for over a month, Walker. Your stuff was packed up weeks ago. It’s downstairs in one of the storage rooms. Didn’t I text you about that? Security can let you in. You’re lucky you showed up when you did. After sixty days, it all goes to the dumpster.”
Of course. Had he really thought he’d find his office just as he’d left it? That the firm wouldn’t replace him? Some lucky intern or recent law school grad had scored a quick climb up the ladder.
While his own prospects dwindled. He hadn’t even managed to get his interview rescheduled yet. Not that he hadn’t tried. He’d given up on rescheduling the Boston meeting and instead begun contacting law schools in Iowa. Army reps usually began meeting with prospective JAG officers while they were still in school.
Perhaps that’s why he was having so little luck. He was a non-traditional applicant. One who’d already missed an interview.
“Well, this is great. Saves us some time.” The cheer in Kit’s voice was over-much, which meant she sensed his plummeting mood. She released his arm to instead grasp his hand. “Let’s find the storage room and get on with our day. Nice to meet you, Elliott. Maybe you could have someone call down to the security desk to let them know we’re coming?”
And then she was leading him back the way they’d come, past the sprawling receptionist’s desk and out to the elevators. “Nice place, fancy offices, but way too stuffy for you, Beck. I don’t blame you for ditching it.” She punched the elevator’s down button.
“Didn’t ditch it. They fired me.”
“Maybe so, but look at it this way, you’re down to only forty hours of community service left. You never would’ve gotten that done so quickly if you’d still been working here and—”
The elevator dinged, the doors opened.
And Elliott Boyce, Sr., stepped out, a glare that could only be meant for Beckett darkening his expression. “Beckett.”
“Mr. Boyce.”
Kit’s fingers tightened around his as they traded places with the man.
“Someone let you know where to find your belongings, I trust.”
Beckett nodded from inside the elevator.
Boyce nodded from outside.
The elevator doors closed.
“Don’t do it, Beck.” Kit’s tone was soft, but firm.
“Do what?” The air inside the elevator was strained.
“Start second-guessing your whole life because of a dirty look from a dude who fired you. Besides, you have plans.”
“Only twenty percent of the people who apply to the JAG Corps get in, Kit. Most of them are younger than I am. And don’t have a criminal record.”
She laced her arm through his. “I meant your plans for a fun day today, silly goose. But if you must know, even if that percentage was lower, I’d have no doubt you’d get in. You’re Beckett Walker.”
He glanced down at her, drinking in the encouragement in her voice, her eyes. She looked at him as if she truly believed him capable of anything. It was a terrifying feeling.
It was a thrilling feeling.
And if she kept looking at him like that, kept smiling, if she kept her arm tucked through his, and if the elevator door didn’t open soon . . . well, he’d have to give in, that’s all. Find out if she’d really meant what she said the other night on the couch.
“I should’ve let you kiss me . . .”
The elevator door opened. Kit let go of his arm. “Come on, let’s go get your stuff.”
“Forget it.”
“But—”
He reached for her hand. “It’s nothing but a few pens and a stapler and an employee handbook I’ll never look at again. Let’s go.”
A tingling salt-tinged breeze whipped through Kit’s hair as Beckett steered his old convertible along the road that traced the rocky shore north of Boston. Cold huddled in the seaside air underneath a sky laced with frothy clouds.
“I’m numb and my hair’s going to be so knotted after this I’ll need to shave it all off.”
Beckett’s wind-ruddied cheeks lifted with his smile. “You’re the one who insisted we drive with the top down.”
“Clearly not my best idea ever.” She had to yell to be heard above the engine, the tires whirring over pavement, the sound of the Atlantic Ocean crashing into the coast.
She’d known part of the reason they’d come to Boston was to pick up Beckett’s car. It just hadn’t clicked until she saw it that it was this car—the classic, sleek Cadillac, the one his mom had driven as a teenager and then had refused to sell years later. It used to sit in the Walkers’ garage, covered by a heavy gray cloth. But the year Beckett turned fifteen, Flora Walker had given him the car as a birthday gift. Mother and son had spent a whole year fixing it up before Beckett got his driver’s license.
A thousand happy memories had poured in when she first saw it in Beckett’s garage this morning—coasting Maple Valley’s downtown on hot summer nights, laying on the hood and looking at the stars in Painter’s Field, sitting on a stool in the Walkers’ driveway while Beckett tinkered with the engine and told her about the trip down the Pacific Coast Highway he and his mom would take eventually.
He’d loved to talk about that trip—a trip they never got to take.
