Page 37 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
But I did, and I can’t unsee it now.
I can’t stand the silence stretching between us, so when we step out into the sun, I nudge him with my elbow. “Didn’t know you had a soft side,” I say, careful to keep my voice playful, not prying.
He shoots me a look—half warning, half wounded pride. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, come on,” I press, grinning just to cover how my chest is still a mess from what I saw in there. “Big, scary Beck, making kids laugh. You’re practically a teddy bear.”
His scowl deepens, but there’s the faintest twitch at his mouth—he’s fighting a smile. “Say that again, and I’m leaving you here.”
I laugh, and for a fleeting moment, it feels easy between us. Light. We’ve stumbled into some strange middle ground where we aren’t at each other’s throats.
“Lunch?” I suggest, mostly because I want to stretch this mood out a little longer.
“Please. I’m famished.”
The diner I choose is close enough, a blend between formal dining and family style. For a second, I think maybe it’ll be fine. That we’ll sit, eat, maybe even laugh again.
But then I notice it. The shift.
At first, I tell myself I’m imagining it. The way the hostess’s smile falters when she sees Beck. The little pause before she picks up two menus.
“This way,” she says, but her voice is thin, brittle. She’s already decided we don’t belong here.
I catch Beck’s jaw tick from the corner of my eye. He notices too.
The dining room is quiet, polished silverware gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. But the hush that falls when we’re led in feels different. Heavy. Intentional.
A woman at the nearest table lowers her wine glass, her gaze snagging on Beck like a stain she can’t scrub out. Her husband leans in, muttering something. She nods, lips pressed thin.
By the time we sit down, my pulse is already unsteady.
The waitress arrives, stiff as a board, barely looking at him. She takes my order with practiced politeness, but when Beck opens his mouth, she interrupts. “We might not have that today.” No apology or warmth. Just dismissal.
He stares at her, and for a second I think he’s going to say something. But he shuts his mouth, and that almost hurts worse—watching him swallow it, the muscle in his cheek flexing as he forces the words back down.
I want to tell her off, but my tongue feels thick as the whispers continue to grow.
Then the manager approaches, all fake charm and condescension. “I’m so sorry,” he says, but his eyes never touch mine. They’re fixed on Beck. “It seems there’s been a mistake. We’re actually full right now.”
I glance around. Empty tables dot the room like little islands of silence.
“Full, huh?” Beck’s voice drops low, dangerous. It’s not loud, but the weight of it turns my blood cold.
“Yes,” the manager replies too quickly, shifting on his feet.
My chest aches, humiliation slicing me open. They don’t even care that the lie is obvious. They just want us gone. Want him gone.
Beck leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing, and I can feel the storm gathering in him. His temper is coiling, sharp and fast, ready to cut. And maybe part of me wants him to unleash it, to tear their smug politeness to shreds.
But another part, louder, more desperate, just wants out. Away from the eyes, the whispers, the shame that’s sinking claws into my skin.
I grab his arm under the table, squeezing hard. “Beck,” I hiss, low enough only he can hear. “It’s not worth it.”
He turns to me, fury still burning in his gaze, but something in my face must get through. Because after a tense beat, he exhales, long and sharp.
Without a word, he stands. His chair scrapes back with a violent screech that makes the nearest table flinch.
I get up fast, my own cheeks burning, and follow him out. And when the door shuts behind us, I can finally breathe again—only now, the air tastes ashy.
