On the Run (Whispering Key #2) - May Archer Page 0,32

things went down, you should’ve stepped up.”

“You didn’t give me a chance! Besides, was I supposed to announce that you were Mason’s friend Toby, and that you’d randomly shown up because you had to flee New York under… circumstances?”

No. No, I was very glad he hadn’t said that. I rolled my lips together and didn’t reply.

“Right. Didn’t think so. So, what the heck is going on?” Beale pulled the Jeep to a stop in a parking space next to the curb and looked at me across the center console.

I blew out a breath. “I told you, it was a misunderstanding with a guy…”

“Yeah, that doesn’t explain why you’re using a fake name. I mean, unless the guy is hunting you. Is he Liam Neeson? Did you take his daughter?”

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