In The Weeds Page 2

  I felt like myself.

  But I’m here to do my job. Stella deserves that. Lovelight Farms is everything she described and more in her application. She deserves to be a finalist for this competition and she deserves the recognition. All I need is a second to pull myself together. Get over the shock of seeing him again and move forward.

  “The plan is … ” I have no plan. I look around the room for inspiration. I guess the plan is to finish the rest of these cookies. Find a bottle of wine from ... somewhere.

  There’s a knock at my door and I blow out a breath. I stare at the peephole with a sliver of apprehension. I don’t need to guess as to who is on the other side.

  “Oh my god, did I just hear a knock?” Josie is beside herself. “Is it him?”

  I lift myself from the edge of the bed and smooth my palm over my hair. Of course it’s him. “I’ve gotta go, Josie.”

  “Switch me to FaceTime,” she demands. “Never mind, I’ll do it. Evie, I swear to god, if you hang—“

  I end the call before she has a chance to finish her threat, tossing my phone on the table. It immediately rings with an incoming video call and I ignore it, adding a pillow over top for good measure.

  I take my time on my walk to the door and hesitate with my hand above the handle. When he walked into the bakery earlier today, I felt that same swoop, low in my belly. Just like the first time. It was like cracking open a memory to take another look. Flannel instead of a white t-shirt. Backwards baseball cap with a tiny, embroidered tree.

  Wide, surprised eyes.

  I swing open the door like I’m ripping off a bandage and find Beckett with his arms braced against the frame, hands curled around the edges like he’s physically holding himself back. His fingers flex and I get an immediate flashback of those hands wrapped tight around my thighs instead, Beckett on his knees in front of me, a single lock of dark blonde hair plastered to his forehead.

  I swallow.

  “Hey,” I whisper. I can barely look at him and I sound like I swallowed six sheets of sandpaper. Way to keep it together, Evie.

  I clear my throat.

  He blinks at me, his gaze lingering and lazy, tripping from the top of my head to the drape of my sweater across my shoulder. His tongue licks at his bottom lip, and I feel like maybe I should grab the edge of the frame, too. Cling to the brass door knocker for dear life.

  I don’t know what made me bring Beckett back to my hotel with me that hazy summer night, all those months ago. I’ve never been remotely interested in a casual hookup before. I just—

  I saw him walk in, and I wanted him.

  Good to know his effect on me hasn’t dimmed at all.

  “Hey,” he whispers back. He exhales through his nose and pushes off the door frame, glancing once over his shoulder at the empty hallway behind him. I get a good look at the strong line of his jaw and have to clear my throat again. “Can I come in for a second?”

  I nod and take a step back, letting him pass through the narrow door. All my hazy memories have apparently done the sheer size of him an injustice. He looks too big standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, pretending to study the painting of the pond hanging above the desk. I click the door shut and try not to think of the last time we were in a space just like this.

  Gauzy white curtains. Tangled sheets. A warm hand splayed between my shoulder blades. His voice in my ear, telling me how good I felt. To take it.

  I shake my head and lean against the dresser, legs crossed at the ankles. I am doing myself no favors. “You wanted to talk?”

  He nods, still distracted by that painting. He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Social media influencer, huh?”

  I don’t like the tone of his voice, the faint accusation I hear there. I didn’t offer my job, but neither did he. The both of us were focused on … other things during our time together. He didn’t recognize me when I walked into the bar and that had been a nice change. Refreshing.

  Cheesy as it sounds, men typically don’t want to be with me for me. Usually when I’m approached by men, there’s something in it for them—a picture on one of my channels, a product plug. Once, a guy asked if I was up for a sex tape.

  So when Beckett walked into that tiny bar with his inked arms and his gaze passing over me with appreciation instead of calculation, I took a chance. I took something for myself.

  A lot of good that did me.

  “Farmer, huh?” I mimic his cool indifference and watch the way his lips turn down at the corners, hands clenching into fists at his side.

  “I’m just surprised, is all,” he says, still with that slightly sarcastic tone. As if he can’t believe he even needs to have this conversation with me. As if me being someone who works in social media is the most vile, repulsive thing he could possibly think of. He sniffs and rubs his knuckles against his jaw. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  Clearly I also didn’t expect to see him, given that I ran from the bakehouse at the farm this afternoon like the place was on fire. Doesn’t mean I’m going to be a jerk about it, though.

  He watches me carefully, eyes narrowed. I wish the cookie tray was closer. “Did you know?”

  “Did I know what?”

  “Did you know I work here?”

  I frown and tilt my chin up. Does he think I did this on purpose? Came to his place of work to … what? Harass him? Embarrass him? “Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again either.”

  He smiles and it’s not nice at all. “Well, you made that abundantly clear, Evie.”

  I blink at him.

  “Sorry,” he tells me, his voice gruff. He is not sorry at all. “You probably prefer Evelyn.”

  Something in my chest pulls tight at the sharp edge of his words. He sounds frustrated, uncomfortable. He’s holding himself too still in the corner by the desk, his eyes angry and upset. I don’t know why it hurts for him to call me Evelyn, only that it does.

