Thatcher pried my hands from my face. “It can’t be that bad,” he said, his face pinched with concern.
I remembered the atrocities of war Thatcher had witnessed in Africa and felt a stab of guilt. My love life was insignificant compared to the horrors he’d seen.
“I really messed things up with Beckett,” I said.
“This isn’t about Miranda Lockhart?” he asked, thoroughly confused.
I shook my head.
“Do you love him?”
I hesitated. I hadn't been able to tell Beckett, even though he’d practically begged. “I don’t know. I think so. Maybe. Yes.”
Thatcher laughed. “I hope you didn’t tell him like that. Men are fragile creatures.”
I peered down at my lap. “I haven’t told him at all. And now I can’t.”
“Does he love you?”
I frowned. “He used to, although I don’t know why.”
“Only one way to find out if he still does,” Thatcher said. “Ask him.”
I cringed. “I can’t.”
Thatcher threw the Jeep in reverse so fast my head flew forward. “You can.” Thatcher flashed me a grin and threw his arm over the seat, gesturing for Daisy to get down. “Buckle up,” he said.
Thatcher pulledup to the gate at Beckett’s house and stopped. “Code please,” he said.
“This is a terrible idea,” I said. “I can’t just barge in there and tell him I love him. At this point, three little words won’t make a difference.”
“Code. Please.”
“I’m a mess,” I said. “My hair is…”
“Do you want to get out here and walk up to the house?”
He gave me a look that said he wasn’t kidding, and I leaned over him to punch in the gate code. The gate didn’t budge.
“Entry is incorrect,” said the automated voice. “You have two remaining tries.”
“Beckett changed the code.” I slumped back into my seat. “It’s too late.”
“Bullshit. It’s not too late.”
“Trust me, when that alarm goes off, you don’t want to be anywhere near here.”
“Call Pressly.” Thatcher scrubbed a hand over his beard scruff. “She’ll give you the code.”
It felt a lot like cracking my chest open to call Pressly and ask her for the code, but I did it anyway. Pressly gave me the code, no questions asked, and the gate rolled open.
I watched Thatcher’s jaw drop as Beckett’s house came into view.
The rain had finally stopped, and a fine layer of mist rose like fairy dust from the wet ground. Beckett’s house seemed to be sitting on a silver cloud. All shimmering glass, shining metal, and slick rock, the modern masterpiece stood out against the darkened sky.
“Jesus. This place is unreal.” Thatcher craned his neck to get a better look.
Behind him, Daisy pressed her nose to the window, seeming equally impressed. Thatcher pulled to a stop in the driveway and stopped the car. He straightened his shoulders, and a steely glint came into his eyes.
