*
Every nightmare Skye had ever had suddenly paled in comparison to this moment.
Although there were some awful similarities to her standard anxiety dreams—for instance, the inability to find her clothes.
She was a little afraid to stop touching Beck; it felt like her hand on his bare back was the only thing keeping him from lunging at Jeremiah.
Who looked shell-shocked, as if he couldn’t believe she’d actually taken him up on the arrangement he’d proposed when they first started dating. Which was understandable, since she never had before in two years of long-distance romance. She’d never even been tempted.
But that was before Beck came home.
He’s not home for good, she reminded herself. You can’t count on him to stick around.
There’d been that moment, though, right before Jeremiah showed up … it had seemed like Beck was about to ask her something important.
Silently cursing fate and the gods for stealing that moment before she had a chance to find out what Beck would’ve said, Skye’s mind raced as she tried to figure out what to do.
First things first.
Calling on all her memories of her parents’ affairs and their casual attitude the morning after, Skye said, “Jeremiah, can you give us a minute to get dressed?”
He hesitated, his sun-baked face more lined than she remembered it, but in the end, he nodded. “Sure. I’ll be right outside.”
The sound of the office door closing gently behind Jeremiah echoed like a gunshot through the office.
Skye swallowed and busied herself with tracking down pieces of her outfit from the night before. Tank top over there, underwear … there, and, crap, was she using her skirt as a pillow last night?
She unballed the organic cotton and shook it out, lingering over the task to give her hands time to stop trembling.
When Beck spoke, it startled her so badly she nearly dropped the skirt.
“You never mentioned a boyfriend.”
She blew out a breath and stepped into the wrinkled fabric, pulling it up her hips. “I know. I’m sorry. It just never seemed like the right time—and, honestly, I assumed you’d be gone long before Jeremiah came home.”
Beck stood there, watching her buzz frantically around looking for her bra before she remembered she hadn’t worn one. She wished he’d say something, or at least stop staring at her.
“And he really doesn’t care that we slept together.”
It wasn’t a question, the way Beck said it, but Skye was glad the process of working the tight shelf bra of her tank top over her head gave her a second to formulate an answer.
“He shouldn’t. The open relationship was his idea.”
Of course it had never really come up before, at least not on her end. Part of her wondered if Jeremiah would be quite so liberal-minded now that Skye taking a lover had become a concrete reality rather than an abstract idea.
Very concrete, she thought, stealing a glance at Beck’s rough-hewn form while she tried to finger-comb her hair. Beck looked like he’d been encased in cement, rigid and unyielding.
“I would care.” His voice was almost subsonic, a growl so low she felt it more than heard it, and the vibration sent a shudder through her system. There was deep contempt in that voice, and a confusion that bordered on anger.
No, Beck wouldn’t understand a man like Jeremiah, who cared so deeply about the world at large that he sometimes forgot about the people closest to him. Beck had always been so intent. So focused.
Although Beck had left her to join the Navy, so maybe he had more in common with Jeremiah than she’d thought.
She had to talk to Jeremiah. God, what a mess. She was so humiliated, she could barely look at Beck.
“I would fight for what’s mine,” he said, moving in a rush almost too fast to see, stepping into her path and blocking the door like a great stone wall.
He didn’t want her to leave, she could see that. And it thrilled something inside her—she couldn’t hide it from herself. But his words …
Shaking her head, Skye said, “I don’t want you to fight at all. I never wanted that. What I wanted was for you to talk to me.”
Beck jerked his chin in the direction of the kitchen. “That’s what you want? That guy out there, who finds you in bed with another man and then leaves you with him to get dressed.”
The sneer on his face lit the fuse on Skye’s temper. “You think Jeremiah is weak. But I’m telling you now, he didn’t walk out of here because he’s too weak to fight you, or because he doesn’t care enough about me to bother. Jeremiah Raleigh is a hero. He builds houses and schools and clinics in villages that don’t have running water. He’s the furthest thing from weak there is—and he doesn’t have to prove anything to me with fists.”
