Not Liam Neeson, but someone approximately as famous and slightly hotter. I picked at a fray on my shorts and said nothing, which apparently spoke volumes.
“Whoa whoa whoa. Be serious for a minute. Is someone looking for you, Toby? Are you in trouble? Do you need a safe place to stay?”
I glanced up and found Beale’s blue eyes watching me, competent and steadfast, like he was ready to throw down and fight if I needed him to. It was kind of thrilling, even if I figured it had nothing to do with me personally and everything to do with Beale’s personality. I wished for a second that I could bring myself to just lie and say yes… but I couldn’t.
“Not trouble like that. Not, like, domestic violence trouble.”
“Beale! Trey! Come on!” Gage called from the sidewalk.
“Give us a minute,” Beale said, waving them on. “So what kind of trouble, then? And is someone looking for you?”
I raked my fingers through my hair, which probably looked like a frizzy, brown pompom on top of my head after the drive down. “Sort of? Look, your brothers are waiting for us, and I don’t want to discuss it right now.” Or, ideally, ever. “Just… tell me how you want to play this. Do you want me to go in there and say I was kidding about the soul mate thing? Because I will.”
“And say what instead?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but I’ll figure something out on the fly.” I gave him a half-smile. “I generally do.”
Beale’s jaw worked for half a minute, and his nostrils flared. “No,” he said finally. “Just stick with what we have. It’s easier.”
I didn’t like the feeling of owing him again or of making myself his problem, but I also couldn’t think of a better alternative, so I nodded once, unbuckled myself from the Jeep, and waited on the sidewalk in the baking-hot sun for Beale to take my hand and usher me inside the little restaurant.
The inside was really cute, if you were into kitschy sci-fi stuff, which it turned out I was. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow and hung with old movie posters of The Blob and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. A sign on the wall behind the counter in the shape of a Star Trek logo read “Bean Me Up” in classic Star Trek font. But I was the only one in the place checking out the decor. Everyone else—literally two dozen people—were staring at me.
“Beale?” I asked without moving my lips. “Why is everyone staring?” For a heart-stopping moment, I wondered if my picture had made it to TMZ already.
Beale tightened his fingers around mine and lifted our joined hands. A hushed “Awww” filled the restaurant, like every patron had sighed at the sight.
“They’re staring because they’ve never seen me holding hands with someone, and because my brothers got in here before us and spread the word about who you are.”
“Oh,” I said dumbly.
“Not that that’ll stop all of them from coming over and wanting to welcome you.” He sighed.
“And that man over by your brothers.” I tilted my head casually in that direction. “Is he practicing to be a flag-waver in a marching band, or is he three decades too late to wave his Zippo for Guns N’ Roses?”
Beale chuckled. “That’s my dad, Big Rafe. He’s the mayor of Whispering Key, if you couldn’t tell by the shirt.”
I darted a glance back, and sure enough, the man was wearing a purple shirt with the word MAYOR written across the front in iridescent letters.
Well. Alrighty, then.
“He’s not-so-subtly suggesting we come over,” Beale continued, “but I’m getting food fir—”
“Heya, Beale!” A middle-aged lady with a bright white smile and long, straight dark hair bounced to a stop beside us as we took our place in line.
“Whoa. Uh. Hey, Juju. How’s it—?”
“And this must be Trey!” She folded her hands and nearly squealed. “Welcome to Whispering Key!”
Beale shot me a look that said Told you, and I tried not to smile.
“Thanks,” I agreed. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, same. Same! And is it true you two are…” She made a back-and-forth motion between us and glanced pointedly at our joined hands.
“Hungry?” Beale suggested blandly.
“Gay?” I whispered.
“Together?” she said brightly.
I very pointedly studied the menu board on the back wall and pretended not to hear her, leaving it up to Beale to explain shit. He sighed and squeezed my hand.
“Yeah,” Beale said, earning bonus points for succinctness.
Juju beamed like she’d engineered the whole thing. “You guys are so adorable! Meeting at summer camp, writing love letters to each other for years.”
Love letters? I blinked at Beale, and he shrugged.
“Beale!” An overly tanned older guy wearing a half-unbuttoned tropical print shirt came over and slung an arm over each of our necks. “Congrats on your new beau, honey. You turned me down so many times, I was wondering if you were really gay at all!”
Beale removed the guy’s arm from my shoulder with force and shifted me to his other side. “Appreciate the concern, Gerry.”
Juju covered her mouth and giggled softly. “I was kinda worried the crystals had affected your brain, Beale.”
Gerry snickered. “That, too. But I guess you weren’t crazy after all, huh?” He elbowed Beale in the ribs and waggled his eyebrows at me.
I not-so-secretly hoped Beale would elbow him back, but instead Beale rolled his eyes and stepped up to the counter.
I frowned, annoyed. Not crazy after all? If I were Beale, I’d have laid that asshole out flat.
“What was that about?” I demanded.
Beale shrugged, apparently used to this. “You know what you want yet?”
“Yeah. Um… Venti ristretto cinnamon dolce macchiato with almond milk, please,” I told the barista, whose name tag said Scotty.
I dug out the folded-up twenty I’d put in my pocket before we’d left the house and set it on the counter, only belatedly noticing that Scotty was staring at me like I’d been speaking Klingon. Actually, no, he probably would have understood Klingon. “On second thought, maybe just an iced coffee?”
“You got it.” Scotty grinned. “Your usual, Beale? Green tea and oat milk?”
“Please.”
When Scotty disappeared to make our drinks, Beale bumped his arm into mine. “I had no idea you spoke fluent Italian, Trey. It’s so…”
“Sexy?”
“I was thinking pretentious, but I guess it depends what turns your crank.”
I laughed and firmly told myself not to ask him what turned his crank. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested, and deflowering virgins was hardly my thing anyway.
Probably.
“You’d think you’d know me better after the decade or so of letter writing. How long have we been pen pals?”
Beale thought for a moment. “I’m twenty-eight, so… a dozen years I guess?”
I winced.
“Problem?”
Only that I’d been twenty-three when he was sixteen. “Not at all,” I lied. Because, really, what was one more lie, at this point?
Scotty brought our coffees over, and I ended up sucking down half my cup before we even left the counter—Rafe was right, it really was good—to fortify myself for the next step.