But Beck is Beck. He just takes the cup like it’s a normal cup. Like her hand didn’t just do a little twirl on his.
No flinch. No smile. No “Oh hey, you’re flirting with me.”
Nothing.
Which is either very reassuring…
…or very annoying.
“Thanks!” Trish calls after him, loudly enough for half the pub to hear.
Beck lifts a hand over his shoulder in a lazy wave without turning around and keeps walking.
I turn back to find Trish staring after him.
“Wow,” she says, “he has a really nice ass.”
Then she freezes. Slaps a hand over her mouth and looks at me, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Gracie. Is he yours?”
“What? Who?” I ask automatically, glancing back at Beck like I genuinely don’t know who she means.
Except now that she’s said it—
Yeah. He does have a nice ass.
And…has he always been built like that?
I don’t remember his T-shirts fitting so snug across the shoulders. Or the way his sleeves cling to his arms when he moves. There’s a flex there when he reaches the bar, muscle shifting under cotton, and suddenly I’m very aware of my collarbone, my heartbeat, of how warm it feels in here.
I tug lightly at the neckline of my shirt, trying to breathe like a normal person.
“Beck. The hot guy? With the Clark Kent glasses?” Trish says, slower this time. “Is he yours?”
“No.” I laugh, a little too quickly. “No. Not mine.”
Friends. Just friends.
“We’ve known each other forever,” I add, like that explains everything. “Since kindergarten. We grew up close, same neighborhood. Our moms are best friends.” I shrug. “They’re basically inseparable.”
Which is true. Suzy and Marie are still rock solid. They’ve survived bad boyfriends, breakups, money problems, all of it. Whatever life threw at them, they stuck together.
I used to think Beck and I would be like that too.
Until he disappeared for the last couple of months and left me staring at my phone like an idiot.
Now I don’t know what to think.
Trish squints at me. “You’re sure?” She tilts her head. “All that history and you never…slipped? Got drunk one night and things got messy?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Never.”
I don’t tell her about that one kiss.
The stupid, soft, harmless kiss from years ago. The one that didn’t count. The one I absolutely do not still think about.
Except sometimes, maybe, I do.
Sometimes, in dreams I don’t mean to have, I remember how his lips felt, gentle and familiar. How he tasted like fruit punch and rum and safety.