Beck rocked back on his heels as if she’d delivered an uppercut to the chin.
“Is that what you think? That I’m trying to prove something to you?”
Skye breathed in sharply. “You’ve always had something to prove, ever since I met you. And no matter how many times or how many ways I tried to tell you that you didn’t, you never listened.”
And he never would, she realized. Beck had been shaped by events in his childhood, a past she knew almost nothing about, long before he ever met her. And no matter what she said or did, it never seemed to be the key to unlocking the cage of his emotions.
The revelation hit her with a vicious slap, nearly knocking the breath from her lungs.
She raised her eyes to meet his fierce, impenetrable glare. “You are who you are, Henry,” she choked out. “I get it, and I’m not trying to change you. But I need more than a man who lets his body do all the talking. I need someone who lets me know him, fully and completely … someone who wants to know me the same way. And that’s not you, is it?”
He clamped his lips shut. Skye knew that look. The conversation was over.
Beck didn’t say it in so many words—when did he ever?—but he stood aside, arms crossed over his chest, to let her pass.
She stood motionless for a long moment, letting his familiar silence wash over her while she memorized the sight of him.
Then she walked out, leaving half her heart behind.
Chapter 25
Beck stood in the light, airy flagship Fresh Foods store’s produce section, staring blindly at the list in his hand.
The collection of vegetables and fruits and other ingredients he’d listed made sense individually, but when he tried to add them all up into a complete menu, they were nothing but chaos.
Which, come to think of it, made it a pretty good allegory for the story of his life.
Fingers snapping in front of his eyes jerked him out of his head and back into the challenge.
“You awake there, big guy?” Winslow was back, their shopping cart now full of items like chunks of pancetta and bottles of rice vinegar.
Beck stared down into the cart. It didn’t look like anything. Usually, at this point in a menu, he’d start to be able to see the individual components as elements of a finished dish. He could visualize what each dish would look like on the plate, how he’d stack the items or what he’d drizzle over top for that last burst of flavor and color, but right now?
It was all cardboard and plastic and paper. Nothing real, nothing substantial.
Nothing of himself.
“Are we doing the right thing here?” he heard himself ask.
Winslow’s eyes got big. “Hey. Are you okay?”
Pressing his mouth shut against the words that threatened to tumble out, Beck clenched his fingers on the wire frame of the cart, feeling the metal dig into his palms. The pain grounded him, made it possible for him to mutter “Not really.”
Winslow reached out and pried at Beck’s hands. “Quit that, you’re going to hurt something.”
“I already hurt something,” Beck said, and shit, now it was all coming out. “Someone,” he amended, pulling away from Win and rocking the cart on its wheel
s with a clang.
And he’d hurt her. He knew he had. The look on Skye’s face when she finally got it, finally figured out that she could do so much better than a violent, damaged, mute fucking asshole …
“Hey!” The alarm in Win’s voice penetrated the black fog hanging over Beck’s head. He blinked at his sous-chef and found the kid staring back at him with more than a hint of anger in his expression. “Beck, come on. Do not be doing this to me right now. I need you to get your head out of your ass and focus!”
Beck blinked, his jaw set as if someone had poured cement into the joints. “Sorry,” he rasped out. God, would he never be done needing to apologize?
“Don’t be sorry, man.” Win sighed, his fingers coming back to pluck at Beck’s stiff hands curled around the wire cart. “Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”
Beck snorted. That was sort of the whole issue in a nutshell, wasn’t it? “I never tell anyone what’s going on,” he said.
Win rolled his eyes. “Well, duh. Kind of noticed that. And most of the time, who cares, but now is not most times, Beckster. Now is the Big Time, and you need to quit withholding and let me in!”
“Everybody wants in.” He laughed, but it scraped his throat on its way out. “Pretty fucking funny, since most of the time I want out. There’s nothing to see in here, man.”
