Breakfast at this little restaurant called the Concha on Sunday, followed by a barbecue at Rafe’s house that had ended up being way too crowded for the inquisition Big Rafe had wanted to give me, and which Beale and I had left early so we could walk on the beach at sunset… holding hands, because apparently that was a thing fake soul mates did.
More coffee at the Bean yesterday, after which we’d checked on the contractors at Mason’s house and attended a town meeting about the end-of-summer Whispering Key Extravaganza that, in retrospect, should not have intrigued me as much as it did.
Then, this morning, I’d been cuddling in bed with Beale—yes, me, cuddling—catching my breath after a very enjoyable sunrise frot session in which Beale had done 90 percent of the work because he was a quick study like that, when we’d gotten to talking about breakfast foods. Beale had mentioned missing his mom’s french toast casserole, and I’d found myself promising to recreate it for him… and that was when I’d felt my first faint awareness that something strange was happening to me.
Still in that fugue state, I sort of remembered driving Beale’s Jeep—yes, me, driving a vehicle with a manual transmission and no doors—to the little store on the island, where I’d used my precious cash resources to purchase enough white sugar and heavy cream to float a barge, just to make Beale smile… and that same feeling had come back right in Pickles’ dairy aisle, but stronger.
When I’d come home with my groceries, Littlejohn had waved from across the street, and I’d spent a solid fifteen minutes chatting with him about deadheading his dahlias before they bloomed—yes, me, engaging in conversation about dubious methods of horticulture—then when he’d pressed a dish of his “Homemade SpaghettiO Surprise,” into my hands and begged me to come to his trivia night as a member of Team Whispering Key, I’d agreed. Red flags had been hoisted all over my brain, but Beale had grinned and kissed me when he’d heard, so I’d found it hardly any trouble to ignore them.
I was pretty sure if you asked Aunt Hagatha, she’d say that I should examine my motives and stop living in denial posthaste, since I was building myself a house of cards on a rickety table, lying to the whole damn town and lying by omission to the guy I was sleeping with. But then, Hagatha had never found herself having Beale Goodman’s luscious body and gorgeous smile at her beck and call for days on end, nor found herself inexplicably enjoying a town of wackadoo misfits… so once again, Hagatha was utterly unqualified to say what a person should do in this situation.
Marjorie jumped up on the counter just as I finished snapping the lid on the casserole dish. “Excuse you, what did I say? No counters! It’s impolite and unhygienic. Recall, please, that I am the alpha in this relationship. My word is law. Also, I might have gotten you another rotisserie chicken at the grocery store earlier if you behave.”
She butted her orange head against my arm, and I sighed as I stroked her soft fur. I had to admit, I felt a sort of kinship with the beast. Both of us were a little wary and reacted poorly when stressed. Plus, she hadn’t tried to murder me in days.
“Your desperation for chicken is pathetic,” I crooned, scratching her under the chin. “Deplorable. You have no self-respect whatsoever. Do you, hmm? Your weakness makes you putty in my hands, you know that?”
Marjorie made one of her weird cough-barking noises, which I took to be acknowledgement and possibly shame.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a little cloud of steam, and Marjorie and I both turned our heads to watch Beale emerge, bare-chested and rubbing at his hair with a towel in a manner guaranteed to give him split ends, not that he cared about such a thing. He wore another pair of cargo shorts—the man dressed exclusively from Badasses ’R’ Us’s camouflage line—but he wore it so fucking well, I couldn’t complain, and in fact, I had to roll my tongue up in my mouth to prevent it from extending across the counter and the floor to lick up the little droplets of water that dotted his chest.
I sighed.
Okay, so maybe the cat wasn’t the only one with a deplorable weakness.
“I was supposed to be in the Maldives right now,” I muttered at Marjorie, but she didn’t look nearly as impressed as she should have.
Beale’s head emerged from the towel, and a slow grin spread across his face when he caught us watching him. “You’re gonna need to stop looking at me like that if we’re going to trivia night.”
I thought briefly about denying that I was looking at him in any kind of way… but I figured that ship had sailed.
“Why not? The whole island thinks we’re together anyway. Isn’t this the way your soul mate would look at you?” I fluttered my eyelashes besottedly.
Beale came up behind me, wrapping his giant arms around my chest, and pulled me against his chest. “It’s not the way someone should look at me if he wants to leave the house,” he explained, sidestepping the soul mate issue neatly. “That kind of look is more ‘Let’s curl up in bed, watch Lucifer on my laptop, and fuck around,’ and I know that, because it’s the look you gave me last night before we curled up, watched Lucifer in bed, and fucked around.”
“Yes, well, we can’t do that every day.” I sounded a little waspish because I was totes fighting the urge to give in and do exactly that. “I get weak-kneed contemplating the data charges we’d be racking up, streaming shows that way.”
“You do know I have plenty of money, right?” Beale murmured the words against the join of my shoulder, making me shiver… then chased the shiver up my neck with his lips. “And other than donating to charity, buying you a phone with a hot spot is the most worthwhile thing I’ve done with it all month.”
I bit my lip. This reminded me that, in reciting the litany of evidence that I’d fallen into a sex-induced fever dream, I might possibly have failed to account for Exhibit A, the smoking-gun: I’d allowed Beale Goodman to buy me—yes, me—a cell phone.
And yes, I had made him pinkie swear I could pay him back for it as soon as I got the replacement credit card that would be arriving the following morning, but still. I did not do gifts. I did not do loans. And the knowledge that getting good dick three nights in a row made me swoon like a middle schooler with his first case of puppy love and abandon all the principles I held dear was lowering in the extreme.
Aunt Hagatha would be horrified, and for once, she’d be right.
“How ’bout I make you weak-kneed in other ways,” Beale continued, nudging my face toward his. “Or at least try.”
Like he had to try. The very idea was laughable.
“You showed me your ‘other ways’ thirty minutes ago, and you can show me more ‘other ways’ when we get back ho—here,” I corrected, feeling my cheeks flush. Whispering Key was not home. “But Littlejohn will be expecting us, so I’ve gotta finish getting dressed.”
Beale snorted, but let me go. “Alright. But I think someone’s got a crush.”
I spun in place. It was bad enough that I felt like a teenager; he didn’t have to call me on it. “Excuse you? No one is crushing around here, I regret to inform you. And if you think—”
Beale blinked, all adorably bewildered and held up his two big hands. “I was just teasing, Toby. I meant Littlejohn. You know, ’cause he brought you his SpaghettiO Surprise? And ’cause he’s never invited me or Mase or Fenn to trivia night before? No harm meant. It’s cute.”