by Hart, Hanna
Lynne was a fan of the classics. Anything by Herman Melville, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jane Austen.
And Mark Twain, which he’d only learned the night they had first said I love you to one another.
Or rather, he said it, while Lynne fumbled for words.
They had been standing out under a streetlight in a neighborhood where Lynne had been sharing a red-bricked dorm with some other college girls during their years at the Culinary Institute of America in New York.
Beckett’s parents, of course, wouldn’t allow him to live in Hyde Park. “Why live in Hyde Park when you could live in a brownstone in Manhattan?” his mother had said regally.
And so, they paid for his brownstone for four years and he diligently, and with irritation, commuted to class every single day.
He had just dropped Lynne off at the student commons and, after their kiss goodnight, Lynne had swung around a lamppost like they did in the old movies and, overtaken with how fun and adorable she was, he announced, “I love you, Lynne Joseph.”
Lynne’s smile fell from her dark cheeks, and she blinked in surprise at him.
“I… wow,” was all she had said back.
“I… wow?” Beckett repeated with some annoyance.
Beckett was taken aback. He’d dated two girls seriously in high-school and in both relationships, saying ‘I love you’ was practically half of their vocabulary. Granted, they were teenagers, but even then, at twenty, he felt a love so strong it was practically spilling out of his mouth every time he spoke to Lynne.
“You don’t love me?” he asked with narrowed brows.
They had been dating for seven months. How could she not love him back, he’d wondered? What did she have that made him fall so hard and fast for her, that he was allegedly missing?
“No, I just…” Lynne stammered, running a hand through her thick hair before bursting into nervous laughter. “I care about you a lot.”
“Care a lot or love a lot?”
Lynne let out a resigned sigh and then shrugged. “Do we need to say it?”
“I do,” he said.
“I don’t,” she said back.
He looked back and forth from her dark eyes and then craned his neck back in surprise.
“Are you serious right now?” he jabbed, “Do you love me or not?”
“I just don’t think it’s that easy to say!” she laughed again.
“Why are you laughing?” he asked in frustration. “This is funny.”
“Listen,” she said, grabbing his wrists and pulling his hands down. “A wise man once said that emotions are among the toughest things in the world to manufacture,” she had said with one finger pointed to the air. “It is easier to manufacture seven facts than one emotion.”
“Wh—” he winced and shook his head in frustration. Bringing his fingers to his temple, he asked, “Wh-what is that? What are we doing here?”
“That,” Lynne announced, “is Mark Twain.”
Beckett had been furious. That moment hadn’t been a game to him; it had been his true feelings. And to him, Lynne just seemed like she was purposely trying to confuse him.
Still, he remembered she had looked so beautiful and confident that he couldn’t help but smile.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” he snapped, trying to hide his smirk.
“It means I’m not going to say I love you if I don’t mean it yet,” she said.
He’d given a slow nod and thought on that for some time before speaking again.
“Okay,” he’d eventually said.
“Okay?” she repeated. “Are we good?”
“We’re…” he paused. “We’re good.”
It was then he’d learned of her love for old writers, her difficulty expressing herself, and how much she loved to talk in riddles when they weren’t getting along.
At the time, it drove him crazy.
Now he would give anything to have those conversations with her again. To be challenged with a literary quote.
She said I love you two weeks later at a baseball game.
Beckett put the aged book back on his shelf and set his glass on the bar cart. Suddenly, he wasn’t so fond of the silence in the house.
He walked back out into the living room and saw Fiona hiding a smile as she flipped a page in her novel.
“I’m heading out,” he said and watched with amusement as she jumped in surprise.
“Holy smokes!” she yelled from the couch before bursting into laughter. She covered her face with the open book and stammered, “I didn’t see you there!”
“Here I thought you were just ignoring me,” he mocked and sat down on the couch next to her. She raised her legs and flopped them back on his lap as soon as he sat down.
Instinctively, Beckett began rubbing her legs as they spoke to one another.
“You look sharp,” she said, sitting up a little straighter. “Are you working tonight? I thought you had the whole night free?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I told Shooter I’d meet him at the bar.”
“Fun!” she announced. “You want me to get out of my pajamas and tag along?”
Beckett swallowed awkwardly and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Guys night,” he said simply, as though that should explain it all.
“Oh,” she said and smiled politely. “Well, I hope you’re not playing pool.”
“Just drinks,” he said as he rubbed at her pale calf.
She watched him with a soft smile as he massaged her and he could feel her adoring eyes on him once more. It reminded him of how she’d looked at him outside the restaurant when she’d brought him a lunch.
It made him feel warm and then sick all at once.
“What are you going to do while I’m gone?” he asked and she gave him a dopey smile.
“Just sit here I guess. Read my book,” she said.
“You should explore the island!” he insisted. “Go out and make some friends or walk around the beaches. The resort is beautiful.”
“Maybe,” she said with a tone that he knew meant she wouldn’t. “Maybe if I’m around Rendezvous, I’ll pop in and say hi?”
“We might not be there,” he said. “We might go back to Shooter’s or head to a different bar.”
