For the rest of the night, we perform an awkward dance—me avoiding being within six feet of him, Beck somehow always ending up within arm’s reach. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been the one initiating. Hell, that’s exactly what I did when he first started working here. Now I’m giving him the cold shoulder as if he committed a crime. And the worst part? I don’t even know how to explain it without sounding completely unhinged.
Thankfully, the night stays busy enough that there’s no room for conversation. Then, suddenly, it’s closing time—and we’re alone. The bar feels different when it’s quiet. The neon beer sign hums louder against the silence, and the rattle of ice in the machine echoes through the room. My muscles ache, and my head is foggy from too little sleep and too much caffeine.
Beck and I restock the coolers behind the bar. When he steps up beside me, the air shifts. His gaze drops.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
“Nora,” he murmurs, careful tension edging into his tone. “You ever think about?—”
I know where this is going. We’ve hovered near this line before. Even brushed against it once or twice. But now, when he leans in, something inside me caves in because I shouldn’t be thinking about Miles. About his stupid, adorable smile. The way my stomach flipped watching him help my mom feel free again.
Beck moves an inch closer. Slow. “Nora?” he murmurs, as if he’s giving me one last chance to meet him halfway.
My breath catches, but not for him. There’s no spark. Electric current. There’s nothing. Because all I can picture is Miles.
Beck leans in again. The space between us thins to a thread. His breath brushes the corner of my mouth. My body goes still. Not because it wants him, but because it doesn’t know what to do.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles lightly on the bar beside my hip, boxing me in without touching. One more inch and?—
“Beck. What are you doing?”
He exhales. “I was going to kiss you. But shit is that an asshole move? Should I have asked you out first?”
“No.” My pulse spikes, flashing warning signs behind my ribs. “Normally, I’m very much a kiss-first, figure-it-out-later person, but I—” The truth tumbles out before I can stop it. “I’m just… not looking for a relationship right now.”
Beck watches me for a long moment, his expression shifting from hurt to practiced calm, like he’s too good at pretending this doesn’t sting. “I didn’t say anything about a relationship. It can be just a little fun.”
I open my mouth to respond, but my throat feels thick. Because I do want fun. I want uncomplicated and easy. I just don’t think I want it with Beck anymore. My stomach refuses to flip for the man standing right in front of me and instead does it for someone who isn’t even here.
Beck steps back, giving me space, as if he’s realizing he lost a game he never actually got to play. “Shit. Sorry. I just thought—” He gestures between us. “I’m sorry. I read that wrong. And Nora?”
I force myself to meet his eyes.
“If he doesn’t treat you right…” A slow grin tugs at his mouth, like he can’t help himself. “I’m still here. And I’m not opposed to being used in a revenge plot.”
Despite everything, a laugh slips out of me. I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“I try.” He turns his back to the cooler like he didn’t just make me second-guess all my life choices.
I keep restocking and pretending I’m fine while convincing myself the tightness in my chest is only exhaustion—not… anything else. But as I slide bottles into place and line the labels forward, I’m not thinking about how Beck almost kissed me. I’m thinking about how Miles already did.
When I get home from work, the apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes every thought echo like it’s been dropped down a well. I toss my keys onto the counter, kick off my shoes, and flop face-first onto the couch. The bar scent of citrus and beer still clings to me, mixing with Beck’s whiskey and oak cologne.
Ugh. I groan into the throw pillow. Today was a day. A long one. A confusing one. A day where Beck almost kissed me, and I didn’t want him to. That’s the part I can’t stop circling. Because Beck is fun and smells good. He’s a walking thirst trap. Exactly my type. But tonight? Nothing. Maybe a flicker of old habit. But attraction? The real kind? The kind that drops your stomach and turns your brain to static? Nope. And the worst part—the part I can’t say out loud without making it real—is that I know exactly why.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It’s Miles. Of course it’s Miles. Dorky, soft-hearted, anxious, adorable Miles. The guy who organizes his shoes but will have fun in a bounce house. Who brought snacks, but not just any snacks, ones my mom could actually eat. Miles, whose eyes soften every time he looks at me like he can’t quite believe I’m real. Miles, who tries so hard, means so well, and has no idea he’s slowly convincing me that what I want and what I need might be two very different things.
I press both hands over my face. This is a problem. A huge, messy, feelings-shaped problem. I can’t be attracted to Miles. He’s too… good. Too hopeful. Too kind. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t realize he deserves to be chosen. And I don’t want to be the person who hurts him.
I’ve spent years carefully constructing my walls to keep my life orderly. Predictable. Safe. Miles didn’t crash through them. He quietly slipped in instead, like sunlight through the blinds. And it infuriates me how easily—how effortlessly—he got inside.
I groan. What’s wrong with me? I drop my hands and whisper into the dark, “Don’t fall for him.”
But I already know I’m too late.
Eighteen
Big Fan Of Momentum
