Page 60 of To Have and to Scold

“My pleasure.” Now Laird is beaming. “Nice to meet you, Miss Dallas.”

“Miss Dallas,” I say when we’ve stepped outside. “I like that.”

“It’s cute.”

I sling my arm through his. It feels like second nature, like I’ve studied it and gotten my degree in it and now I can just do it without thinking about it at all.

He gives my hand on his arm an appreciative smile. “Did you have any nicknames growing up?”

I sigh heavily. As much as I’m shy about sharing my ridiculous nicknames, it’s probably a good thing. Because with the heat of him seeping into me and the way his warm brown eyes look under the spell of the moon, I don’t trust myself to talk about anything else. Anything that could possibly lend itself to romantic thoughts of any kind.

So talking about my freckle-faced, gap-toothed kid nicknames should be a safe topic.

“My family used to call me Dally, which morphed into Dilly Dally, which sometimes morphed into Dilly Bar. Yep. That’s me. Named after a cherry flavored, wax-coated ice cream treat.”

He laughs, a little too hard for my comfort. I nudge him to get him to stop, which only makes him laugh harder. When he finally composes himself, he pats my arm. “I love a good Dilly Bar, personally. I think it’s an honor.”

I roll my eyes. “What about you? Were you called anything besides Beck and Billy?”

“Nothing I’d want to repeat. You know how immature junior high guys can be.” He looks out thoughtfully over the water. The waves are loud, but it’s a pleasant sort of noise, as rhythmic as time. “Could I convince you to get rid of those shoes and walk in the sand for a bit?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say, shucking them off without a thought and leaving them abandoned in the sand near the sidewalk.

“I have to say, I like the lower heels in some ways.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why do you wear such high heels most of the time?”

“I like them.” For some reason, I feel a little surge of defensiveness come up. “They’re pretty. I’ve always loved shoes. You know, being a short girl, it’s hard sometimes to find clothes that work. Some styles…it’s like, forget it, you’ll never be able to pull that off. But shoes. I can always pull off a killer pair of shoes.”

“Killer being the operative word. I bet they kill your feet.”

“I’m used to it by now. But it does feel nice to be barefoot.” The sand is warm as it squishes between my toes.

“So you wear the heels to try to compensate for being short?”

His question surprises me. “I—I don’t know.” I let go of his arm and then throw my hands in the air. “Probably. But, so? Is that a problem?”

He takes my defensiveness in stride. “Not a problem unless you feel like you have to do it. Like you’re not okay without trying to appear taller.”

“You don’t get to comment on things like this. You’re not short.” I say it with a laugh, but he’s hit a nerve somewhere. Because he’s right. I sometimes feel less than without my tall shoes on. Which sounds silly, but I guess it’s true.

“I know,” Beck says. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that I would really hate for you to think that you have to wear them to be your best self. There has to be lots of flats out there that are just as good.”

“I beg to differ. And like I said, it’s sometimes easier for me to find shoes I love than clothes that work. So, I splurge on the shoes.”

“Hey, they’re nice. You look great in them. Sorry if I overstepped.”

“Ha! Overstepped.” I chuckle. “Cause we’re talking about shoes?”

He favors me with more laughter than that dumb little joke deserves.

Walking barefoot with Beck along this beach, I think of what he just said. He’s not wrong about the shoes. They are a mask. A protection. Same with my work—or overwork, as is the case now. Sometimes, I wish I could be free from the need to hustle so much. To work so hard that I create perfect weddings for perfect marriages. My career is all I see. My future at Amore is the only thing that pricks my awareness into hyperdrive. Everything else gets lost.

Except here, under the night sky, cocooned by an infinite stretch of stars and an infinite sea of sand, my vision expands to the possibility of freedom. The possibility that I could maybe just…be.

Thinking of that hurts my head, so I bend to pick up a random, stray volleyball. “Show me some of your moves around a volleyball,” I challenge him, tossing the ball between my hands like I know what I’m doing.

At least it feels like it might look like I know what I’m doing, but I do not. I’m as athletic as a horse on roller skates.

He grins. “I think that volleyball actually might be mine.” He holds out his hands and I toss it to him, relieved I didn’t overthrow and hit him in the head.

---