Page 12 of Redemption

I clasp my hands behind his neck. “I love you, too. And don’t worry; I’m not going anywhere. I don’t ever want to be without you either.”

“You know, I haven’t forgotten what you said all those years ago.”

My eyebrows scrunch together. “Said what exactly? We’ve exchanged lots of words over the years, you know.”

Beck cups my jaw with his hands. “That we’re gonna get married one day.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” I smile at the memory.

“You did.” He nods. “And I want that, Pres. I want to marry you one day. Have kids with you. I know people say this is just puppy love and that we’ll grow out of it, but I know that’s not true. I want you to be my forever, and that will never change.”

“Beckett, you have me. For always.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “Now quit talkin’ and make love to me.”

He smiles warmly. “Now that I can do.”

Chapter Eight

Beckett

What the hell was that?

I’ve seen some messed up shit in my life, and because of that, I’ve had some pretty fucking disturbing thoughts at times, but I’ve never questioned my sanity before now. I swear I just saw the girl who wrecked me, standing on her front porch waiting for me like she used to when we were kids. But that would be impossible because the woman hasn’t stepped foot on this ranch since the day she left almost twelve years ago. Why would she bother when she has the fancy city life she always dreamed of?

But... there’s no one else it could be. I would know that silhouette anywhere.

Or... the more plausible scenario is I’ve finally lost the plot, and I’m hallucinating. What’s one more thing on my list of problems, right? Sanity is overrated.

“Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.

I glance at the clock above the stove and see that I have less than an hour to get my ass out to the stables. I don’t have time to waste on ghosts from my past. I’m sure this shit is stirring because Nicole and I had another fight. I’ve been upfront with her from the beginning—I’m just looking to have some fun. Monogamous fun, but casual, nonetheless. It’s all I’m capable of, and I make no secret about that. But Nic has decided she wants more. Hell, last night, she pretty much demanded it, issuing an ultimatum that I either put a ring on her finger or she’s walking away. When I chose the latter, she begged and pleaded with me to forget she ever said a word. She then proceeded to remind me of all the fun we’ve had over the last two years; hence, why I’m just gettin’ home, dead tired.

It’s going to be a long day.

After getting changed and eating some breakfast, I figure I might as well head out and get an early start. Right as I’m scooping up my cell from its spot on the kitchen counter, it buzzes with an incoming call. When I look down and see Mrs. James’ name on the caller ID, I immediately pick up, worried something may have happened to her husband.

“Is everything okay?”

There’s a pause on the other end before she says anything. “Hi, honey. I’m glad I caught you. I heard your truck passing just a little bit ago, so I figured I’d call before you came over this morning. I know this will sound strange—and completely out of left field—but I need you to stay away from the house for a while. There’s been... well, we have an unexpected visitor, and I think it’s best if you get your morning coffee from your own kitchen. At least for now. I’m sure she’ll... I mean, I think—”

“Anna, what’s going on?”

She blows out a frustrated breath. Probably because I rarely address this woman by her first name. It’s usually ma’am or Mrs. J. She tried convincing me to drop the formalities when I was a kid, but the woman had a hand in raising me almost as much as my father did, so I feel like I owe her that respect. If I’m dropping the formalities, she knows I mean business.

“She’s back, Beckett.” Mrs. James’ voice is so quiet, it barely qualifies as a whisper, but I heard every word loud and clear.

“Who’s back, Mrs. J?”

We both know who she is, but I need to hear her say it. At least I know she wasn’t a figment of my imagination. That’s a mark in the plus column, I suppose.

“Presley.” Why is her voice so shaky? “And things aren’t right, Beck. She’d be so upset if she knew I was calling you, but she doesn’t know you took over for your father yet, and I know she wouldn’t want anyone seeing her like this, so—”

“See her like what, Mrs. J? What’s wrong with Presley?”

I shouldn’t care. Not after Pres walked away from everything we had and married another man less than a year later. A goddamned politician douchebag at that. Logically, I know this, but logic is the last thing on my mind when I hear the anguish in her mother’s tone.

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