by Julie Cross
My face heats up, probably turns beet red. I give him a shove, and he retreats to the bathroom. When I look back at Mrs. Beckett, her eyebrows are lifted. She heard that. Of course she did.
“Coffee?” she asks.
I hide my face with my hair. “No, thanks.”
“Juice? Water?” she adds, anything to change the subject.
“Sure.” I take a seat at the small table in the kitchen. “Juice sounds great.”
Soon we’re seated together, me with a big glass of orange juice and Mrs. Beckett with a mug of coffee. She watches me for a minute or so and then finally speaks. “Miles and Simon were close. Did he tell you that?”
She emphasizes the word “close.” She’s feeling out the situation.
“He told me.”
“When Simon didn’t get into the honors program, Miles was devastated. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that one of them might not make it into the program. I thought he’d drop out of Marshall Academy.” She looks down at her coffee, hiding a sheepish grin. “Okay, I hoped he would leave school and come to Switzerland with us. But one day, in the middle of the summer, after moping around for weeks, he put on his sneakers, went for a run, and told me he had a lot of work to do before September.”
“That sounds like Miles,” I say, because it does. His reaction when we looked at those pictures…and then an hour later, he was back to putting clues together, thinking, analyzing.
“And then last June when he heard the news, I thought he’d never try to make friends again. Until he met you. Anyone smart enough to force Miles to blow his cover is a perfect match for my son.” She smiles at me. “And now he seems to have some balance in his life. The void that’s been around for two years seems to be filled.”
I don’t know if you could call what Miles and I have been doing anything close to finding balance. Balance between make-out sessions and homicide investigations? Balance between breaking and entering and druggie parties with the rich Holden A-listers? And it’s temporary. How is that balance? All I can offer her is a weak smile.
She reaches across the table and pats my hand. “I know, I know. You’re just friends. Miles is leaving after the semester ends. It’s not meant to be.”
Then she rolls her eyes as if to say, yeah right. And for a second, I wish with every ounce of me that her perception of us was the reality. It sounds so simple, just the distance and the separate schools being our only obstacle. Not the fact that Miles would hate me if he really knew me. And I don’t think he’s the type of guy to be with someone and not know them inside and out. It’s probably good that he’s leaving. That he doesn’t want to take anything from Holden with him, physically or emotionally.
“Probably isn’t meant to be…” I look down at the table. “I’m pretty good at disappointing Miles. I’ve done it quite a few times.”
“Just because he has high expectations doesn’t mean you’re not important to him. If you don’t believe me, just compare his relationship with you to how it is between him and the other Holden kids,” she says. “He’s different with you. He’s real with you, right?”
I don’t know what to say. He is different with me. He accepts Dominic’s and Bret’s screwups because they’re part of his job and he has to. But with me, he calls me out on it. That makes me a real friend?
The bathroom door opens, and Mrs. Beckett pushes her chair back and stands. “Time for me to make breakfast.”
Miles reappears in the kitchen and leans on the back of my chair. “I wanna show you something outside.”
“Out there?” I point at the window. “In the cold? And the snow?”
He laughs. “Don’t be a baby.”
I look down at my pajama pants and thermal. “I’m not dressed. Or showered.”
“You can do that later.”
Miles produces a pair of wool socks, some winter boots that are only a little big on me, and a ski jacket. I have no excuse but to follow him outside. Soon we’re tramping through the snow, the sun now higher in the sky, brighter.
“Miles Beckett, the wilderness guide,” I say as we move through the woods, far from the house. “You look good out here.”
He flashes me a grin but doesn’t protest or give one of his smooth replies. Instead he picks up his pace, and I have to practically jog to keep up with him.
Just before my fingers and toes are frozen, we reach a creek that flows through the woods. In front of the creek is a wooden fort.
