Page 6 of Married to the Frenemy

Parker glances my way, and I roll my eyes.

While I try to limit Maggie’s exposure to my parents, on rare occasions, they remember she exists and stop by unannounced to see her. Afterwards, I always regret it, but I foolishly keep holding onto hope that they’ll realize what’s important and want to have a real relationship with her.

“What do you want to be called?” Parker asks.

Maggie’s face lights up. “I like it when you call me Magpie.”

“Then I proclaim you Lady Magpie of Holley Ridge.”

Maggie squeals as Parker sets her on her feet.

“It looks beautiful, Parker.” I give my best friend a quick hug.

“Thanks, Haley.”

We stroll through the rows of festive booths, each one adorned with twinkling lights and decorations, where dozens of local businesses sell various holiday-themed items, from decorations, to cookies, and even wine.

“How’s the apartment hunt going?” Parker keeps her voice low so Maggie can’t overhear.

“Not great.” I heave a sigh. “The downside of living in a small town. There aren’t many rentals to begin with, and what is available is way over my budget. I’m not exactly raking it in as a dog walker and cocktail waitress. At least not enough to compete with all the snow bunnies who come in for the winter season to ski.”

“From what I understand, Beckham Lawrence still has his townhouse he rents out. You could always see if it’s available.”

I dart my wide eyes toward her. “Beckham Lawrence? Are you crazy? Absolutely not. There’s no way he’d do me any favors, like rent to me, especially when I wouldn’t be able to pay him anywhere close to what he can get for a short-term rental.”

Not to mention, our history is strained, to say the least.

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask,” Parker sings, gesturing at the booth directly in front of us. Then she disappears into the bustling crowd, presumably to give her speech before the main event — lighting the towering Norway Spruce by the lake.

“Mama! Mama! Can I have some juice?” Maggie grabs my hand and drags me toward the booth in question, my heart rate picking up the instant Beckham’s dark eyes lock on mine.

A charcoal beanie covers what I know to be a full head of dark hair, his square jawline sporting a bit of scruff. He’s wearing his usual attire of jeans, henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and work boots.

Even as a teen, Beckham was tall and muscular. His physique has only become more built over the years, all broad shoulders and defined muscles. A pang squeezes my chest at the reminder of why he’s as muscular as he is now. While working the fields at the vineyard certainly had something to do with it, it’s not the only reason.

“Mama?”

Remembering where I am, I snap my eyes away from Beckham. “That’s juice for adults, sweetie.”

“Actually, I’ve got a little something special for you,” Beckham says in his raspy voice, throwing a wink at my daughter.

Turning, he opens one of the coolers and grabs a juice box. It doesn’t escape my notice it’s the only one, as if he brought it just for Maggie.

Which makes no sense, considering Beckham acts as if he can’t stand the sight of me.

“Thanks, Mr. Beck!” Maggie says appreciatively when he hands her the box with the straw already inserted. “I like your pretty pictures.” She points to the tattoos covering his forearms.

“Thank you,” he responds with a chuckle.

I’d be lying if I said the throaty sound doesn’t make my girly bits flutter a little.

There’s something about Beckham’s laugh that makes me forget the strain that’s existed between us for over a decade now. We used to be friends. Hell, we used to be more than friends.

In the blink of an eye, it all imploded.

“What’s that one of?” Maggie presses, oblivious to the long line of people hoping to taste some of the wine Beckham spends hours perfecting as the head winemaker of the local vineyard.

A feat, considering he’s only thirty-two.

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