Page 17 of Bonfire with Beckett
Beckett presses his lips to my temple, slow and reverent. “You okay?”
I hum, nuzzling closer. “Better than okay.”
He exhales, a sound almost like relief. His thumb traces slow circles against my shoulder. “Good. Because I don’t… I don’t do this lightly, Willa.”
I tilt my head to look at him. His eyes are dark in the dim cab light, unguarded. He’s not just the fire marshal or the grump who lectured me at the town meeting. He’s a man letting me see every scar, every wall he’s taken down.
“You mean something to me,” he says quietly. “You matter. More than I thought I’d let anyone mean again. It’s been a long time since I could imagine a future with someone. But with you…” His voice roughens. “I feel connected.”
My chest aches, full and bursting. “Beckett…”
He strokes my cheek, waiting.
I want to tell him everything that’s on my heart, but I can’t just yet. I don’t have the words. I just press my lips to his and say, “I feel the same.”
We stay like that, breathing each other in, the silence more intimate than words. Then his hand slides down my side, curving over my hip. My pulse leaps.
“Round two?” he murmurs, voice low and wicked.
I laugh breathlessly, already leaning into his kiss. “I thought you’d never ask.”
His mouth claims mine again, hungrier this time, and my body melts against his. The air between us grows hot, fogging the windows all over again. His hands roam, reverent and greedy all at once, and I arch into his touch?—
The distant rumble of a truck engine shatters the spell.
We jerk apart, wide-eyed. Beckett swears under his breath, scrambling for my shirt.
“Oh God.” My hands fumble with my bra clasp. “That’s Dad.”
“Quick,” Beckett hisses, yanking his jeans back up and helping me to find my own clothes.
We scramble like teenagers caught breaking curfew, tugging clothes into place.
By the time my dad’s headlights wash over us, I’m back in my seat, hair finger-combed into something resembling order, face blazing hot. Beckett sits stiffly behind the wheel, hands clenched on the steering wheel like we’ve been nothing but innocent.
Dad climbs out of his truck, toolbox in hand, his face neutral. Too neutral. He doesn’t say a word about how long it took us to answer his text, or why the cab windows are fogged. He just nods at Beckett. “Pop the hood.”
We both practically leap to obey, the relief so sharp it’s almost painful.
While Dad works, I hover nearby, heart still racing for all the wrong reasons. Beckett keeps his head down, silent, but when our eyes meet over the open hood, his mouth twitches like he knows exactly what I’m thinking: Dad knows. Hedefinitelyknows.
The engine finally roars back to life. “Should get you home now,” Dad says gruffly, closing the hood.
“Thanks, Tom,” Beckett replies, his voice steady even though I can see the tension in his shoulders.
We climb back into the truck, and the ride is quiet at first. Too quiet. I’m half lost in replaying what just happened—hismouth, his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. My heart is still a runaway train.
Beckett’s phone rings.
“Do you need to take that?” I ask.
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
He shoots me an appreciative look and pulls to the side of the road.
Then swears under his breath.