Beck dropped his head, his hair swinging forward to hide his face. It felt good to hide. Familiar, comforting.
Safe.
He stiffened. Holy Christ, was Skye right? Had he been taking the coward’s way out his entire life?
The memory of Skye with Jeremiah Raleigh rose up in his mind, as inescapable as a swarm of hornets. Beck had left Queenie Pie on his own, as soon as he found his boots. The last thing he saw before he pushed through the kitchen and out into the front of the house was Skye wrapped in a warm, loving, tender embrace.
Perfect, good-looking, fucking heroic Jeremiah Raleigh.
Jeremiah hadn’t yelled or thrown punches or stomped around. He’d opened his arms and invited her in.
And she’d gone.
She’d met his unblinking gaze over Jeremiah’s shoulder. Emotions were hard for him to read sometimes, but there’d been something in the deep blue pools of her eyes … pain and memories and the release they’d found together in purging some old wounds the night before.
But something else, too. Maybe a plea?
“I never know what people want from me,” Beck said.
Win leaned closer, brow furrowed, as if he’d barely caught the words.
Clearing his throat, Beck steeled himself and lifted his head. “No, that’s not it. I assume I know what people want, and that I don’t want to give it to them.”
“Sounds like a pretty unsatisfying arrangement,” Win said. “For everyone concerned.”
Beck huffed out a breath that could’ve passed for a laugh. “Yeah. It sure wasn’t satisfying for my wife.”
Win went on full alert, Beck could tell from the way he straightened as if someone had goosed him. “Something going on with Skye? Other than the whole divorce thing, and the bet about spending one last night together.”
Beck was ninety-five percent certain they’d already had their last night together, bet or no bet. “I’m really fucked up,” he admitted, the words torn from his chest as desperation got its fist around his heart and squeezed. “I don’t know what to do about it. Tell me what to do.”
Win sucked in air. “Shit. Are you serious? No one ever asks me what to do!”
That made Beck look his young friend in the eye. “We should,” he told him. “You give damn good advice.”
“It’s true. I am one emotionally healthy motherfucker.” Winslow preened for a moment before getting serious again. “Bottom line, man, is you have to decide what you want and what you’re willing to do to get it. No one can give you advice about that, and no one can do it for you—you’ve got to take a real close look at your heart, and then don’t puss out about listening to what it tells you.”
“Christ,” Beck said, feeling short of breath. “You should have your own talk show.”
Punching him in the shoulder, Win beamed. “Yeah, maybe on one of those channels where they don’t care if you swear a lot. Or Bravo! Bravo loves the gays.”
“It has nothing to do with you being gay,” Beck said, frowning.
Shit, this was awkward, but it had to be said. Don’t puss out, he reminded himself, and the surge of amusement gave him the guts to put his hand on Winslow’s shoulder. “It’s because you’re a good friend, you care about people. And you see things others miss.”
This time it was Win who ducked his gleaming shaved head, but only for a second. “Thanks, man. But I just caught sight of my watch, and holy cats, but we need to get moving here. I know I said to have a good long heart-to-heart with yourself, but we don’t have time right now.”
There was no time; every second ticking down on the clock brought them closer to the moment of truth, when they’d have to check out with whatever product they’d managed to acquire, and that would be what they’d cook.
But as Beck stood there in the produce department between towers of lemons and a bank of greens getting sprayed down with a fine mist of water, he caught sight of his competition racing toward the table full of fresh herbs across the wide aisle.
Skye’s chin was firm with determination, her movements swift and purposeful, with an economy of motion that Beck found as beautiful as any dancer. She’d been through so much, been so alone through most of it, but she was still here. Still in it, hoping and taking chances and trying to be happy. She was magnificent.
And he realized he didn’t need a lot of time.
His heart had been telling him what it wanted for years; he just hadn’t been listening.
