In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(58)

I pat his back through the thick material of his flannel. “Let’s just go home.”

As soon as we step outside the door into the stillness and silence of a mostly abandoned street, Beckett lets out a heaving, gusting sigh. He sounds like he just finished a run, lungs burning and legs twitching. Aching, blissful relief.

I keep my arm around his waist, guiding us to his truck parked two blocks over, right behind the cafe. He’s already got his box of shortbread cookies in the passenger seat and he’s careful to place them on his lap when he slips into the car.

It takes me a second to orient myself in the driver’s seat, everything feeling a little too big. Beckett snickers as my hands hover over the steering wheel, trying to find a position in the seat that doesn’t feel like I’m operating a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

“What?” I ask. I like him like this. Messy hair. Flower crown. A grin that curves his bottom lip beautifully.

“You make a cute face when you’re frustrated,” he tells me, letting his head drop back against the seat. “Nose scrunches.”

I look over at him in the passenger seat, splayed out as much as he can be in the cab of the truck. His knee is tucked up against the window and his arms are loose, face relaxed. I put the truck into drive and ease us out of the space, rumbling down the road that will take us back to the farm.

It’s nothing but the growl of the engine and the wind licking at the windows as we head back, Beckett’s gentle and easy breathing. I don’t know what to say to him, no idea how to respond to the things he said in the bar.

Cause I still think about kissing you all the damn time.

I had no idea. I sneak another glance at him from the corner of my eye, my hands flexing on the wheel.

“I don’t like noise,” Beckett announces as we maneuver our way out of town. “It was loud tonight. At the bar.”

“I know.”

Beckett doesn’t have a television in his house, doesn’t listen to music while he putters away in his greenhouse. He flinches when he enters a room and people are talking too loud, his head tilting slightly to the side. It’s like he’s trying to muffle the sound without being obvious about it. He shifts in his seat until his shoulder is pressed to the back of it, his elbow on the center console and his chin in his hand.

“I have earmuffs,” he tells me, an earnest expression on his face. I glance at him and then back to the road. I want this version of him in my memory always. Cornfields flashing by the windows, magnolia leaves in his hair. Eyes hooded but glowing, his knuckles resting under his chin.

Handing me his secrets like he wants me to hold them for him.

Nova’s question at the table makes sense now. “Okay.”

We drift into silence again. He rearranges himself until he’s staring out the window.

“You’re not asking me questions,” he mumbles after a few minutes, a little bit petulant, his fist on his knee.

“I thought you didn’t like my questions.” I swipe at the turn signal with the side of my hand even though there isn’t another soul for miles. “Plus, you’ve been drinking. That’s an unfair advantage.”

He huffs, a grumble under his breath I don’t quite catch. The pause drags on and then he quietly says, “I like your questions.”

I bite my lip against my smile. “Okay.”

“I know you know more words than that.”

I do. I do know more words than that. But the truth is, I’m struggling to restrain myself. This adorable, open version he’s showing me right now is—it’s a lot for me to handle. I want to pull over onto the shoulder of the road and throw the truck into park. I want to climb over the console and slip onto his lap. I want to fist my hands in his flannel and guide his mouth to mine, kiss him until he’s breathless and then drive him home and tuck him into bed.

All this time he’s been wanting me, I’ve been wanting him, too.

“We’ll talk tomorrow morning, once you sleep this off.”

“About what I said at the bar?”

I nod. “Yeah, about what you said at the bar.”

Cause I still think about kissing you all the damn time.

If he still feels that way in the morning, we’ll have a few other things to talk about. I follow the lanterns that lead to his cabin.

“I meant it,” he says.

I take a fortifying breath as I pull the truck to a stop, yanking with what feels like my entire body weight to throw it into park. I turn off the ignition and the rumble cuts out, the cab of the truck filled with the sounds of muffled night lingering outside the window. The chirp of the crickets that hide in his gutters. The creak of the weathervane at the peak of his roof. A loose shutter, tapping lightly at the siding.

Beckett doesn’t look away from me, the light from the moon casting his face in shadow. Like this, he is only strong angles and smooth lines. His nose. His jaw. The slant of his serious brow. His hand shifts against the top of the console, his fingertips barely brushing at my knuckles.

“Evie,” he breathes, his deep voice even deeper than usual. I don’t think I’ve ever liked the sound of my name so much. “I really did mean it.”

“I know you did,” I whisper. Beckett isn’t capable of saying something he doesn’t mean. It’s one of the things I like best about him. I know he’s always telling me the truth.