In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(23)

I wonder how much of that is my fault.

“You don’t have a plan.”

My chin falls to my chest and I keep my gaze on his boots. He’s got a bit of mud clinging to one, right at the toe. I think of him out in the fields, hat on backwards and sleeves rolled to his elbows. It loosens something inside of me and lets me be a little honest. I press out a sigh.

“This trip wasn’t … planned. I came here on a whim. Josie, my assistant, she asked me the last place I was happy and, I don’t know.” I shrug, feeling silly and small, out here on the street with a man who probably never gave me a second thought.

“It was here,” he offers.

It’s not a question. I blink up at him and my shoulders slip from my ears when I see the way his face has softened, a lightness to those sea glass eyes of his that I haven’t seen since there was a bottle of tequila on the table.

“It was here,” I confirm.

His lips tilt up at the corner. Just the slightest bit. I wouldn’t have noticed if we weren’t standing directly below a streetlight. I cock my head at the change in his expression, immediately curious.

“What’s that look for?”

He shakes his head and switches his box of shortbread cookies to his right hand. “Nothing, just something my dad said tonight.” He holds his hand out, palm up. “C’mon.”

I stare at his hand like he uncurled his fingers and revealed a tiny baby cobra in there. “C’mon, what?”

He jerks his head behind him and I can barely make out the bed of his truck parked at the corner. “I have three extra bedrooms. You can crash in one until you figure out what you’re doing.”

That seems like a … monumentally bad idea. The last time I was here, we could barely look at each other. I think the longest amount of time we spent together—just the two of us—was that morning at the bakehouse where he told that stupid joke about the strawberry fields. We didn’t talk much beyond that. He commented on the weather. I asked him some questions about the trees. He considered me quietly while he slowly ate his zucchini bread, flipping his fork around and offering me a bite, nudging the plate across the table with the back of his hand.

That was probably twenty minutes of peaceful coexistence. I’m not sure shacking up for the immediate future is good for either of us.

“I don’t know,” I shift on my feet and curl into myself further when the wind picks up again. Beckett’s frown deepens. “Won’t that be awkward?”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he mutters. “It’s a big cabin. And we’re both mature adults.”

I raise both eyebrows at him, remembering how he showed up at this same bed and breakfast a couple of months ago and basically accused me of being a flake with a stupid job. He flinches and scrubs his hand against the back of his head. “At least I think we can both be mature adults,” he amends.

I huff a laugh through my nose, but make no move to take his hand. After another moment of indecision, he pulls it back, curling those long fingers back around the edges of the box. The cardboard gives slightly under his grip, like it's barely hanging on. That poor box.

“We could start over if you want,” he offers. He swallows, and I watch as frustration tightens everything on his face—the strain in his sharp jaw, the tilt of his lips. He really is handsome, even when he’s making a face at me like someone stuck a lemon in his mouth. “We could—if you wanted, we could pretend this is the first time we’re meeting.”

“And you’re inviting me back to your house on an isolated stretch of farmland? Okay, serial killer.”

A smile twitches at his lips. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Not to mention I’m not sure I could forget Beckett if I tried. There’s no pretending between us, not anymore.

I avert my gaze back to the flower vines twisted around the light pole. Green and white and yellow and the palest purple I’ve ever seen. I want to touch each bloom and feel the softness, press my nose into the petals. When I was a kid running through the woods behind my parents house, I used to pluck honeysuckle blossoms from the bushes, tear the stem and lick at the nectar. Pure sticky sweetness, petals in my hair. Mud on my knees and hands and everywhere in between.

It would be convenient to stay on the farm. I know Beckett’s house at the edge of the property is bigger than Stella’s. I saw it once while I was exploring during my last trip. The large stone chimney, the wraparound front porch. It’s a gorgeous house. Stella said his place had been the lodging quarters for whatever hunting retreat Lovelight used to be. I could stay in one of his spare rooms tonight and see what the phone tree turns up tomorrow.

With his schedule, we probably wouldn’t even see each other.

I look back to Beckett, my gaze snagging on the jut of his collarbone, barely visible through the opening of his shirt. I remember sinking my teeth into exactly that spot, tracing my thumb over the marks I left behind.

I drag my eyes back to his.

“You sure it’s alright?”

A beat of silence pulses between us. He doesn’t look away. “I am. You?”

I think about it for a second, and then slowly nod my head. It feels like a bad idea, but I’m fresh out of options.

The wind whistles through the old picket fence that lines the gardens by the road. A lock of hair falls over his forehead and he smoothes it back with his palm. I glance at the box in his hand.