Windy waves of cold rolled over her. This morning felt like forever ago after such a sublime day of wandering Boston. They’d spent most of their time in the Beacon Hill district—roamed the narrow brick sidewalks lined by historic rowhouses and stood at the metal gates in front of the Massachusetts State House.
Now they were heading north to Gloucester and Beckett’s favorite slice of Massachusetts beach. Salt Island, worth the forty-minute drive, he’d assured.
Honestly, he could’ve driven her anywhere and she would’ve gladly settled in for the ride. Or he could’ve taken her back to his apartment for nothing more than an evening of packing boxes and she’d have been happy.
Because he was there.
“I need o
ne of those head scarves like Grace Kelly always wore in old movies whenever she was driving.” Surely the misty air had long since faded her makeup, and of course, her hair was a mess. She’d traded in her nice jacket hours ago for a thicker fleece zip-up she’d found in Beckett’s back seat.
Beckett only laughed and turned the car onto a twisty side road and past a sign pointing to public parking. Within minutes, he paid a ridiculous amount of money and tucked the car into one of several open spaces.
“Usually you’re lucky if you can park around here, but with it being so chilly tonight . . .” He stopped. “Are you sure you’re not going to freeze? We can go find a restaurant or something instead.”
“No, I want to see this place. You said this is where you came to study before exams, where you brought your family the last time they came to visit.” Where he’d made the decision to apply to the JAG Corps. He’d told her more about it the other night. How he’d come out to the shore on a Sunday after an eighty-hour workweek. Prayed for the first time in months and felt a peace he didn’t understand.
So similar to her own feelings these last weeks at home, in the orchard—all the purpose and belonging and direction she’d been missing for so long. God’s whisper in her soul, just like Grandma said. It had echoed into every corner of her being.
But where her awakening had grown roots, deep and embracing, Beckett’s had set him free—like the wind blowing a leaf from its branch.
Don’t think about that today. Tomorrow she’d return to reality. Today she was a leaf, too, plucked from her perch and carefree. Following the tug of the breeze and the whim of her best friend.
“When the tide’s lower you can actually walk on a sandbar out to the island,” Beckett was saying now. The sound of their footsteps over the wooden walkway’s weathered boards was lost in the wind scraping over rippling coast. On the opposite end of the bridge, white sand splayed over the tiny island.
When she stepped off the walkway, her boots sank into the sand, and Beckett’s grip tightened. Cobalt water lapped at the shore as he led her to the far end of the island, past only a couple other clusters of people.
Soon Beckett was spreading the blanket and they were settling onto the soft ground. She burrowed into the high neck of his fleece jacket, hands hidden inside its overly long sleeves. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the coat along with the saltiness of the sea air.
“You going to be warm enough?”
“Plenty.” As long as he didn’t mind her huddling so close to him.
Which apparently he didn’t. Because he reached behind them to the leftover length of blanket and pulled one corner over her shoulders, the other over his.
God, if you could just let tonight last for the rest of forever, I’d be okay with that.
The prayer tripped through her mind as Beckett watched her watch the ocean—she could feel it, the heat of his stare, even as she drank in the horizon. It’d become so familiar in just these past ten or eleven hours. As if some invisible barrier that used to stand between them had finally gone and collapsed.
“So how does it compare?” His breath feathered over her face.
“Huh?”
“You’ve never been to the Atlantic coast before, but you were telling me last week about that trip to Spain you took a couple years ago. The beach along the Mediterranean.”
“Right. Costa del Sol.” She’d stayed in a flat along a sloping seaside, the walk from the white stucco balcony with the orange tiled flooring consisting of more than two hundred steps to get down to the actual shore. “Well, I was there in March, so it wasn’t warm at all. But I put on my swimsuit anyway and tried wading into the water. It was this gorgeous shade of turquoise that tumbled under a moody wind. The sea was so forceful that I was barely in knee-deep before it knocked me over.”
“Good thing you took all those swimming lessons.”
“I’m serious, Beck. I could barely stand up. Every time I tried, waves just kept knocking me back down. I was choking on saltwater while laughing my head off.”
“I think I would’ve liked to see that.”
“Pretty sure I swallowed a gallon of water. And it was so cold my fingers and toes were blue. Probably my lips, too.”
His glance dropped to her mouth and then just as quickly away. “And?”
She closed her eyes around the memory. “And I can still remember lying in bed that night with the windows open. The room was freezing, but it was worth it to hear the waves.”
