by G. K. Brady
A half hour later, she peeked out the window. Adrian and his stuff were gone. Her phone lit up with a text. Beckett.
Did Adrian stop by?
R u psychic?
In case u forgot, I’m a guy. R u ok?
Um, yes. Told him to take his stuff and leave.
That was hard.
I even swore.
Bad words?
She chuckled through her tears. Really bad words.
He deserves worse. U ok?
Got an open bottle of wine. I’ll be fine.
Want 2 share?
Not tonight.
Understand. Lemme know if u need ice cream, oil change, haircut.
Puzzled, she re-read the message. Did u really mean haircut?
I did. Anything.
Night, Beck.
Night. Try 2 sleep.
As she settled under her covers that night, her mind meandered to an old question she now examined through a different facet of the same prism. What would life look like if I’d fallen for Beckett all those years ago?
CHAPTER 11
I Can Help
Paige pulled up to the title office and parked beside Beckett’s truck. He stepped out and strode to her door, opening it. “Need any help?”
“No, I’m good, thanks. Are you ready?”
“Yep. Got my ID and your lockbox.”
The latter she took from him and laid on the passenger seat beside her. “And a deposit slip for that fat check, right?” She grinned.
“Yeah.” He closed her door behind her. “Although I’m still not sure why I’m getting back a hundred and twenty something dollars when I expected to bring a check for nearly a hundred grand.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll go over it all at the closing table.”
“So, what’s the word from the weaselly bastard?”
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she admonished, regretting for not the first time having taken him into her confidence. He was, she was learning, fiercely loyal and altogether eager to disparage others for sins he’d committed himself. No glass houses for Beckett Miller.
“Okay. What’s the word from Adrian?”
“He told my lawyer he’s not doing anything until he and I sit down and talk. He suggested a marriage counselor.”
Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “And? Did you agree?”
“For now, I don’t want to think about it. I only want to get your closing wrapped up.”
They took their places in a conference room. The closer, seated at the head of the table, slid a piece of paper under Beckett’s nose. He slipped on his glasses and looked at it, frowning. Paige held her breath.
He turned his head to the closer. “This is wrong.”
She smiled her “the-customer-is-always-right” smile and darted her eyes to Paige. Beckett now swiveled his head to her, frustration showing in his eyes and in the set of his mouth.
“Andie, what the hell is this?”
“It’s your closing statement. It shows all the credits and debits so you can see how they arrived at your bottom line.” Paige pointed at a figure on the paper. She handed him a pen and smiled sweetly.
He leaned way back in his chair and chuffed at her. “I know what a closing statement is. What I don’t understand are the numbers on this one. I didn’t agree to this.”
The closer fidgeted. “Shall I step out for a minute?”
“No,” Paige nearly barked.
Beckett didn’t budge, his rigid chin a stubborn reflection of his body. Paige leaned a little farther in. “Beckett, the buyers have already signed. Their wire’s been received. Their moving trucks are pulling up as we speak. Their whole family’s looking forward to sleeping in their new home tonight. What’s on your settlement sheet has nothing to do with them or the contract you executed with them. It’s only between you and me. If you want to stay in contract compliance and move on, you need to sign.” She stabbed at his signature line. “Right there.”
A little muscle in his jaw jumped, and he glared at her. His mouth was a thin, hard gash, as though it had been drawn in with pencil, and his cheeks seemed to flare dark pink. Without taking his eyes from her, he picked up the pen. Then he scrawled his autograph and shoved the paper and pen at her. She signed her line carefully, bending her head and averting her face from his glacial stare.
Fifteen minutes later, they left the building, Beckett’s face a study in fury. Paige scurried to her truck, but he was on her heels.
“You bamboozled me,” he growled.
“Bamboozled? What’s that?”
“Don’t pull that bullshit on me, Ms. Anderson. We agreed on six percent, against my wishes, not two fucking percent. You slashed your own commission so I wouldn’t have to bring a fucking check to closing.” He flung out an arm.
“Shh. Everyone will hear you, and they’ll all expect me to slash my commissions.”
He pulled a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Andie. That’s not what I wanted. You violated our agreement.”
“Yes, I know. You didn’t want to screw me.” She shrugged. “Beckett, I couldn’t think of another closing gift for you. If you’re unhappy, file a complaint with the Real Estate Commission, although I doubt they’ll hear the case. Clients usually don’t take their brokers to task for lowering their fees and leaving more money in their pockets.”
He erupted in a humorless laugh. It didn’t erase his fierce face.
“You little sh—stinker. You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
She tried not to preen. “And I don’t have to wear glasses.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “Jesus H. Fucking Christ!”
“Wow. For a guy who didn’t have to bring a check to closing, I’d think you’d be more appreciative. You’re acting like I high-sticked you or something.” She glanced at his full truck bed. “Is that gym equipment?”
He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. Then he sighed. “You’re right. I should be more appreciative. And I am. I just … God, I hate taking fucking handouts. I hate being broke!”
“You’re not broke.” She smiled brightly. “You have a hundred and twenty-six bucks in your pocket. And this wasn’t a handout. I made a solid chunk.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That money’s going to stay in my pocket until I come back to Denver and take you to dinner.”
