And then, because she was already halfway in and Boxing Day was as good a time as any for confessions, she added what wasleastlikely to ease his mind. “He was something. A while ago. Not a boyfriend. But…something.”
Even through the screen, Bea felt Gage register it. Not because he was surprised. Because this confirmed what he already knew: someone would try. Someone always did.
“I haven’t really responded,” she added quickly.
“But you didn’t tell him to stop.”
“Not exactly.”
He waited until she met his eyes. “You will.”
She nodded.
Another pause. Just long enough to tighten everything. “Good.”
Bea inhaled. “If you were here, this wouldn’t be an issue.”
“No. It wouldn’t.”
He didn’t sayI told you so. That was the voice in her own head.
Bea’s bedroom was thick with steam, perfume, and the low thrum of music from her speaker; something moody with just enough beat to keep them moving. Clothes were draped over thedesk chair. An eyelash curler sat abandoned beside two tumbling lipsticks. Somewhere under the bed, a pair of backup heels waited in case the main ones failed.
Claire Park, ride-or-die since Scholastic Book Fairs andHigh School Musical, was on the floor in a silk tank and leggings, surrounded by open makeup bags. She was holding a mascara wand in one hand and a half-eaten clementine in the other.
“So today,” she said, peeling the fruit with theatrical aggression, “a guy at the diner told me I had ‘resting enchantress face.’ Which, first of all, probably tracks. Second of all, sir, maybe don’t try to flirt with your server while your wife is in the bathroom.”
Bea huffed a laugh from the bed. “Was it the guy with the Bluetooth in one ear and the boat shoes?”
Claire pointed the mascara like a weapon. “Always the ones who say ‘my guy’ unironically.”
Bea laughed and reached for her lip liner.
“Table seven was a guy in a Patagonia vest who tried to explain gravity with a spoon, an ice cube, and the confidence of someone who once watched a Neil deGrasse Tyson video.”
Bea laughed. “And he still asked for your number?”
“He told me I had ‘a physicist’s smile.’ I don’t even know what that means. Do physicists smile differently?”
“I think he was trying to say you’re smart.”
Claire raised her glass in mock salute. “And hot. Don’t leave out the important part.”
Bea grinned, reaching for her mascara. “I love how every shift, there’s at least two come-ons.”
“Yep. I radiate ‘single woman who definitely needs a man.’”
“You chose this.”
Claire rolled onto her side. “This is karma for thinking I could work shifts and still survive a five-year degree.”
“You’re almost done.”
“One more year, one more prac, and then—bam—I get to make sure million-dollar skyscrapers don’t collapse.” Claire stretched with a groan, then crossed to Bea’s mirror, fluffing her hair and checking her eyeliner. “Be honest. Do I look like a woman who can design a load-bearing column and still break hearts?”
Bea looked up. “Claire Bear, you’re the gold standard forhot engineer.”
“Perfect. That’s the brand I’m going for.”
