“Sometimes I do drive at night. I don’t have far to go. It’s usually fine,” I explained. “But I knew there’d be traffic here, and traffic means lots of headlights. And my place is barely ten minutes away.”
He stared at me a moment before pushing the car door open and coming around the front of the vehicle. “I’m driving you home.” He pressed a button and the rear gate opened. “Get in the car. I’ll stow your bike.”
If I let him give me a ride home, I’d let him come inside. And if I let him come inside, I’d let him pick up where we left off. Hell,I’dpick up where we left off. But he’d sounded miserable earlier, when he’d said I felt good, and we had too much on the line for that.
“No, thanks.” I pedaled off the sidewalk and down the parking lot. “See you tomorrow.”
“If you think I won’t tail you home, you’re wrong,” he called.
I was late to the game, due primarily to my decades-old iceberg, but I was certain that everyone else already understood this about Beckett Loew: the man meant what he said. He held his tongue until he had something to say, and when he did speak, those words were iron. He didn’t stumble over his thoughts, he didn’t misspeak. He didn’t fuck around. All of this was admirable, especially in an era when people like Beckett spoke for the pleasure of hearing their voice, it seemed.
And that was why I was not surprised when I noticed him following me a few minutes later. He kept a safe distance and drove well below the speed limit, and, much to his credit, didn’t roll down the window to holler at me.
When I arrived at home, he pulled up at the curb and watched while I stowed my bike. I climbed the front steps and waved, but he didn’t exit the car. Perhaps he was making sense of his misery and he knew he wouldn’t do that if he came inside.
I opened the door. “Good night,” I called.
He didn’t reply.
I closed the door behind me and sat down on the living room floor to greet the dogs. The sound of his car idling at the curb seemed to pulse through the walls, through my skin.
I untied my hair and played with the dogs and tried to do anything other than think about the man parked at my curb and how much I wanted to close the distance between us.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a series of texts.
Beckett:Do not ride your bike at night anymore. Please.
Beckett:It isn’t safe.
Beckett:There were a total of two streetlights on the ride over here. That’s completely inadequate.
Beckett:Most streets in this town do not have bike lanes, marked or otherwise.
Beckett:If you need to go somewhere, I will drive you.
Beckett:If I am busy, Parker owes you many favors and he’ll be delighted to help.
I beamed down at those messages. I couldn’t help it.
Sunny:I usually ride on the bike path.
Sunny:It’s pretty safe. All bike lane, all day. It’s just a few turns off the path to our corner of Small Point.
Beckett:When are you walking these dogs?
Sunny:Please tell me you’re not waiting for me to go out with the dogs!
Beckett:…then I won’t tell you that.
I sprawled out on the rug while the dogs snuggled up on either side of me. Here I was, thinking I had Beckett Loew all figured out. That I knew what I was doing.
I had no idea.
chapterfifteen
Beckett
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