  But none of that matters. It doesn’t matter that he’s looking at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  It doesn’t change a single thing between us. Not what happened before and not what’s happening now.

  It’s just … I had been Evie with him.

  That had been nice.

  The silence swells between us until it feels like there’s a weight pressing on my shoulders. Beckett doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry to fill it. He tugs his hat from his head with a grumbled curse, and drags his palm back and forth over the back of his neck. Into his hair until half of it is sticking up.

  “Listen, I didn’t—“ he tilts his head and looks at the ceiling, twisting his neck to the side in a tense stretch. He sighs and straightens, leveling me with a look that somehow channels both irritation and exasperation at the same time. I have no idea what to do with it. I have no idea what to do with any of it. This version of him is so very different from the man with the soft words and careful touches—his laugh a quiet, husky thing in the dark.

  “I’m sorry. This isn’t why I came here.” He clenches his jaw so tight it’s a wonder he’s able to say anything at all. “I came here because—because I want to ask you to stay.”

  I can’t quite stop the sound that trips out of my mouth. If that’s him trying to convince me to stay, I’d hate to see what it looks like when he wants me to go. “Your pitch could use some work.”

  “Evelyn.”

  “I’m serious.”

  His frown deepens. “This contest means a lot to Stella. It means a lot to me, too. Our farm needs your help and I’d like for you to give us a fair shot at it.”

  Another painful pluck at my chest.

  “You think I wouldn’t?”

  “You did run from me earlier,” he points out, the barest hint of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. I hate that it sends a lick of heat straight down my spine. “I mean, you literally ran from the bakery when you saw me.”

  I look down at my feet. Not my finest moment. But I didn’t know what else to do. “I know.”

  A different kind of silence settles in the space between us.

  “I’d like some reassurance,” he says, voice quiet. I watch his feet as he shifts his weight. “That you’ll stay.”

  “And what would that be?” I ask in his general direction. When he doesn’t say anything in return, I release a breath and look up at him. He’s still frowning, that little line between his eyebrows deepening with it. “For you to be reassured?”

  I could write him a haiku. Bake him a cake and sign it in buttercream frosting. I know he’s hesitant because of the way I left things, but it was a one-night—okay, a two-night—stand. A single weekend together.

  I don’t owe him anything.

  His eyes flash a shade darker. For the first time since he’s entered the room, he fixes his gaze intently on mine. Something twists and pulls between us. I feel it as sure as a touch against my arm. The small of my back.

  “A promise,” he says.

  “Would you like me to make a blood oath?”

  He makes an unamused sound. I roll my eyes. “I’m here to do a job, Beckett. I wouldn't let anything get in the way of that. Stella deserves my best. I have no intentions of phoning it in.”

  I’ve never done anything but my best. He might think my job is ridiculous, but I know what my influence can do for people. I can bring business to this farm—customers, attention, a cannonball of social activity.

  “So you promise?”

  I nod, suddenly tired down to my very bones. I want the rest of that cookie tray and the bed, in that order.

  I want my ghost of one-night stands past to find the nearest exit.

  “I promise. I’ll be there tomorrow. We can start over.”

  “You won’t leave?” he asks and I’m reminded of a hazy gray morning, a storm rolling in off the coast. His arm stretched out beneath the pillows, the bare skin of his back and the dip of his spine. The gentle snick of the door as it closed behind me, my suitcase at my feet.

  I take a deep breath in through my nose and push it out just as slow. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t believe me. Apparently, Beckett is the type to hold onto a grudge.

  I grab another cookie from the tray. “I’ll stay.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  BECKETT

  MARCH

  “Do you plan on coming back to bed?”

  Her voice is raspy with sleep and she has a hickey at the base of her throat, a deep purple bruise that I can’t stop staring at. She stretches her arms above her head and the sheet slips half an inch, the swell of her breasts rising from beneath. I want to catch that sheet in my teeth and drag it down until she’s bare beneath me. I want a hundred other things, too.

  I shake my head from where I’m perched on the desk in the corner of the room, taking another sip of coffee instead.

  Restraint, I tell myself. Have some god damned restraint.

  She smirks at me.

  “Oh, I get it.” She drops her hands back down, one twisting through her hair, the other slipping beneath the sheets. One eyebrow arches high in invitation. “You like to watch.”

  I’m pretty sure I’d like just about anything with Evie. I want all that black, silky hair wrapped around my fist, that smiling mouth at my neck. Last night she spent twenty-two minutes tracing the tattoo across my bicep with her mouth and I want that, too. I want to return the favor with the freckles on the inside of her wrist and the marks at her hips.

  I push off the desk and set my cup to the side. I step towards the bed and watch the movement of her hand. She swipes it low across her stomach, a wicked smile on her pretty face. I plant my knee on the bed and find her ankle, her bare foot dangling off the edge.

  “I love to watch,” I tell her as I grip her thigh and make room for my body between her long legs. I drop a kiss to the inside of her knee and her whole body shivers. I drop another kiss just above it. “But I like to touch more.”

  A finger digs into my ribcage as I’m violently yanked from my favorite daydream.

  “Are you paying attention?”