“Oh, okay,” she said, still seeming unphased by his denial of her.
And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he was doing this.
He was the one who drew her into this mess. This lie. And now that she was doing exactly what he’d asked of her, acting like his wife, he was pulling away.
Even tonight, there was no reason why he shouldn’t have invited her to come out with him and Shooter for a drink or a meal. In fact, he wanted her to come. But something was steering him away, and for now, he was going to listen to that instinct.
Beckett parted ways with Fiona, hoping she would go out and explore the island. And predictably, he and Shooter ended up at Rendezvous. They took a familiar seat at the bar, and each ordered a drink.
They talked about married life, the regatta from the day previous, and how Shooter was getting along with the two girls he was currently dating.
The night was going well up until an old friend, a waitress turned bartender from a few summers ago, made her way behind the bar.
“Hey, Beckett,” the woman said, jutting a hip out as she flirtatiously regarded her boss.
Her name was Natalie. She had olive skin and dark features. She was a regular island beauty.
“Can’t believe you’re back here! I thought your dad made it so you’d trip some invisible alarm system if you were caught walking through the doors,” she said playfully.
“Ha-ha,” he mocked, “Believe it or not, I work here now. Living to serve the lowly tourists, like yourself.”
“You’re a regular savior,” she grinned as she filled up each of the men’s glasses with bourbon. “So, you’re back for good now?”
Beckett could feel Shooter’s eyes baring down into him as he answered, �
�Until I’m not.”
Natalie raised both of her thinly arched brows and gave an amused laugh. She nodded at him and said, “You’re a regular man of mystery. So, where’ve you been hiding these days?”
“The stars,” he said in a playful whisper.
Shooter rolled his eyes and deadpanned, “Savannah, Georgia.”
“Working?” Natalie asked.
“Of course,” he said casually.
“He was banished by Colton until he quit his bachelor lifestyle and, oh, what’s the phrase… oh! Grew up!” Shooter added.
Beckett clenched his jaw and exhaled as he shot Shooter an annoyed glance. But this was interrupted as Natalie leaned far over the bar top so that her cleavage spilled out.
“And did you?” she asked just above a whisper. “Grow up?” she clarified.
Beckett gave a smooth smile and shrugged. “Time will tell,” he said.
“Well,” Natalie said and grabbed one of the paper coasters from off the bar. She took a pen out of her apron and began scribbling before handing it to Beckett. “If you’re ever feeling lonely and not so grown up, here’s how to get a hold of me.”
With that, the brunette walked off to take someone else’s order.
Beckett took another sip of his drink and tapped his fingers against the glass, lost in thought. He felt uncomfortable and guilty for some reason, and the feeling niggled at him. He felt like he was doing something wrong. Like the actions that just occurred would hurt Fiona.
But that was silly, wasn’t it?
He didn’t owe Fiona fidelity, he reminded himself. Sure, she was his partner now, but she was hardly his real wife.
If he should feel guilty about anyone, it should have been Lynne. Yet, it was Fiona’s face that kept creeping into his mind.
“Here I thought you were a married man,” Shooter said with a casual, if not annoyed laugh.
Beckett waved him off. “Doesn’t mean I can’t look.”
“Look,” Shooter warned, “but don’t touch.”
At that, Shoot picked up the coaster and snapped the thin paper in half. “How’s that going, anyway? I’m surprised you’re not with her right now.”
“Are you kidding me?” Beckett laughed, making sure not to seem offended by the coaster snap. “I just gained my father’s trust back. You think I’m going to let this restaurant out of my sight?”
Shooter shrugged. “Shouldn’t you be on a honeymoon or something?”
“Um…” Beckett said with some levity, “Nani Makai is a honeymoon.”
“Right, right,” Shooter nodded.
“Right?” Beckett insisted. “Not all of us live here, Shooter.”
Shooter didn’t nod or even respond, really. In fact, for a big-mouth, he was being oddly silent. He just sipped his drink and stared up at the results from the latest island rowing regatta on the flat screen television that hung behind the bar.
“What?” Beckett finally asked, unable to bear the silence.
“What, what?” Shooter repeated.
Beckett sighed, “Shooter.”
“Well, what’s up with that?” he said, nodding toward Natalie.
“What?” Beckett said, astonished. “Harmless flirting. Nothing more.”
“Don’t do that, okay?”
“Do what?” Beckett asked. “Hurt Fiona? Believe me, Fiona can—”
“Don’t self-sabotage,” Shooter interrupted.
Beckett blinked. He set his jaw and said, “Well, that’s a new one.”
“Unfortunately, it isn't. Look, Beck, seeing you with Fiona was literally the happiest I've seen you since Lynne. Don't screw this up because you don't feel like you deserve it.”
Beckett felt like he just took a punch to the gut. He narrowed his brows and spun his stool to face Shooter. “Why are you shrinking me right now?”
“I'm not shrinking you.”
“Yeah, you are,” Beckett snapped. “Aren’t you dating two different girls right now, man? Why are you giving me a hard time?”
