In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(4)

There’s a knock at my door and I blow out a breath. I stare at the peephole with a sliver of apprehension. I don’t need to guess as to who is on the other side.

“Oh my god, did I just hear a knock?” Josie is beside herself. “Is it him?”

I lift myself from the edge of the bed and smooth my palm over my hair. Of course it’s him. “I’ve gotta go, Josie.”

“Switch me to FaceTime,” she demands. “Never mind, I’ll do it. Evie, I swear to god, if you hang—“

I end the call before she has a chance to finish her threat, tossing my phone on the table. It immediately rings with an incoming video call and I ignore it, adding a pillow over top for good measure.

I take my time on my walk to the door and hesitate with my hand above the handle. When he walked into the bakery earlier today, I felt that same swoop, low in my belly. Just like the first time. It was like cracking open a memory to take another look. Flannel instead of a white t-shirt. Backwards baseball cap with a tiny, embroidered tree.

Wide, surprised eyes.

I swing open the door like I’m ripping off a bandage and find Beckett with his arms braced against the frame, hands curled around the edges like he’s physically holding himself back. His fingers flex and I get an immediate flashback of those hands wrapped tight around my thighs instead, Beckett on his knees in front of me, a single lock of dark blonde hair plastered to his forehead.

I swallow.

“Hey,” I whisper. I can barely look at him and I sound like I swallowed six sheets of sandpaper. Way to keep it together, Evie.

I clear my throat.

He blinks at me, his gaze lingering and lazy, tripping from the top of my head to the drape of my sweater across my shoulder. His tongue licks at his bottom lip, and I feel like maybe I should grab the edge of the frame, too. Cling to the brass door knocker for dear life.

I don’t know what made me bring Beckett back to my hotel with me that hazy summer night, all those months ago. I’ve never been remotely interested in a casual hookup before. I just—

I saw him walk in, and I wanted him.

Good to know his effect on me hasn’t dimmed at all.

“Hey,” he whispers back. He exhales through his nose and pushes off the door frame, glancing once over his shoulder at the empty hallway behind him. I get a good look at the strong line of his jaw and have to clear my throat again. “Can I come in for a second?”

I nod and take a step back, letting him pass through the narrow door. All my hazy memories have apparently done the sheer size of him an injustice. He looks too big standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, pretending to study the painting of the pond hanging above the desk. I click the door shut and try not to think of the last time we were in a space just like this.

Gauzy white curtains. Tangled sheets. A warm hand splayed between my shoulder blades. His voice in my ear, telling me how good I felt. To take it.

I shake my head and lean against the dresser, legs crossed at the ankles. I am doing myself no favors. “You wanted to talk?”

He nods, still distracted by that painting. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Social media influencer, huh?”

I don’t like the tone of his voice, the faint accusation I hear there. I didn’t offer my job, but neither did he. The both of us were focused on … other things during our time together. He didn’t recognize me when I walked into the bar and that had been a nice change. Refreshing.

Cheesy as it sounds, men typically don’t want to be with me for me. Usually when I’m approached by men, there’s something in it for them—a picture on one of my channels, a product plug. Once, a guy asked if I was up for a sex tape.

So when Beckett walked into that tiny bar with his inked arms and his gaze passing over me with appreciation instead of calculation, I took a chance. I took something for myself.

A lot of good that did me.

“Farmer, huh?” I mimic his cool indifference and watch the way his lips turn down at the corners, hands clenching into fists at his side.

“I’m just surprised, is all,” he says, still with that slightly sarcastic tone. As if he can’t believe he even needs to have this conversation with me. As if me being someone who works in social media is the most vile, repulsive thing he could possibly think of. He sniffs and rubs his knuckles against his jaw. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

Clearly I also didn’t expect to see him, given that I ran from the bakehouse at the farm this afternoon like the place was on fire. Doesn’t mean I’m going to be a jerk about it, though.

He watches me carefully, eyes narrowed. I wish the cookie tray was closer. “Did you know?”

“Did I know what?”

“Did you know I work here?”

I frown and tilt my chin up. Does he think I did this on purpose? Came to his place of work to … what? Harass him? Embarrass him? “Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again either.”

He smiles and it’s not nice at all. “Well, you made that abundantly clear, Evie.”

I blink at him.

“Sorry,” he tells me, his voice gruff. He is not sorry at all. “You probably prefer Evelyn.”

Something in my chest pulls tight at the sharp edge of his words. He sounds frustrated, uncomfortable. He’s holding himself too still in the corner by the desk, his eyes angry and upset. I don’t know why it hurts for him to call me Evelyn, only that it does.