“Why aren’t you warning me off, Wes?” Beckett repeats. His voice is calm, but his face is a mask of stone, the only movement a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Because,” Wes says after a second. He must be able to tell something’s up; his voice is warier now, more tentative. “I’m not worried about you. Molly’s not a girl you’d be interested in.”
“She’s not a girl at all,” Beckett replies, rolling his eyes. “She’s a woman. And Iaminterested in her, you idiot. So don’t call her ugly or make fun of her fish. It’s pissing me off.”
A deafening silence falls over the tiny kitchen, broken only by the steadydrip, drip, dripof Beckett’s soup.
“Dude,” Wes says finally. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Beckett says, sounding more frustrated still.
“I…don’t know what to say to that.” Wes’s voice is utterly bewildered.
“Well, you’re in luck; your opinion is not required,” Beckett bites out. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Wes.” And then, without another word, he hangs up.
For one long, tense moment, we stare at each other. Beckett’s spoon is still dripping soup all over the table, a puddle of orangey-red tomato bisque. Like Wes, I, too, don’t know what to say to Beckett’s announcement that he’s interested in me.
My heart, on the other hand, hasplentyto say.
It’s a riot down there in my chest. That fleshy chunk of muscle is beating against my rib cage with celebratory fervor, wearing a party hat and blowing on a kazoo. There’s confetti flying everywhere and music blaring through my veins.
My heart is celebrating, even as it pulses against the walls that are still sore from Wes’s words.
“Sorry,” Beckett says, finally putting an end to our weird stare down. His gaze drops to his spoon, and he frowns when he sees the puddle of tomato bisque pooling on the table. He puts his spoon back in his bowl with a littleclinkand then scoots his chair back away from the table. The loud scraping sound echoes through the tiny kitchen, and I watch as he moves to a cabinet and rummages through it. He emerges a few seconds later with a wad of napkins, brown and slightly crumpled.
I smile at this; I didn’t take him for the kind of man who saves the napkins when he orders take-out, but I do the same thing.
He cleans up the tomato bisque with hasty impatience before tossing the napkins in the trash. Then he looks at me.
“Sorry,” he repeats, rubbing the back of his neck. “About that, I mean”—he gestures to my phone—“and going off on Wes and stuff.”
I shrug. “He’s your best friend. You’re allowed to tell him off.” I hesitate before adding, “I appreciated it, actually. Thank you.”
Beckett sighs and then takes his seat again, slumping back down. He looks tired; not just physically but emotionally. Like he needs a nap and a hug.
And you know what? I can help with part of that.
I get out of my chair, leaving my bowl where it is and rounding the tiny table. Then I move to stand next to Beckett.
He cranes his neck around, looking at me with confusion and wariness. His brows are pulled low over his eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down.
I reach out without thinking, smoothing my thumb over his forehead. “Such a frown,” I murmur. “Relax.”
And then, almost as though I’m in a trance, I lean down and kiss him.
Don’t ask me why—I truly do not know.
No, that’s a lie. I know exactly why. I’m kissing him because I’ve wanted to kiss him since I knew what kissing was. I’m kissing him because he’s been so incredibly kind to me over the last couple days. I'm kissing him because not ten minutes ago he admitted, out loud, that he likes me.
So I press my lips to his, my hands firm on his face. He gasps right before our lips meet, but I gobble the sound up.
It only lasts for a second, though, because he doesn’t respond. Not at all. He doesn’t kiss me back; his hands come to rest on my shoulders before he pushes gently, separating us.
“My first kiss,” I murmur.
Through my haze of determination, I’m vaguely aware of the sting of rejection. That sting is soothed, though, by the look on Beckett’s face, still only inches from mine.
His brown eyes are wide and blazing, his gaze zeroed in on my lips. His broad shoulders rise and fall as his chest heaves, choppy bursts of breath puffing against my mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and I follow the motion greedily.
