Page 58 of Beckett
“Yes, I?—”
“I’ve been trying to call Beckett, but he didn’t pick up his phone.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how much she knew about Beckett’s PTSD. She had to at least know it was an issue. “Beckett is out with the dogs. He’s having a rough morning.”
A beat of silence. “Yeah, that happens. Better to let him work it out in his own way. But maybe you can help me. I’m still working with the owners of this new therapy animal facility and have back-to-back meetings all day. I just realized I completely forgot to send out the press release for next month’s Pawsitive Connections’ event, where we’re partnering with the veterans’ hospital for a big fundraiser. I thought I’d be home before now and could send it out. If it doesn’t go out today, we won’t get any media coverage, and the whole thing will be a disaster.”
“Okay. It’s okay. Lark, slow down. Take a breath.”
I heard her inhale shakily. “Sorry. I’m just— This is so important. We’re counting on the fundraiser to cover ouroperating costs for the next quarter. But I don’t have my laptop, and I can’t write a press release on my phone, and?—”
“I can help.” The words came out before I could second-guess them. “I used to work in public relations. I know how to write a press release.”
“You do? You did?” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Woman, you’re a lifesaver. My computer’s in the home office, second door on the left. Password is Fernando2019, after that ridiculous llama.”
I took the phone with me into her cozy office space with photos of animals covering every surface. The computer hummed to life, and muscle memory took over. This was something I knew how to do, something from before that didn’t hurt to remember.
“Okay, I’m in. Tell me about the event.” I put the phone on speaker and set it beside me.
“It’s called Healing Hearts and Paws. Saturday, November fourth, from noon to five. We’ll have demonstrations of our therapy animals working with veterans, a silent auction, food trucks— Oh, and the photographer from theMontana Tribunesaid she might come if we send her something compelling.”
My fingers flew across the keyboard as she talked, the familiar rhythm of crafting a story soothing something inside me. This was what I’d been good at once—taking scattered information and weaving it into something that made people care.
“What’s your key message?” I asked, falling into professional mode. “What’s the one thing you want people to remember?”
“I don’t know, something about healing and nontraditional therapy. The dogs. Ugh, I’m terrible at words.”
I smiled, already seeing the angle. “Perfect. What about success stories? Do you have a veteran who’d be willing to be quoted?”
“Yes! James Morrison. He’s been coming for six months. His seizure-response dog helps him during episodes—stays with him, alerts others if needed, and helps him reorient afterward. Says the dog gave him his independence back. I can text you his quote.”
The door opened behind me, and I turned to find Beckett standing there, hair damp with sweat, a towel draped around his neck. He’d changed into a clean T-shirt that clung to his chest in ways that made concentration difficult.
“Heard voices,” he said, then noticed the phone. “Lark?”
I nodded, holding up a finger as Lark continued rattling off details about sponsorship levels and donation goals. Beckett moved closer, close enough that I could smell the clean soap scent of him. His hand settled on my shoulder, thumb brushing the curve of my neck.
I tensed. He was too close to that scar. I was always careful to redirect his hand away from my neck during lovemaking, usually pulling it down to my breast. But I couldn’t do that now.
“The graphic needs to include our logo,” Lark was saying. “It’s in the shared folder marked ‘Branding.’ And make sure to mention that all donations are tax-deductible.”
I turned and looked up at Beckett, forcing a smile. “Coffee?” I mouthed.
He nodded and winked at me, thankfully none the wiser.
“Got it,” I said to Lark, clicking through the folders, finding everything exactly where she said it would be. Organized chaos, just like Lark herself. “What about contact information?”
“My cell and email. Oh, and add that people can register online at our website.”
Beckett leaned over my shoulder, reading the press release as I typed. His breath tickled my ear. “Looks professional,” he murmured, quiet enough that Lark wouldn’t hear.
Heat bloomed where his hand touched my arm. That touch, I adored. These past few days, I couldn’t get enough of casual brushes with his skin. The way he’d hold my hand while we watched the dogs play. How he’d pull me against him on the porch swing after dinner. The careful way he’d kiss me goodnight, like I was something precious that might break.
I wanted more. Wanted everything.
The thought crept in sideways, dangerous in its hope. It had been over two weeks since I’d arrived. Two weeks of no strange cars, no threatening letters, no signs that my monster had found me.
Maybe he’d given up. Maybe he’d found some other poor woman to terrorize. Or maybe—please God—maybe he’d never find me here in the middle of Montana, protected by mountains and distance and a man who’d already proven he’d stand between me and danger.