“You’re a good storyteller, Kit, you know that?” A drowsy quiet curled in the air around them. Beckett’s midnight eyes were fastened on the water, something distant and contemplative in his gaze. The wind ruffled his hair, and minutes passed before he spoke again. “It’s too bad we weren’t on speaking terms when you were abroad. I could’ve demanded you send me postcards. I’d like to go to Europe someday.”
Maybe the Army would send him there. Maybe he’d send her postcards.
The unwelcome thought propelled her to her feet.
“What?” Beckett lifted his eyes.
“Let’s go wading.”
“It’s going to be freezing, Kit.”
“I know, but if I can survive the Mediterranean in March, I can endure the Atlantic in September.” She bent over to unlace and yank off her boots, movement almost frantic. Off came her socks, and she rolled up her leggings.
Beckett just sat there, staring.
“Don’t wimp out on me, Beck.”
His inflated sigh gave way to obedience. He rose and kicked off his own shoes while she tested the water. A squeal pitched from her the second it touched her toes.
“Told you!” Beckett chirped, still safely ensconced in sand.
Just for that, she waded deeper, icy water licking up her ankles and the chill climbing her spine. “It’s refreshing.” Her teeth chattered through the lie.
Beckett laughed and followed her in, his own gasp colliding with the whoosh of the wind. “If I get frostbite and my toes fall off—”
“Stop whining.” She reached her fingers into the foamy blue and sent a splash his way.
Which, of course, was a mistake. Because, of course, he splashed back.
Within seconds she was half-doused and wholly frozen, shrieking and laughing and on her way to losing her footing.
If not for Beckett’s darting arms.
He caught her before she could fall, and she landed against his chest.
And yet, something told her she was far from safe. “Don’t you dare push me all the way in. Don’t you dare.” She yelped the command.
“I’m not going to push you in.”
But his impish grin and baritone laughter convinced her that was exactly what he was going to do. Which was why she clasped her hands together around his neck. “I’m not letting go. You push me in and you’re coming down with me.”
Her hair whipped around her head, wet strands matting to her face. She couldn’t feel her toes, couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t stop laughing . . .
Until he stopped.
Stilled.
Arms holding her in place and eyes locked on hers. “You said you wished you’d let me kiss you that night.”
The shiver raced through her. “Y-you heard that?”
He lifted his hand to brush her hair from her face, one finger trailing over her cheek as he tucked it behind her ear.
“Beck.” Her voice was a whisper even as her heart roared. She loosened her arms from around his neck, but they only made it as far down as his chest. “You’re going to leave. You’re going to spend six weeks at Fort Benning in Georgia learning leadership skills and military tactics.”
“You read up on it?”
“Then after that, you’ll go to Charlottesville for ten and a half weeks of officer’s training.” She should push away from him, make her numb feet move. But it was as if the sandy floor beneath her held her in place. “You’re going to leave,” she said again. She’d promised herself not to think about it
, but it was a promise she couldn’t keep.
“I haven’t left yet.” His soft words sifted over her cheeks as his fingers tipped her chin.
And finally, as he closed the last breath of space between then, lowered his lips to hers, she stopped fighting. Her hands slid around his neck once more as he kissed her once and then again.
Both his arms crushed her to him as a third kiss intensified. And there was nothing left to do but lose herself in his hold.
12
“I have to say, Beckett, if every one of my parolees was as diligent as you about completing their service hours, my job would be so much more pleasant.”
The parole officer Beckett had been assigned to nearly two months ago moved her computer keyboard to the side and folded her hands atop her desk. Sylvia Jones—early fifties, snow white hair cut in a blunt bob. He’d found her intimidating when they first met but quickly discovered she had a soft spot for cooperative parolees.
What she didn’t know was he’d almost turned unintentionally uncooperative today, would’ve forgotten this meeting altogether if not for the ping of his phone’s calendar reminder.
Today, this week, his brain was anywhere but here.
One week since he’d broken all his own unwritten rules and kissed his best friend. Since everything he’d ever imagined about kissing Kit Danby proved pale in comparison to the real thing.
The rest of that night and even most of the drive home the next day had felt idyllic, almost spellbinding. When he’d let himself kiss her again, just before leaving Boston, it hadn’t been nearly as feverish as the night before. He’d been slow, deliberate, memorizing the feel of her, almost as if . . .
As if this couldn’t possibly last. As if he stood somewhere between everything he’d planned and hoped and worked for . . . and something else so very unplanned, yet staggering and remarkable. And he didn’t know which way to lean—toward the everything or the something. Knew only he couldn’t hold on to both.
The feeling had only intensified the closer they drove to Maple Valley—in separate cars after picking up Kit’s in Chicago.