Her heart took off unexpectedly, surprising her. “When do you suppose that’ll be?”
He shook his head forlornly. “Can’t say. My agent finally heard from the KHL, and they said no thanks. I’ve got no place to go. It feels really weird. I should be working my ass off to get ready for training camp, but for the first time since I can remember, I don’t have to. Much as I hated training camp, I hate this more. So I’ll go to the mountains and sulk, then head to Michigan for a while.”
“You going to see your folks?”
“Yep. Then maybe I’ll go out to San Diego, see Cooper, and meet his fiancée.” Beckett looked at her, and his eyes brightened. “Hey, let me ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“They’re getting married next June. I have to go stag unless I can find a ‘nice girl’ to bring, but I don’t know any nice girls besides you. If you’re not with someone by then, go with me. You owe me that much after screwing yourself out of eighty grand.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
She didn’t know what caught her more by surprise. That he invited her, that he thought she might possibly be with someone else, or that he was walking out of her life. Now. Today. After he’d grown on her, like a lichen she couldn’t quite scrape off.
“That sounds wrong,” she said.
“Which part? Let me guess. The nice girl part?”
She punched his arm. “No. The ‘screwing yourself’ part, and you know it!”
He chuckled and pulled her to him. “C’mere.” He wrapped her up. “I’m going to miss you, pixie.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m going to miss you too.” Her cracking voice was muf
fled by his shirt.
“So it’s a date?” he prodded.
“It’s a date.”
As he pulled away in his truck, she fought back unexpected tears and bravely waved. Beckett Miller, you come into my life like a Colorado storm and leave like one too. Sudden, thundering, spitting hail balls, bursting with lightning, shaking the heavens, then disappearing and leaving everything drenched in your wake.
On her way home, Paige turned on an old sixties station and began singing along to “Red Rubber Ball.” Yes, she should have known he’d bid her farewell—just like everyone else in her life.
.~ * * * ~.
The roads were choked as Beckett came out of the mountains a week later. A bright day, the sun winked off chrome and mirrored windows as he sped along I-70. Once in cell range, he called Andie. His heart did a somersault when he heard her cheery “Hello, stranger.”
“Hey, pixie. A ton of stuff just happened, and I’m flying to Chicago in the morning. Right now I’m heading to a pickup game with the boys. Do you want to come watch me play, and I’ll fill you in?”
“Chicago? I thought you were going to Michigan.”
“Chicago is a new stopover. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. So can I pick you up? I want to show off.” He grinned.
“Are you in shape for that?”
“Showing off? Always.”
He could practically hear her eyes roll. “I meant playing,” she huffed.
“I’ll find out. I’ve been training, hoping for that call, but the only way to get in game shape is by playing. Nothing substitutes. Regardless, I need to keep exercising. You should see me when I don’t. No, actually, you shouldn’t.”
“Why? Do you go all potbellied?”
He snickered. “No. I go all kinds of nutty.”
“Hard to believe you could get any nuttier.”
“Ouch! I resemble that remark.”
“I wish I could join you, Beck, but I’m booked solid. Where are you staying tonight?”
An idea sparked and commandeered his mouth. “With you.”
She was silent a few beats. “You’re kidding, right? Marty and Claudia have a guest room I’m sure they’d loan you.”
“Marty and Claudia also have noisy kids.”
“Don’t you have girlfriends in Denver dying for a Beckett Miller sleepover? Or guy friends, for that matter?”
“Jesus, I hope my guy friends aren’t dying for a sleepover. Anyway, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to stay on your super-comfy couch. I’ll take us to dinner tonight, then I can Uber to the airport in the morning and leave my truck with you for a couple days. You owe me after your closing stunt.”
He could practically hear the sigh of relief on the other end. Because he wasn’t asking for a ride, or because he wasn’t asking to sleep in her bed? All righty, then.
“Okay. You can stay tonight. Why don’t you come over when you’re done, and I’ll fix us something to eat here?” she said. “I’m raring to hear about Chicago.”
“Works for me. See you soon, pixie.” Beckett turned the radio dial, and the guy talking about his “exquisite, one-of-a-kind Russian diamonds” faded into the white noise of traffic.
A couple of hours, a few sore muscles, and a shower later, Beckett sat across from Andie on her patio, sucking down a cold Corona. “So a couple years ago, when I had money to throw around, I helped fund my buddy Joe’s startup in Chicago. He had this product he was trying to market called DeFunked. It’s a cleaner you use on pads, gloves, body armor, your gym bag—all that stuff. Anyway, it removes the locker room smell with non-toxic materials. Bacteria, actually. I forgot all about it. Figured when I invested the cash, it was a throwaway like so many other so-called investments I dabbled in, but he tracked me down two days ago. He’s got a big-time deal on the line, and he’s asked me to fly out and help land it. He’s also been developing other products, like a wipe you throw in the wash.”
“That’s wonderful! You must be so excited, Beck.” She clinked her bottle against his.
“It beats moping around.”