Miles gestures for me to enter first. I duck down and soon I’m free of the cold wind. Miles heads straight for a large wooden box, built into the fort. He punches the code on the outside and flings the top open. I look in and survey the contents—pillows, a propane heater, a camp stove, a container of marshmallows, and several books.
“These are probably stale.” Miles lifts the marshmallows from the box. Before I can stop him he rips the lid off the container and shoves one in my mouth. “But you can test them out.”
I chew the marshmallow slowly. It’s hard to tell if it’s stale or just cold. “I’ve had worse.” Miles sets up the heater and soon I’m warming my hands over it. “Did your dad build this for you?”
“I built it,” he says. “While my parents were working on the big house, I wanted to make my own. Took me a whole summer.”
Not hard to imagine eleven-year-old Miles out here, hammering wood pieces together, mimicking whatever his dad was doing.
“So…” He leans against one of the pillows from the box and looks at me. “What did my dad talk to you about last night?”
Guess I wasn’t the only one thinking Mr. Beckett lacked subtlety. Still I feel obligated to keep it a secret. Most of it, anyway. “He wants me to let you teach me some self-defense, and I told him I would.”
“Really?” he asks, and I nod. “Good.”
“Good,” I repeat, staring at his mouth. It’s right here. So close. Before we arrived yesterday, I still longed for another time-out from our non-relationship, another moment of enjoyment like we’d had that night at the dance. After getting this window into Miles’s life through his family, I want it even more. But at the same time, it feels more dangerous, more risky. More real.
I scoot away from him and head for the wood box. “Let’s see these genius books young Miles read.”
...
“Smart move,” I tell Mr. Beckett after he lifts his rook, hovering it over a black square.
He looks up at me, narrows his eyes. “You’ve got quite a game, young lady.”
Mrs. Beckett laughs from her spot on the couch. “And not just her chess game.”
“Well, she did manage to plant a tracker on a big drug dealer,” Mr. Beckett says. “I should have known what I was getting into.”
Jesus. He really does tell his parents everything. Weird.
“Wait…” I say. “He actually admitted I did the job for him? Miles…is this true?” I glance over my shoulder at the empty chair where he’d been seated, watching the chess match.
“He went out for more firewood,” Mrs. Beckett says. She glances at the clock above the fireplace. “That was seventeen minutes ago.”
“Maybe he decided to chop some of the larger pieces,” Mr. Beckett says.
“I haven’t heard any chopping.”
Both parents spring to their feet and head straight for the living room window. Mr. Beckett sighs with relief. “The lights are on in the guesthouse.”
“You have a guest house?” I join them at the window.
“We use it mostly as a training room,” Mrs. Beckett explains. She looks more closely at the small building behind the house, and her forehead creases. She turns to her husband. “Maybe you should go talk to him.”
My stomach twists with knots. It’s been such a relaxing day, but I’ve noticed a cloud beginning to drift over Miles the past few hours. I reach for the borrowed coat on the back of my chair. I might have a better idea what’s bothering him.
“Let me go,” I offer. I’m sliding on boots befo
re either of them can object.
CHAPTER 39
The “guesthouse” is unlocked. I walk quietly inside, but there’s no point in tiptoeing because the sound of Miles, kicking the punching bag hanging from the ceiling, is so loud it echoes off the walls. The only thing homey about this guesthouse is the fireplace. There’s a kitchen in one corner and a couch shoved up against a wall, and blue exercise mats cover nearly the entire surface of fluffy white carpet.
The punching bag Miles is currently murdering hangs in the far corner. Miles lays another kick into it. Sweat trickles down his forehead. I jump when he kicks the bag again. It’s so loud the house vibrates.
“Dominic won’t give me anything. Won’t even hint at him and Simon. Keeps making up lies to cover everything.” Another kick, this time with the left foot. “Never mentions the psycho that’s harassing him, and if I ask him about it, my cover’s blown and I risk ruining everything…damn, this fucking sucks—”
He’s on the verge of exploding or a breakdown. I grab the swinging bag and wrap my arms around it. “Enough. Before you break a bone.”