“Yes, Beck, I’m dating two girls. And they go on dates with different guys, too! You know why? Because we’re not in a relationship!”
Beckett scoffed, “What’s the difference?”
“I’m dating different people to find the one that’s right for me. I’m not pretending to be committed and then hurting people’s feelings,” his friend explained.
“Oh, how old-school of you,” Beckett snipped. “So, why are you lecturing me?”
Shooter shrugged. “Well, somebody has to! Look at you, man. Do you know how worried we were about you?”
Beckett blinked, hardened at his friend’s words. “Who's we?” he asked.
“Me, your parents, Martin, Ashley, the rest of the crew here. I've never seen you so out of control before. It was scary.”
“Thanks for the concern,” he snapped.
“I'm serious,” Shooter said, raising both brows to his friend.
“I'm getting that idea. Thanks.”
Beckett sighed inwardly. “Well,” he said, trying to sound casual. Instead, the single word came out sounding abrupt and hostile. “I should get going,” he finished.
“Come on, man, don’t be like that,” Shooter pleaded. “Let’s head out to the mainland, play some pool.”
“Nah, I’m tired,” he said, pushing himself off the barstool. “I’d better head back, spend some time with the wife.”
Shooter scraped his teeth against his bottom lip and gave a slow nod.
“Okay,” his friend said with resignation. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Shooter nodded, and Beckett left the bar.
He knew what he’d put his family through, and he didn’t need to be reminded of it by his best friend.
Chapter Eight
Fiona
Fiona hated being alone.
She had hated being alone since she was thirteen, after her father passed away.
It gave her too much time to think about herself, and she wasn't the type of person who liked to host pity parties for herself—though various friends throughout the years reassured her that if anyone deserved a little sympathy, it was Fiona.
She felt like she had been on the island forever and much of her days were now spent alone. Ever since she'd come to Beckett's work.
He would look for reasons to stay away, to work late, or to go out with friends without her company.
Sometimes she wondered if he even liked her at all. But then, there would be times when he would spend the whole night reading in her bedroom. They would take turns reading paragraphs of a book together until one of them got too sleepy, and they would have to part ways for the night.
Some days he would enter her room early in the morning with strong coffee and flowers. He would spend the morning in the chair next to her bed, talking to her and making jokes, and when she finished her coffee, he would say, "Come on, sunshine."
It was the sexiest, most affectionate thing she had experienced in years.
After saying her new favorite phrase, he would pick her up by the waist and carry her down to the kitchen to cook breakfast with her.
He would set her down on the marble countertop and tickle her or play with her hair. Then he would teach her new, fancy terms for cooking simple things like eggs. The word "shirred," "bearnaise," and "mise en place" were often used.
During these times, when Beckett was at his most romantic and charming, she couldn't help the bulb of affection that she had grown for him.
She tried to stop the blush that came to her face whenever he walked into the room or the rush of excitement she felt when he came home after work, but she couldn't stop herself. Trying to stop falling for Beckett Davenport was like trying to stop an avalanche with a hot butter knife—comically futile.
But then the days would come again where he would pull away from her. She had tried being patient with him and to make friends on the island as he had wanted. She'd even gone out with his sister Maggs on a few occasions, but the outings often
left her with a pounding headache.
"I'm so glad Beckett finally has someone in his life, since, you know," Maggs said with a shrug as she chose from a set of what Fiona thought were three identical white linens.
The linens were for Maggs' upcoming nuptials, which was going to be a big to-do on the island. The wedding was going to be hosted by Crystal Beach Resorts with a gigantic ceremony on the beach.
"Right, he told me," Fiona said, thinking back to his request for positive PR. "He was in rough shape."
"Yeah, no kidding," Maggs said. "He was such a wreck, he actually went to the mainland for a while and slept in some one-bedroom apartment until my parents made him come home. Gross, right?”
Fiona’s brows shot up at this suggestion that sleeping in a one-bedroom apartment somehow made you less of a person.
It was clear that the charm Bebe and Colton Davenport had bestowed on their son was somehow lost on Maggs. Instead, she seemed like a spoiled, selfish girl.
Fiona wanted to say, “I’ve been living in a motel for the last year,” just to revel in the look of horror she would get from Maggs, but thought better of it.
Fiona was a giver. She was a giver in relationships and friendships alike. She liked to know about the other person so she would ask a lot of questions. It was also a great way to deflect her shyness, or so her father had taught her. "If you ever feel nervous or run out of things to say," her father had said, "just ask them a question about themselves! Because if there's anything people like to do, it's talk about themselves."
His advice worked like a charm.
And while her shyness thanked her for giving someone else the opportunity to talk, conversations with Maggs often left her feeling emotionally exhausted.
If Fiona was all give, Maggs was all take. She could talk about herself until sunset without asking so much as an, "And, how are you?" back to Fiona.
That night, after a long day with Maggs—only made tolerable by Bebe’s sudden appearance at dinner—Fiona had decided she needed to talk to Beckett.
She needed to get a grip on her feelings and be professional.
