He makes a noise like he's been punched. “Fuck.”
“He's not who you think he is,” I press on. “Not anymore, if he ever was.”
Dad turns away again, bracing his hands on the counter. The kitchen falls silent except for the ticking of the old rooster clock Mom refuses to replace. I wait, my heart in my throat.
“You know what kills me?” he finally says, his voice rough. “It's not just that it's Kingston. It's that I can see it.”
“See what?”
“How you fucking glow around him.” He turns back to me. “Even when you were yelling at me in the kitchen on Christmas.”
I feel like I've been punched in the gut, but in a good way. Dad's actually seeing me—seeing how Beck makes me feel.
“Yeah,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I do glow around him.”
Dad stares at the cinnamon rolls like they hold the answers to all his problems. “Your mother says I'm being an asshole.”
“You kind of are,” I say, but without heat.
He snorts, then gestures to the kitchen table. “Sit. You want coffee?”
I nod, taking a seat while he pours two mugs. The familiar routine feels like a peace offering. When he slides a cinnamon roll in front of me, I know it's definitely one.
“Dios mío,” he mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face. “When did you grow up to be so much like your mother?”
Despite everything, I feel a small smile tug at my lips. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Both,” he says, but there's the ghost of a smile on his face too. “Your mother has never let me win an argument in twenty-five years of marriage.”
He hands me my coffee, and I know that things aren’t back to normal, but they never will be. A new normal needs to take shape and my stubborn ass dad will need to bend to that shape as well.
I can’t hate his stubbornness though because it’s that very same trait that landed me Beckham Kingston.
And I will never apologize for that.
Chapter 28
Beckham
My apartment doesn't feel like mine anymore, and I couldn’t give less of a fuck about it. It's covered in her. Hennessy's sweaters draped over my furniture, her makeup scattered across my bathroom counter, those ridiculous fuzzy socks she leaves everywhere. The tree I never would have put up is still twinkling in the corner, though it's New Year's Eve and most people would have taken that shit down by now.
But she loves it, so it stays.
“What do you want to watch?” I ask, settling on the couch beside her with two mugs of coffee. Black for me, enough cream and sugar to make it barely coffee for her.
Hennessy takes her mug, curling her cute as fuck legs under her. The way her sweater slips down to reveal her collarbone makes my mouth water. Even after all these weeks, I still want to devour her every fucking second.
“Something mindless,” she says, blowing on her coffee. “It's the last night of the year. I don't wantto think.”
I snort, grabbing the remote. “You never want to think when it comes to TV.”
“Not true.” She nudges me with her foot. “I just don't want to watch another hockey documentary. There's only so many times I can hear about the '94 Rangers before I lose my mind.”
“Blasphemy.” I catch her ankle, my thumb absently stroking the soft skin there. “You pick.”
She grins, victorious, and reaches for the remote. “We're watching that baking show I like.”
“Again?” I groan, but it's all for show. I'd watch paint dry if it made her smile like that.