  My knee jolts and my boot catches on the chair in front of me, sending Becky Gardener rocking precariously to the side. She curls her hands around the edges with a white-knuckled grip and shoots me a look over her shoulder. I fix my attention on my boots and mumble an apology.

  “I’m paying attention,” I tell Stella, and swat her hand away.

  Kind of. Not really. There are too many people in this room. All of the business owners in town are sandwiched together in the conference space at the rec hall, an old room that I’m pretty sure is used to store Easter decorations if the slightly terrifying six-foot bunny in the back corner is any indication. It smells like stale coffee and hairspray and the ladies from the salon haven’t stopped cackling since they stepped through the door. It’s like sitting cross-legged in the middle of a parade while the drumline marches around me. All of the sound pulls my shoulders tight, an itch of discomfort pricking at my neck.

  And I keep making eye contact with that bunny.

  I don’t usually come to these types of things, but Stella had insisted. You wanted to be a partner, she said. This is what partners do.

  I thought being a partner meant I could buy the fancy fertilizer without checking in with anyone, not attend meetings that serve absolutely no purpose. There’s a reason I chose a job where I spend seventy-five percent of my day outside.

  Alone. In the quiet.

  I struggle with talking to people. Struggle with coming up with the right words in the right sequence at the right time. Every single time I come into town, I feel like everyone is looking right at me. Some of that is in my head, I know, but some of it is—

  Some of it is Cindy Croswell pretending to fall in the aisle at the pharmacy just so I have to help her up again. Or Becky Gardener from the school asking me if I can host a field trip while eyeing me up like I’m a rare steak with a side of potatoes. I’ve got no idea what goes on half the time I come into town, but I feel like people lose their damn minds.

  “You’re not paying attention,” Layla chimes in from my right, legs crossed and hand rummaging around in the giant bowl of popcorn she brought with her. Layla runs the bakery at the farm while Stella holds down the tourism and marketing side of things. Since Inglewild is the size of a postage stamp and Stella has a bone-deep urge to make Lovelight Farms a cornerstone of the community, we seem to be expected to be involved in a lot of town business.

  I don’t even know what this meeting is about.

  “Where did the popcorn come from?”

  I glance at the gargantuan bag stuffed under her chair. I know for a fact there’s some brownies and half a box of crackers in there. She says the Inglewild bi-monthly small business owner’s meeting is a drag without a snack and I’m inclined to agree. Not that she’s offered to share.

  Layla circles one finger right in front of my face and ignores my question. “You have that moony look on your face. You’re thinking about Evelyn.”

  “Was not.” I sigh and roll my shoulders, desperate to relieve the tension that sits between them. “I was thinking about the pepper crop,” I lie.

  I’m distracted. I’ve been that way since two hazy nights in August. Sweat-slicked skin. Hair like midnight. Evie St. James had smelled like sea salt and tasted like citrus.

  I haven’t had my head on straight since.

  Layla rolls her eyes and crams another handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Okay, sure. Whatever you say.”

  Stella reaches across me and snatches the bowl out of Layla’s hands. “They’re getting ready to start. If we could pretend to be professional, that would be great.”

  I raise both eyebrows. “For the town meeting?”

  “Yes, for the town meeting. The one in which we are currently in attendance.”

  “Ah, yes. Always very professional.”

  At the last town meeting, Pete Crawford tried to filibuster Georgie Simmons during a vote on new parking restrictions in front of the co-op. He had re-enacted Speed, complete with props and voices.

  Stella levels me with a look and turns back to the front of the room with the bowl in the crook of her arm. Layla shimmies closer and rests her chin at my elbow. I sigh and look up at the heavy wooden beams that cut across the ceiling and pray for patience. There’s a deflated balloon stuck up there, probably leftover from the Valentine’s Day event they had last month. A speed dating thing, I think. My sisters had tried to make me go and I locked myself in my house and turned off my phone. I stare at the balloon and frown. A faded red heart, deflated and stuck, string wrapped around and around.

  “Have you talked to her since she left?”

  A couple of times. A bland text sent in the middle of the night after one too many beers. A generic response. A picture from her of an open field, somewhere out there in the world, a line of text that said not as nice as your farm but still pretty nice. I had fumbled my phone into the dirt when that message came through, my thumb tracing back and forth over her words like I had my hands on her skin instead.

  A social media influencer. An important one, apparently. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. Millions and millions of followers. I looked her up one night when the silence of my house felt suffocating, my thumb tapping at the screen of my phone. I checked her account and couldn’t stop staring at that little number at the top.

  I never checked her account again.

  I’ve had one-night stands before. Plenty of them. But I can’t get Evie out of my head. Thinking about her is like a hunger in the hollow of my stomach, a buzzing just under my skin. We spent two nights together in Bar Harbor. I shouldn’t—I don’t know why I still see her when I close my eyes.

  Twisted up in bedsheets. Hair in my face. That half-smile that drove me crazy.

  “I was thinking about peppers,” I say again, determined to hold onto this lie. It’s best not to give Layla an inch. She’ll take a mile and the shirt off your back for the trouble of it. I grew up with three sisters. I can sense the inquisition like a wind change.