Page 79 of One Touch

I cleared my throat. “Fine ... I’ll just guess.”

Scrolling down the list, I called a few out as I looked for any reaction. “Hitch...Maid in Manhattan...Twilight.” I gasped. “Yes, please tell me it’sTwilight. Are you team Edward? You’d make a hot vampire.”

Beckett walked toward me with a fresh bucket of perfectly popped movie-style popcorn and a scowl furrowing his brow. He motioned for me to scoot over. I did and tucked my feet beneath me.

“Please,” he scoffed. “I would never sparkle.”

Giggles tumbled out of me.

I popped a piece of popcorn into my mouth as Beckett sat and sighed. “You’ve Got Mail.”

“Aww ... ,” I crooned.

Beckett shook his head as though he couldn’t believe he was actually admitting it. “I am fully in my Meg Ryan era.”

“As you should be.” I grinned at him, loving the complex layers I was uncovering about him on what felt like every single day.

After I grabbed another handful of popcorn, he moved the bucket just out of reach, setting it on the table beside him. “Besides, what’s not to like about two people who really should hate each other falling in love? Plus, if you really think about it, Tom Hanks’s character really is a prick. She never should have forgiven him, but she did.”

“Hmm.” I smiled at him but tried to hide the flutter that settled low in my belly. Maybe Beckett and I had done just that—been two people at odds with zero chance of a romantic connection, yet there we were, laughing and sharing secrets. I scrolled until I found a movie and decided it was perfect.

I playfully pushed his shoulder to cut through the mounting tension. “Such a softie.”

Beckett lifted the armrest that separated us as he adjusted the seats to recline and settled in next to me. He raised his arm. “Get in here,” he ordered.

I snuggled in next to him, breathing in his warm, freshly showered scent. It wasn’t until he opened his mouth again that the fantasy burned away like the reel of an old-fashioned film getting stuck and melting away the world you’d just been immersed in.

His arm banded around my shoulder as he whispered over the opening credits. “Hey, come to Thanksgiving with me.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

BECKETT

I shouldn’t have letthe tension and panicked silence that radiated from Kate bug me. When I’d asked her to join my family for Thanksgiving, I really wasn’t thinking. We’d had a grueling week, I was tired, and I was captivated by her laughter as she discovered my secret for sappy, unrealistic love stories.

My guard was down and the words slipped out.

I held my breath until I heard her soft, sweet voice breathe out, “Okay.”

I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat and pulled her closer as we watched Tom and Meg fall in love despite many obstacles. While we watched, I was determined to one day treat Kate to New York in the fall.

Ifwe survived a Miller family holiday.

When I pulled up to the Sullivan farmhouse the next morning, I couldn’t help but smile.

The home was gorgeous, standing proudly against the stark November landscape with a fresh coat of crisp white paint that gleamed despite the overcast day. The roof had been replaced with black metal sheets that would likely outlast all of us. The addition of front windows not only brightened the inside, but added interesting details to the exterior of the home.

The large wraparound porch was my favorite detail—not just because every time I looked at it I thought of the fire in Kate’s eyes when she’d demanded I fix it. The porch was truly stunning. It had been meticulously restored to its former glory, with sturdy wooden columns that had been stained a rich brown to pop against the white exterior. Per Kate’s request, there were no railings but rather a beautiful unobstructed view of a warm and welcoming home.

Soon it would be adorned with the cozy furniture Kate and Tootie had picked out, including an extra-wide swing that my crew would hang as a quaint finishing touch.

I turned at the low clucks behind me. That fucking rooster was nowhere to be found, but I still palmed a few pieces of dog kibble in my pocket. After some internet sleuthing I found that Bartleby, like many other chickens, liked the treats. He and I had come to an understanding—I’d toss him a few pieces and he’d leave me the hell alone.

The coop was painted a fresh, cheerful shade of yellow. While the cleanup of the speakeasy took some time, Kate had hauled over a few buckets of paint and refreshed the outside. The hens were content, and seeing how happy something as simple as a coat of paint made Tootie, I’d also had a few of the guys build simple planter boxes around the outside that she could adorn with flowers come springtime.

I couldn’t remember a job I’d been more proud of. A dull ache formed in my chest when I thought of the Sullivan job coming to a close. Once we discovered the speakeasy, we’d pivoted and redesigned the entire back entrance, making accommodations for easy access to the lower level. Tootie wanted to keep it accessible and the design in line with the 1930s, so besides updating the electrical and making it safe to use, I let Kate have free rein with the design elements. Her followers onHome Againwere eating it up, and Gloria was still fielding calls almost every day, asking if we were a team and if we’d consider their home for our next project.

In fact, there were several unread emails and a string of voicemails left by Gloria, demanding I answer her questions about my open calendar and potential upcoming jobs. I clicked off my phone and pocketed it. I didn’t want to think about Chicago or work without Kate hovering by my side to snap a picture or ask for me to explain what I was doing.

---