Page 50 of Forever to Fall
The oven timer beeped, cutting through their lust-filled moment. “Dinner’s ready,” Mallory breathed, anchoring Beckett in place as he stumbled.
“Yeah,” he said in a daze, his mouth swollen from their make-out session.
The oven beeped again until he got to his feet. As he pulled out two of the most gorgeous pieces of pizza she’d ever seen, she was happy they paused for food. It was truly a testament to her love of nostalgia that she didn’t jump on Beckett again, but her growling stomach won the argument.
Beckett plodded to the fridge and came back with two types of ranch dressing. “Being a good Midwestern boy, I have two ranch options for you this evening.” He brandished the bottles like he was a sommelier tempting her with the season’s newest merlot offering from France. “Tonight for the lady, we have a spicy ranch from the Hidden Valley or a regular ranch,” he faltered for a moment, biting back a grin, “also from the Hidden Valley.”
Mallory tapped the second bottle. “I’m afraid I’m a bit boring.”
Beckett dipped down and planted a kiss on her temple. “Mallory Lawson, boring? Hardly.”
Sliding into his seat, the pair devoured their meal. Mallory truly was that hungry, but she also wanted to get back to the good stuff. And by good stuff, she meant Beckett’s lips. Those lips were currently smirking in between bites. “Do I have a string of cheese on my face or something?” He made a show of swatting at his face, like there was a fly attacking him.
Mallory gestured at her own face. “You have a little something here,” she said, pointing to her chin. “And here,” she added, pointing to her forehead. “And maybe a little sauce over here.” She leaned forward and poked at his glasses with her napkin.
“Oh, wow!” He exclaimed, splaying a hand over his chest. “Beckett Fox has something on his glasses? Alert the media.”
It was a poorly kept secret Beckett had been battling eye glasses for most of his life. No matter the situation, no matter the frame, they always ended up smudged, cockeyed, lost, or broken by the end of the day.
“I take it the contacts are still a no go?”
Beckett scoffed, trailing his pizza crust through a puddle of ranch dressing. “Um, have you met me? You know I hate touching my eyes.” He shuddered like Edward Scissorhands was his optometrist.
Mallory laughed. “Have you tried since that last time in high school?”
She remembered the day well. She’d shown up at lunch at their usual spot. Evan was talking to someone who looked like Beckett’s alien clone. His gray eyes were cloudy, and he kept blinking like he was about to cry or throw up. Beckett cringed at the memory. “Yeah, a couple of times over the years, but it’s always the same result. Within three hours, one of them miraculously pops out, and the other gets stuck like it’s setting up shop. By the time I get my glasses back on, I’m an emotional wreck.”
Mallory covered her mouth to hide her smile, still charmed by this man. “Well, I like your glasses. Frankly, they’re as much a part of you as your red hair.”
Beckett was incredulous. He reached out to snag her forgotten pizza crust and popped it in his mouth. “That’s exactly what men want to hear,” he said around the dough, “Red heads with glasses are stone-cold foxes.”
Mallory raised an eyebrow in challenge. “That’s what I see. You’re suddenly going to inform me otherwise?”
Beckett gulped, nearly choking on the stolen crust. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Potentially. We haven’t actually talked about our future, so it’s a distinct possibility.”
After grabbing the wine bottle, Beckett topped off both their glasses before leading the way to the living room and the comfort of the couch. “If we’re going to decide our futures, I at least want to be comfortable.”
Mallory followed, trying hard not to stare at his backside in those jeans. She failed, miserably.
Despite wanting to talk, Mallory’s gut churned. It was fun playing house, sitting in the kitchen while the man of her dreams cooked and kissed her like she was more important than oxygen. In those moments, these stolen slices of time, she pretended they could have this. She pretended that Beckett wasn’t afraid, that he would be brave for her—for them.
Mallory plopped down on the couch, hugging her wine glass to her chest for protection. Beckett sat on the edge of his cushion before jumping to his feet and pacing in front of her. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, running his hands through his curls.
The meal that only moments ago filled her with joy turned to cement in her belly. “Can’t do what?” she asked, taking two long pulls from her glass before thinking better of it. She couldn’t get drunk if she needed to make an escape.
Sensing her confusion, Beckett stalked to her and knelt in front of her. He took her glass and put it on the coffee table with shaking hands. “I can’t lie anymore, Mal. I can’t stand this. Aren’t you going insane?”
“Right now, yes,” she agreed, wondering what the hell this man was going on about.
Beckett gently gripped her by the shoulders, his gaze sharp behind his lenses. “Mal, I want us. I’m sick of pretending that I’m not—” He stopped himself but didn’t loosen his grip.
“Pretending that you’re not what?” Mallory’s breath hitched, fear a sharp knife over her throat. Was he going to end whatever they had right now? Was inviting her over just a means to go back to friends? She would keep Beckett in her life anyway she could, but it wasn’t what she wanted.
“I’m sick of pretending that I’m not in love with you, Mallory.”
He hadn’t called her Mal, that was the first thing that registered in my muddled brain. Not the “L” word, not the hungry, yet desperate, look on his handsome face, but the fact that he didn’t use her nickname.
