clothes on. Grumpy Beck had his own appeal.
Beck with a crooked grin could cause spontaneous orgasms.
I distracted myself by methodically picking up the burger. Trying to bring it to my mouth.
Putting it back down. I did this fifteen times over before he returned, hitching a leg over a chair so small I feared for its engineering.
“For you,” he said, placing a second Heineken next to me. “Warm horse piss, as you call it, no mangoes this time.”
“Not as much alchemy,” I noted. His blue eyes blazed with kindness and good humor. “Well, maybe a little bit.”
“I asked Barb what she had for vegans and she gave me this plate of lettuce and tomatoes. Thought it might suit you better.”
Rabbit food—I’d heard it called that before. But suddenly the thought of crisp lettuce and fresh tomatoes was so compelling I could have wept. I dropped the burger and stuffed the lettuce into my mouth.
“Thank you,” I said, placing a hand on his wrist. “Truly. And please don’t make fun of me for being here.”
Beck shook his head. “Never.”
We ate in companionable silence for a moment. Beck seemed curious, not judgmental. And finally he said, “Rough day?”
I laughed—startling the silence. It was a cathartic sound. “Rough week,” I said. “We lost that Fischer contract and the media hasn’t been too kind. We’re in trouble, financially.” I took out my phone and showed him the comment from Claudia, gave him a summary of our relationship.
“You’re not these things this woman is saying about you,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“Aren’t I?” I reached for the burger, determined.
He touched the top of my hand, stilling me. “What does this prove?”
The palm trees swayed over our heads as cars from the nearby highway sped by.
“That they’re right.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“And they are,” I said.
He slowly slid the paper plate of greasy meat away from me.
“Sounds like a crock of shit to me,” he said. “I’ve watched you try and eat this for twenty minutes now. It’s not happening. It’s not you. What the fuck does this Claudia person know anyway?”
“It’s just…” I swallowed hard against a throat that felt locked. “It’s easier to stop fighting. I mean, I’m willing to keep going professionally for the sake of Wild Heart. But personally? I thought I might as well eat the damn cheeseburger.”
“Have you checked the Lucky Dog donation page yet?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“A hundred and twenty-five thousand before I left tonight. And that’s not including what’s come in the mail. We’re getting close to closing our funding gap. All of the dogs in our care right now are going to end up with loving homes because of you.”
I pointed at Beck’s chest. “That’s because of you.”
“Yeah, but the money helps, don’t you think?” And there was that grin—that burst of sexy, charming lightness across his usually scowling face.
“It does,” I said, slowly loosening.
“That’s who you are, Luna,” he said. “And I’m eating this burger.”
A smile flew across my face so fast I worried I’d pulled a cheek muscle. Beck caught it, returned it—and for a sweet minute, we smiled at each other beneath the swaying palm trees. We hadn’t really talked about Our Moment On The Beach—a moment I was fully prepared to escalate to a hot, gasping make-out on a public bench before he pulled back. We’d talked about what happened afterward, at Bluewater, but not those charged, heavy seconds.
And now here he was.
I could see his motorcycle in the parking lot. “My, uh, driver… .I sent him home for the night. Didn’t want any witnesses to my rock bottom meat excursion.”
Beck’s gaze stayed locked on mine. “That’s a good excuse for me to give you a ride home.”
Do it do it do it do it—chanted the voices in my head that sounded an awful lot like my best friends.
“So this is a date, Beck Mason.” I pointed between our paper plates. “You bought me a beer and some lettuce. And you’re escorting me home on your motorcycle.”
I expected him to tease me back. But instead he said, “It is a date. Our first one.”
I tugged at the collar of my worn sweatshirt. All week I’d been asking Beck out on a date via text message and he hadn’t replied. Meanwhile, Emily had been kind enough to troll through my closet and pick out 77 different potential first date outfits, none of which included this old University of Miami sweatshirt and basketball shorts. Had I even re-applied deodorant before coming over here?
“Well, okay,