He lowers his leg to the floor, but tension still ripples over him. “My parents send you out here?”
“I volunteered. But they looked worried.” I release the bag and step in front of it. “Why don’t you just tell them? Tell them what we’re doing. That the FBI doesn’t seem concerned with new information. They could probably help.”
“I want to.” Miles lifts his T-shirt and wipes his forehead with it, giving me a nice view of his abs. “But they seem so happy that I’m doing well. I hate ruining that.”
“What about your handler? Can you talk to him or her confidentially?”
“That’s who I told.” He looks poised to start attacking the bag again, but then seems to notice me. All of me. “No shoes in the guest house. Mr. Lee’s rule.”
I bend over to pull the boots off my feet. “And where is Mr. Lee?”
“In Miami,” Miles says. “Living the retired man’s dream. He visits sometimes, though, and checks the mats for shoe prints. This used to be his place.”
I unzip my coat and toss it beside the boots. The few seconds of silence is enough to set Miles back on the “beat the hell out of something” plan. I step between him and the punching bag. “You’re right. The Dominic situation is infuriating. Knowing he can tell us exactly when Simon left his house, what state of mind he was in, what their parting words were… He’s got it on lockdown, so much that he must be willing to risk everything to hold those secrets. Even the truth about Simon. I can’t imagine how that’s making you feel, but maybe giving your mind a rest, getting away from it all, will give you perspective. You just have to let it go. For now.”
“Right.” He exhales, looks away from the bag. “Theory of incubation.”
“Exactly.” I smile, relieved he’s always so easy to reason with, even when he reaches such high boiling points. “Your parents are home, and everything we do this weekend is giving that part of your brain a rest and making room for the perfect solution.”
“Everything we do,” he repeats, giving me a look that warms my insides. “Like your self-defense lessons.”
Not exactly where I thought he would head with that. “Why do you want me to learn self-defense? Obviously your dad has his reasons, but you seem to agree…? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty good at talking my way out of things. Probably better than I’ll be at fighting anyone.”
“Davey,” Miles says. “That’s why. He saw you, knows what you look like, knows where you live. I should have never—”
“You didn’t mean for that to happen,” I tell him.
“My dad said the same thing.” Miles gives me a tiny smile, but it vanishes quickly. “But it did happen. And you—you’re so…you’re just…I’m…”
“Speechless?” I tease. “What happened to the guy who practically invited me into the shower this morning?”
He breaks out of his funk and rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s get started with your first lesson.”
I look down at my sweater and leggings. “I left my ninja girl costume at home. What would Mr. Lee think?”
Miles finds that wicked grin and flashes it at me again. “He’d tell you to ditch the sweater.”
“And he’s back.” I shove him. “Mr. Lee sounds like a dirty old man.”
But since I have a tank top on underneath, I follow orders and ditch the sweater.
“Okay,” Miles says, standing in front of me. “Show me your best kick.”
“You want me to kick you?” This is never a method I’d use to get my way. “Where? In the balls?”
Miles winces. “Preferably not.”
I have no idea what I’m doing, but I lift my leg anyway, thrusting it at him. My foot ends up in his hand. He lifts it just enough to flip me flat on my back. I land with a thud, the wind knocked out of me. “Yeah…no…I don’t like this game.”
“I’m not going easy on you because you’re a girl.” He shrugs but at least offers me a hand. “I fight girls at my school all the time.”
Unfortunately for me, I have a competitive streak. One that makes me want to beat these girls who get to roll around on the mats with Miles.
Once I’m back on my feet again, Miles says, “Try punching me.”
I shake out my arms and wait until he’s not expecting it and swing my right fist at him. He catches it easily, just like he’d done with my foot. With a quick turn of my wrist, I’m facing outward, my back pressed to his front.
“I’m beginning to think you’re setting me up for something.” I attempt to break free, but his hold on me is too tight. “What’s the point of this?”
