I shrug and push a piece of french toast around on my plate. “I don’t miss being alone. Honestly, I have no idea what I miss at this point. I know you’re not here to be my psychologist or help me solve my problems—you just got caught up in giving me a roof and a clean pair of clothes—but if I were to lay it all out there, I’m not sure what I want, or what I’m supposed to do with my life. I’m at a loss.”
“I can understand that. Larkin was the same way after our dad passed away. She was really lost, and the one thing that she clung to was the store. It wasn’t our childhood home, it wasn’t the lake, it was the store where she would go so often with Dad. If it wasn’t for Ford giving her a chance, I’m not sure she’d be where she is today.”
“But she knew what she wanted, right?”
“No, not what she wanted, but she knew what she loved.” Beau turns toward me in his chair. “So, what do you love, Palmer?”
Good question.
Feeling ashamed, I say, “I don’t really know.”
“Then maybe you should figure that out, and then the rest will fall into place.”
“How do I figure that out?” I ask.
He taps my plate with his fork. “Not sure, but I do know these won’t taste good cold, so eat up.”
“So, this is what single men do at night by themselves?”
Beau chuckles. “The cool single men.”
I glance over all the puzzle pieces scattered across his dining room table. “They build gardenscape puzzles? I mean, it’s not even something manly like . . . I don’t know, Darth Vader or something like that.”
“Gardenscapes are more challenging.” He carefully shuffles through the pieces, looking for the edges. “I like a good challenge. Now, if you’re going to stay here, then you’re going to have to help out. No free rides, Palmer.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever done a puzzle like this before.”
“Then now is the perfect time to start, because I’m an expert.” He adjusts his glasses on his nose, and I can’t help but think how cute he is. Wearing a pair of sweatpants, some sort of doctors’ kickball team shirt, with his feet bare of socks, he’s casual but also incredibly sexy in a nerdy kind of way. The perfect kind of way.
I’ve seen my fair share of men around the world, and they’re always trying to impress you with their fancy cars, their designer clothes, and their opulent dwellings. Not Dr. Beau. He’s simple in the best way. A modest apartment above his private practice. Basic clothing that speaks nothing but comfort, and he couldn’t have cared less that I sat in his passenger side with a muddy butt. He welcomed it, actually.
He’s down to earth.
He’s real.
He’s just . . . wonderful.
He knocks my knee with his knuckle. “Come on, help me sort.”
“I’m down a hand,” I say, lifting my cast.
“Which means you still have one working one.” He nudges me again. “I think you’ll find joy in the simple pleasures.” He turns to the side. “Alexa, play soft pop.”
“Soft pop?” I snort.
“Playing soft pop based off your listening history,” Alexa says just as “The One” by Taylor Swift starts to play.
“Soft pop is where it’s at,” Beau says. “Soothing, catchy, and puts you in the puzzling mood.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“There is. Now help me with the edges—if we’re going to complete this by the end of the night, you need to get your hand dirty.”
“You think we’re going to complete this?” I ask.
“If you start actually working, we will.”
Chuckling, I begin to sift through the pieces. “How long have you been puzzling?”
“Years.”
“Years?” I ask, surprised.
“Ever since high school. My grandpa was a big puzzler, and when he was sick, I’d go spend time with him, and we would do puzzles together while listening to his favorite jazz music. It was relaxing, and I’ve carried on the tradition ever since. I have a whole closet full of puzzles that I’ll rotate through, and most of them are from my grandpa’s collection. He was the one who got me into gardenscapes as well.”
“That’s actually really charming.”
He lifts a brow when he looks at me. “Why, Palmer Chance, are you calling me charming?”
I toss an edge piece into his pile. “I think I am.”
“Nothing like the nerdy doctor charming the popular girl.”
“Popular girl? No, that’s not me.”
He laughs. “You were easily the popular girl growing up. Even as a senior, I knew you were the popular girl. Everyone loved you, and there was a reason—you were so outgoing and fun. You made a bloody nose during kickball the new trend.”
“Stop.” I laugh. “That’s not true.”
“Seriously, though, you were the it girl.” He connects two pieces together and pushes them to the side. “I honestly was surprised you even talked to me at times.”
“Why would you say that?” I ask, confused. Did he not know who he was? Need I remind him . . . Beau Novak, the accomplished, handsome, and beautifully sweet boy.
“Because I was kind of on my own path. I didn’t hang with the popular crowd. Kind of buried in my books.”
“But that’s what I thought was so great about you. You didn’t care what others thought, while I was super concerned with what everyone thought of me. Seeing you during lunch, leaning up against a tree, your hair falling over your brow, a book in your hand . . .” I shrug. “Drove me crazy.”
His hand pauses as he slowly turns toward me. I keep my eyes focused on the puzzle pieces as my confession rocks my nerves. I can’t believe I just admitted that to him.
“Drove you crazy? As in . . . ?”
How could he not know? How can he really be this clueless?
Did he not notice all the times I looked at him longingly while he was at the store? How I fumbled my words when he was around?
Every instinct begs me to change the subject, but because I honestly think I’ve lost my mind, I clear my throat. “As in, you know, like, a crush.”
Now he shifts on the couch and truly faces me. “You had a crush on me in high school? Like, an actual crush?” He shakes his head. “There’s no way that’s true.”
I nod slowly. “Oh, it’s true. I had the biggest crush on you.” I finally look at him. “I thought you were so fascinating, so different from everyone else, and that captured me.”
“You’re not just saying that?” he asks.
I shake my head. He reaches out and touches my chin, bringing my eyes to his. I swallow hard when I see the way his irises grow darker from the connection of our gazes.
“I had a crush on you. A terrible one,” he says, pulling all the air from my lungs. “Why do you think I was always in the store? Especially whenever I visited from college. Anything to catch a glimpse.”
“Seriously?” I ask, my stomach now doing somersaults.
“Oh yeah. I had it bad.” He wets his lips. “Really fucking bad.”