“Were you going a little stir-crazy?” She pulled her sunglasses down and peeked at him. Her eyes glittered in the afternoon light. Celadon.
“Just a little,” he laughed. “A guy can only work out, watch movies, and play video games so much.”
“What, no playmates?” She looked genuinely dumbfounded.
“I don’t take women there. Never have. But you know what? I’d like to show it to you sometime.”
“Really? I’d like to see it.” She touched his arm. “I’m honored, Beck.”
“You should be. I’ve designated you a ‘triple F.’ I don’t hand those awards out often. In fact, I’ve never handed one out. You’re my first.” He raised his bottle to her.
She gave him a quizzical look. “Triple F?”
He took a pull on his beer. “Favorite female friend. Or you could be my CFF: closest female friend.”
“I’m your closest female friend?” Surprise replaced the question mark on her face. “What about your girlfriends?”
He shrugged. “So far you’re the only woman I’ve met who’s willing to drink beer with me and debate the supply and demand of pork bellies or the pluses and minuses of the electoral college without asking for anything in return. Intellectual stuff that requires glasses. Without strings.” He winked at her.
“Who says I’m willing?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
She smirked, then turned her head toward the sunset and let out a long sigh. “It’s so beautiful.”
He followed her gaze and echoed her sigh. A gaudy display of sherbet pinks and oranges brushstroked over a canvas of deep robin’s egg blue lit the sky, silhouetting the massive, serrated purple peaks of the Rocky Mountains. No matter how many times he’d seen a Colorado sunset, Beckett never tired of it. And he loved this time of year, when warm days and cool nights heralded fall. Hockey weather.
They gawked at the show until the chill air forced them inside. Andie slid off her black jacket and pulled out onions and a cutting board.
“Pick out a bottle of red, would you, Beck? The wine rack’s over there,” she said without looking up.
He glanced her way and froze. His eyes traveled over the light blue sweater that clung to her, emphasizing her full breasts, tapered waist, and soft, round hips. A classic hourglass figure, her curves were generously, perfectly proportioned in all the right places on her compact body. She was concentrating on chopping, her dark auburn hair waving in front of her face. The strands captured the overhead light, reflecting it in burnished amber. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
She looked up at him and smiled. Like a kid caught with a fistful of Halloween candy before Halloween, he blinked and fumbled, trying to mask what he’d been doing.
She jerked her head toward the wine rack. “Over there.”
He executed an awkward goose step in that direction and pretended to study the labels.
“What are you thinking of having?” she asked.
You popped into his head, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. “Uh, a zin maybe.” He uncorked a bottle and poured two glasses. “What are you making?”
“Chicken piccata with tomato-and-basil spaghetti on the side. Maybe you can give me some pointers, Chef.”
“Put me to work if you want, but it looks like you got this, Little Chef.” He took a stool at the counter and slugged down a gulp of wine, trying not to look at her.
“I never pegged you for goofy, Beck.” She shot him a sidelong peek.
He belted out a laugh. “Goofy?”
“Yes. You’re playful, silly. Goofy.”
“You must bring it out in me.”
Her phone vibrated on the counter, and she wiped her hands on a towel before picking it up. Her face fell.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She tossed the phone in a drawer and beamed at Beckett, the smile forced. “Adrian. I’m not dealing with h
im right now. I’m having a good time.”
Beckett cleared his throat. “So. Speaking of the motherfu—what’s up with Adrian?” He gave her an equally fake smile.
She picked up her wineglass and sipped.
Something inexplicable, primal, and foreign flared in him. “Let me guess. He wants you back, forgive and forget?” he growled. The contentment that had begun to settle over him was dissolving like sugar in boiling water.
Her eyes sad, she set the glass down. “We agreed to visit a marriage counselor, but I’m not hopeful.”
In the time it took her to utter those words, Beckett’s emotions zipped from disappointment to cheer to guilt. He steadied himself. “Why not?”
She filled a pot of water, set it on the stove, and lit the gas burner. “Because I don’t trust him. How do you repair that? He claims he broke it off with English, but I’m skeptical.”
Like the burner, Beckett’s inner flame blazed blue. “You’re smart to be skeptical. Don’t believe a damn word he says. He’s working you.”
She pounded the cutlets. “We had five years together. I think I owe him a chance. Besides, people can change if they want to.”
“That five years of history makes what he did even worse!” Somewhere in a rear corner of Beckett’s brain, a dim message winked at him like a failing neon sign, telling him he was in no position to pass judgment.
She scooped flour onto a plate and shrugged. “If I give up, admit defeat, then I’m just like my mom.”
“How so?”
“She’s the queen of failed relationships. Whether it was her family or some guy, when things got hard, she was out the door and on to the next whatever. I don’t want to be like that.”
“You’re not. What you are is too forgiving. Believe me, Adrian’s not spending his nights alone.”
Her head snapped up, pain flitting across her face. Fresh guilt stabbed him.
“Takes one to know one,” he added petulantly. Balls of paper napkin littered the counter, and he realized he’d been making them. He swept them over the edge into his cupped palm, muttering, “I’m sorry, Andie. I shouldn’t have said that. Kinda funny coming from a guy like me, huh?”