“When my mom first started it, it was just a handful of people.”
“Your mom started this?” I asked, soaking up any bit of information I could about his family or his past. Even after two years of being friends with him, I was still uncovering parts of him. But that was Beck for you, and I had a feeling I would still be peeling away layers in another two years.
I didn’t mind, though. I loved each time he revealed a little bit more of himself because it was confirmation of our bond deepening.
“Yeah, that was my mom in a nutshell,” he said. “When she saw a need, she filled it. She needed ingredients for the diner, and the people around Starlight Cove needed a way to sell their excess food. This was one of the things I helped her with.”
That was very apparent, as we couldn’t go more than five feet without someone calling out for Beck or waving as we passed by. He never stopped to chat—that absolutely wasn’t him—but no one seemed to mind. They still offered him a smile and a wave as we made our way through the market.
Usually, he was the quiet, introspective one out of the pair of us, but this time, I watched, loving that I was able to witness him in his element. He went from stand to stand, scrutinizing every ingredient as if he were a judge on a cooking show, his eyes hard and assessing.
After the fifth stop without him buying anything, I finally said, “So are we just window-shopping, or…?”
The side of his mouth kicked up, and he glanced down at me. “I want to see everything that’s available first. Then I’ll plan the menu and buy what I need.”
I froze, pulling us to a stop in the middle of the street. “Wait a minute. You plan it here?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes?” he said, though it came out like a question.
“Whoa. I thought…well, I assumed you had it already planned before you came and were just, like, grocery shopping.”
“Can’t plan the menu until I know whether the tomatoes or asparagus or berries are going to be shit this week or if they’ve got a good crop.”
“Right. Nobody likes shitberries. They taste nothing like their cousin, strawberries.”
He glanced over at me, the barest hint of a smile tugging on his lips, and shrugged. Like it was no big deal. When in reality, it was blowing my mind.
“You’re out here, making full menus to feed who knows how many people, and I can barely make a box of mac and cheese.”
“That would explain why you never have any goddamn food in your house.”
I laughed and started us along the path again, guiding Chuckanut ahead of us. “Why would I when my best friend—now boyfriend—is an amazing chef?”
Beck’s eyes flared hot as he glanced over at me, and it took me a minute to figure out what I’d said. When I did, I bit my lip, wondering if I’d overstepped. If I’d read the situation wrong. Were we just friends with benefits? We hadn’t had that discussion yet, but it felt like a whole lot more than that to me.
Finally, he asked, “Is that what I am?”
I swallowed down my apprehension and uneasiness and played it off. “An amazing chef? Obviously.” Before he could say anything else, I squeezed his arm. “You’re kind of amazing all around, you know that?”
If I hadn’t been looking at him, I would have missed the tips of his ears turning the barest shade of pink.
My grin widened, all my previous uneasiness gone. “I can’t believe all the dirty, filthy things you’ve said to me, andthisis what embarrasses you?”
“If you don’t watch yourself, I’m going to take you behind one of those stands, hike up that flirty little skirt, and say more of those things while I fuck you.” He shot me a heated gaze, all traces of his embarrassment gone. “Don’t think I didn’t notice Chapter Fifteen inForbidden Temptationsflagged.”
This time, I was the one blushing, no doubt looking like I was walking around with two lipstick smears on my cheeks with how hot my face felt.
“Beck, there you are! Come here for a second, will you?” Mabel waved from her booth, effectively cooling the tension between Beck and me. Her husband, George, sat beside her, hands folded over his round belly and his head tipped back as loud snores poured from his open mouth.
“Mabel has a booth?” I whispered. “What does she—”
“If you value your sanity, you won’t ask.”
She didn’t have anything on display—just a large banner with a graphic of a finger in front of a pair of red lips, like they were shushing everyone. What kind of secret society nonsense was this?
