And, with nervous, red splotches growing on my neck, I walked back over to the guy and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, lighter now without his gym bag. His eyes lit up as if I was a long-lost friend instead of a complete stranger.
“What’d she say?” he asked.
“She said to tell you yes and thank you.”
His lips were impossible to ignore. The tip of his tongue ran over the lower one with no innuendo meant—simply just moisturizing it in the absence of Chapstick was my guess. Still, I was transfixed. “Happy to help,” he said. “Guess we’re seatmates now.”
I leaned in a smidge. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”
He grinned. “No. Just a regular guy.” He held out his hand. “I’m Beckett.”
I took it in mine, this time allowing myself to notice more than just the thumbnail. His skin was mostly smooth, with mild callouses on the top part of his open hand where the fingers meet the palm. Dry, I noticed. Not sweaty. Nice grip. Not too firm and not too weak. I imagined they might be good hands for hugging someone. “I’m Melody,” I replied.
“Pretty name,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Unusual. Is it a family name?”
“Not exactly. My mom named me after a song. You ever hear of “Love Is a Melody”? It’s pretty old.”
“Country song, right?” he asked. “Isn’t that by Luke Combs?”
“Not originally, but he did a really sweet remake of it a few years back.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar,” Beckett said, looking like he was trying to hear the tune in his head. “It’s a good song.”
I smiled and said, “My mom wrote it.”
“No way. For real?”
“Yep. Long time ago.”
His eyes lit up again. This time, I noticed that they weren’t brown but they weren’t blue either. They were some mixture of the two. Not exactly hazel. A mystery color that was uniquely him. I knew immediately that I would never see eyes that same color again. “Very, very cool,” he said.
I didn’t tell him about my dad until later that week, when we walked together on the beach like he described in the book. But he learned my name in the airport, at the gate, following my unpleasant interaction with Jacinda.
I guess he didn’t make much of it, but those few minutes were where I thought our story began.
Chapter 4
It’s ten after three when Evan calls again.
“I’m walking down the block, Ev,” I say, instead ofhello. “I haven’t even made it home yet.”
“But you live, like, two seconds away. So, we’re fine. Anyway, I’ve got intel and it was a lot for me to wait even this long.”
I’m annoyed; still, I can’t help but chuckle. He sounds like a little kid on Christmas morning. On the one hand, it’s endearing, but on the other, it can really be disruptive when the subject of his attention just wants to curl up under the covers and be left alone. “Well, then. Out with it,” I say, because this is the correct answer.
“Shelby called Jax,” he announces proudly.
“And?”
“She’s got a friend atPeoplemagazine—some woman who’s an editor there.”
My stomach drops. I swallow and look both ways, focusing my attention on not getting hit by a car as I cross 108th Street. “Uh huh,” I say.
“Long story short, they want to do a joint interview with you and Beckett. The pitch is calledMy Side of the Story: When Two Authors Write the Same Book.”
