He takes a sip and closes his eyes like a prayer. “I take it back.”
“Thought so.” I nudge a chair out with my foot and set the plate down. “Have a seat.”
He slides in, hands skimming the table’s edge like he’s steadying himself on a moving train. I grab my plate and sit close, our knees almost touching.
“I think I did okay,” I say, trying for casual. “Nothing’s burnt. And the bacon—well, I don’t stand a chance against your bacon.”
“My bacon does set a high bar.” He plucks a strip, holding it up like a jeweler assessing clarity, then takes a slow bite. I shouldn’t be this nervous over bacon, but here I am, watching his mouth like it’s the season finale.
He chews, considering. “It’s good. You cooked it perfectly. Obviously, it’s notmybacon, but it’s… good.”
“So good that if you gave me the recipe it would be great?” I tease.
“The recipe’s classified. I don’t give it up for anyone.”
I tilt my head. “Anyone?”
“Anyone,” he repeats. “I’ve turned down bribery, blackmail, and a sous-chef with dimples. There were NDAs.”
“Cute. I’m more… persuasion than paperwork.” I lean in, bumping his knee. “I have ways of making you talk.”
He laughs into his coffee. “The CIA tried.”
“Yeah? And did they try kissing you until you forgot your own name?”
His eyes sparkle. “That seems… off-protocol.”
“Lucky for you, I’m freelance.” I tap the plate. “Operation Bacon Brief. Phase one:feed you. Phase two:kiss you stupid. Phase three:you whisper the secret like a sinner at confession.”
He chews slowly, playing along. “Bold plan.”
“I’m a bold man.” I swipe a crumb from the corner of his mouth with my thumb. “And I’m very patient.”
He swallows, voice lower. “You’ll need patience. That recipe’s in a vault.”
“Good thing I’m great with… combinations.” I grin. “Start with your mouth. I’ll work my way to the safe.”
Beckett squeaks, holding up one finger before shoveling his mouth full of eggs, and I let out a hearty laugh.
“Do you have anywhere to be this morning?”
“Nope. Sarah, the new hire Spencer brought in from Matthew House, has her first solo lunch shift. She’s a machine, organized and efficient. We front-loaded the prep, so we’re covered. I’m free.”
“It’s a beautiful morning. I thought maybe we could go for a motorcycle ride.”
“Sure, I’m down.”
We finish our plates, and I take them to the sink and rinse them off while Beckett puts on a pair of jeans and a hoodie before grabbing his leather jacket. I drive back to my house so I can pick up my bike, and Beckett drives his car over so he has it for later. Before I know it, we’re heading down the highway, the ocean shore guiding our way. Whenever I need to clear my head, I hop on mybike and ride. I know I’m not the only one who uses the open road as therapy.
The coast rides with me, salt on my tongue, cold Atlantic air slipping through the seams of my jacket. The engine’s low thrum is a steady heartbeat against my thighs. Lobster buoys bob beyond the guardrail, and the sun burns away the late morning fog.
About forty-five minutes into the ride, I pull over at my favorite overlook.
“Wow, this is beautiful. I’ve driven past here a few times but never stopped,” Beckett says as we dismount.
“Just wait, it gets better,” I say, grabbing his hand. Off to the left of the parking lot is an overgrown trail. Not many people notice it, which makes it feel like it’s just for me.
“Is this where you lead me off into the woods and I get eaten by zombies?”