“The point,” he says, his mouth right beside my ear, “is that you’re overconfident sometimes.”
I elbow his side, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “And you want to put me in my place. Thanks for that.”
“I need you to be afraid,” Miles says, so intense his voice sends a chill up my spine. “I saw you that day with Davey, when he got close to you, when he looked at your earring. You were afraid. Right now, I want you to imagine that moment again, but this time imagine you’re alone. No Dominic, no me. No Harper keeping an eye on you from the window.”
My heart races, my breaths coming quicker.
“Good,” Miles says, obviously reading my body language. “Imagine you’re walking somewhere, in the dark, and you get that feeling like you’re not alone. A guy like Davey…he’d corner you alone, try to talk to you first, and then he’d make a move…”
My body tenses, but I force myself to listen to him, let him keep scaring me. I don’t want him to think I can’t handle this. But maybe he’s right—maybe I can’t.
As if reading my mind, Miles says, “You can handle him. I can teach you how. But no playing around, no jokes in the training room, wherever that ends up being. You have to focus. You have to trust me. Can you do that?”
The way he’s talking to me, the emotion in his voice… Outside of Harper and Aidan, I don’t think anyone has ever cared this much about me. Not even my own parents.
I squeeze my eyes shut and lean into the arms holding me so firmly. It isn’t fair that I can’t be this person he thinks I am. This person his parents seem to think I am.
“Miles?” My voice shakes, but I still plunge forward. “Why haven’t you asked me about my family?”
He’s known for a long time that the story about my dad kicking me out wasn’t true, so why hasn’t he asked about them? Does he suspect something bad and doesn’t want to ruin whatever this thing is that we have?
Miles releases me and turns me to face him. He leans against the back of the couch. “Lawrence asked me not to.”
I stare at him, bewildered by this. “And you just listened without question?”
“He said it was important. Why wouldn’t I take that seriously?”
The weight pressing on my chest grows even heavier. “I don’t know, maybe because it’s human nature to w
ant to dig for the truth.” Isn’t that what we were doing with Simon?
“I agree.” His fingers land on my hip, and he tugs me closer. “But your parents’ truth isn’t yours, Ellie.”
Then ask me mine. Please just ask and I’ll have to tell you. I can’t lie to your face anymore. And then this will all be over. I close my eyes again, shutting down those thoughts. “Miles?”
He pulls me gently until I’m standing between his legs. “Yeah?”
I almost say what’s inside my head, but quickly realize that I don’t want it to be over. Any of it. I don’t want him to hate me.
Instead I say, “Do I still drive you crazy?”
I open my eyes in time to see his reaction, feel his fingers tighten on my waist.
He touches his forehead to mine. “Every. Damn. Second.”
My chest rises and falls more rapidly; my hands are shaking from all the emotion, from wanting this so much. I lift both my hands to his face. “I know the feeling.”
“What if…” His lips hover over mine. “Another time-out. Just for the weekend? We can turn back into pumpkins when we get back to Virginia.”
That’s what it’s like for me, when we do this thing where we let go and just be…I feel like a statue coming to life. I look at him and draw in a deep breath. He’s got those warm, kind eyes trained on me, promising some not-so-good behavior. What is it with the Ames sisters and our habit of falling for these saintlike guys?
I lean in and let my mouth touch his. Warmth spreads over me; my lips linger on his, barely moving, just soaking it up. Miles sighs against my mouth, and then he pulls away too soon. He releases me and strides across the room, turning the dial on the wall to dim the lights. Before I can ask questions, I’m in his arms again, his face buried against my neck.
“Binoculars,” he whispers. “My parents have them right by the window. For bird-watching. Figured you might prefer privacy.”
He lifts me up off the ground, and suddenly I’m perched on the back of the couch where he’d been moments ago. His fingers find the hem of my tank top and sink beneath it, pulling the material up.