And after this morning, he knew he only had one shot at getting it. His mission was clear.
“Dump this stuff, we need a new cart.” He fired off the order, feet already in motion.
Win jumped into action with a whoop and a curse, ready to follow his lead, and Beck took the extra five seconds to grab his sous-chef around the shoulders and haul him into a quick, very manly hug.
“What’s the plan, boss?” Win said when Beck set him back on his feet.
Beck ripped his prepared list of ingredients straight down the middle and took off at a ground-covering jog for the fish counter.
“We’re cooking from the heart.”
*
Skye had never been so distracted in her life. She’d be lucky if she made it through this challenge with all her fingers intact.
Usually cooking was where she lost herself, burying her fears and worries in mounds of juicy diced tomato and drowning them in gallons of homemade chicken stock. But today all she could think about was the look on Jeremiah’s face when he pulled back from hugging her and said, “Sunshine, we need to talk.”
She blinked, and suddenly the image morphed to Beck walking out of the Queenie Pie kitchen, head down, steps slow but steady, like a wounded lion.
They couldn’t leave it like this.
Across the kitchen, Beck and his sous-chef were just finishing stowing their groceries in the walk-in, stacked on a couple of speed racks for quick, easy access once the challenge actually began.
Eva Jansen had arrived a few moments ago with her assistant, Drew, and the two of them were checking through the kitchen, making sure everything was ready to go. If Skye was going to do this, she didn’t have much time.
Breathing in a deep breath of serenity and calm, Skye closed her eyes and imagined peace filling her up, like water poured into a cup.
She opened her eyes and saw Beck striding over to his station, his jaw dark with stubble and his eyes fierce, and her cup of serenity shattered.
Crap. That worked a lot better in yoga class.
Now or never, Skye.
Mentally hitching up her skirt, Skye marched over to Beck’s station. His sous, Winslow, saw her coming and got all big-eyed befor
e fading discreetly away to talk to Drew.
Skye was grateful for the gesture toward giving them privacy, but she was very aware that she and Beck weren’t alone in this kitchen. Which was why she stopped a few feet away from him.
Distance was crucial to her sanity.
He watched her approach, his dark eyes deep and fathomless, shadowed by the sweep of his hair. It was loose, she noticed, but she knew he’d pull it back and out of his face before the cooking actually started.
She knew little things like that—things like the sound he made when he came, or the fact that he hated scary movies and preferred poetry to fiction. But did she really know him?
“Today we prep,” he said quietly, jolting her out of her thoughts. “And tomorrow, we find out who’s the next Rising Star Chef.”
Fighting down a blush, Skye lifted her chin and stuck out her hand. “Whatever happens, I want you to know … I’m proud to compete against you. May the best cook win.”
His gaze flared with a bright spark of passion when their fingers met, palms sliding together, but Skye wasn’t sure if it was desire for her, or the desire to win. At this point, it hardly mattered.
“I’m ready,” he told her. “And I’m looking forward to tasting your dishes. I know they’ll be great.”
God, so polite and stilted. As if they were strangers. Skye pulled away and tried to find a smile for him. “Okay, well, I’m sure they’re going to start the timer soon, so…”
“Is Jeremiah coming to the judging?” Beck asked, startling her.
“Oh,” she stammered. “I don’t know, I didn’t think anyone was allowed other than the judges…”
“They should make an exception for him,” Beck said. “He came all the way from Africa to see you cook.”
Sheesh, could this be more uncomfortable? Skye had to swallow three times to get rid of the painful lump in her throat, and before she could manage it, Eva walked up.
“Who came from Africa?” Eva asked, gray eyes bright and avid with curiosity.
“My…” Skye broke off. God, what was she supposed to call Jeremiah now, after the conversation they’d had once Beck left this morning? “Friend,” she concluded lamely, feeling the flush she’d been suppressing finally erupt like a wildfire and spread up her chest all the way to the tips of her ears.
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