Page 27 of One Pucking Heart

“Sure, fiancée, let’s go.” I follow her to her car without saying goodbye to anyone. I’m too drunk to deal with any more questions.

Elena helps me into my—I mean, our—condo.

My arm draped around her shoulders, she leads me to my room and helps me get undressed. “Wait here,” she instructs.

I sit on the edge of my bed in just my briefs, hands grasping the side of the mattress so I don’t topple over. Even in this state, I’m worried about my knee. Falling off my bed and landing on my knee wrong would push back my progress and ruin everything. It’s mildly reassuring to know I have some brain cells left.

Elena returns with a glass of water and two white pills. “Here, take these and drink the whole glass of water. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

I do as instructed, and the urge to piss myself takes over. “Bathroom,” I groan.

Elena scoops my arm over her shoulders and helps me into the bathroom. She leaves, shutting the door behind her, allowing me some privacy. I’m grateful as I stumble all over the place. Damn, I’m going to have some cleanup to do tomorrow. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this drunk. Maybe in college? Filling the glass on the counter, I down another two glasses of water before opening the bathroom door.

“You okay?” Elena is there to greet me.

I’m not remotely okay, but I say nothing.

She guides me back over to the bed and tucks me in, pulling the sheet up. “I know tonight was hard, Beck, but we knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

There’s so much I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. Chalk it up to my complete inebriation or the few brain cells still working, but even now, I know it’s in my best interest to sleep these feelings off. The truth is, Elena doesn’t know shit about what I’m feeling. She has to lie to one person she cares about, her daughter. I have to lie to everyone I love, and it’s a lot. It took a toll I wasn’t prepared for.

I can’t put all the blame on her. This was my idea, after all, and it took quite a bit of convincing to get her to go along with it.

Eyes closed, I position my head against my pillow. “I’m an idiot.” I sigh, and the thought meant to be internal falls from my lips.

She runs her hands through my hair. “No, you’re not. You’re kind and loving. It’s why this is all so hard for you. You feel like you’re letting your friends and family down by lying to them. Don’t worry, Beck.” She smooths the blanket against my chest. “This will be over soon enough. It will end, and everything can go back to the way it was.”

As I drift off to sleep, it dawns on me that her words bring me no comfort. In fact, they make me feel worse.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ELENA

Beckett has been quiet this morning, which is unusual for him. In the week we’ve lived together, he’s rarely shut up. There’s no doubt he’s feeling the effects of the copious amount of alcohol he consumed last night and the lie we told. It was very clear how hard it was for him to deceive everyone he loved. So much so, I wanted to call the whole thing off. Then again, I want to end this charade at least a hundred times a day.

Other than his chatty nature and endless flirting, Beckett is a pretty cool roommate. He’s clean, and his condo is beautiful and immaculate. I sleep in the guest bedroom, and he gives me my space when I need it. I thought I was living large with one streaming service subscription—Beckett has them all. Literally, every streaming service known to man is on his television. Our bingeing options are endless. He’s on a mission to find me a show I’ll openly admit is better than the Gilmore Girls, while I’m trying to get him to watch my favorite show. He’s awfully adamant about his opinion, though he’s never watched more than a few clips of Gilmore Girls. Our banter is fun, and the time spent together is more enjoyable than I thought it would be.

As hard as it is to admit, Beckett makes me feel safe, loved, and cherished. Our new friendship is the most meaningful relationship I’ve had in a long time, outside the one with my daughter. He has this way about him. I saw it last night as he hung out with his teammates. He’s charismatic and makes everyone around him feel special, and in turn, they flock to him. People want to be around others who lift them up, and Beckett does that.

I add the fluffy pancake to the plate and drizzle it with real maple syrup and the strawberry sauce I prepared. Beckett declined breakfast, but there is no way he can turn these down. Just the smell has my stomach rumbling. This morning, I ran to the store to get the ingredients I needed for Marcella’s famous pancakes. As my favorite cook growing up, she taught me her secret recipe and swore it was the perfect hangover food. At the time, I couldn’t have cared less about her hangover comment. I constantly requested she make them because they were amazing. She swore the mix of ingredients did wonders to soak up alcohol while providing much-needed vitamins to replenish those who partied a little too hard. Looking back now, Marcella shared more worldly knowledge than an eight-year-old should probably know, but I still think back on her tenure in my childhood home with the warmest memories. Before she left, she jotted down the ingredients for my favorite recipes in a notebook, which is one of my most prized possessions. When I left home at eighteen, it was one of the few things I took with me.

Plate in hand, I make my way across the living room. Beckett is spread out on the sofa, absentmindedly staring at the television. “Here you go.” I hand the plate of pancakes to him.

He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but you have to try these. They’re amazing. My favorite cook, Marcella, taught me how to make these when I was young, and she swore they were the best hangover food on the planet. And they’re delicious.”

“You were learning how to cure a hangover at eight?” He smirks with a quirk of his brow, and a sense of calm comes over me at the sight. I’ve been without his smile for mere hours, and I’ve missed it.

I shrug. “Much like you, Marcella liked to talk, a lot. Also like you, her conversations weren’t always appropriate. In fact, now that I think about it, you would’ve loved her.”

He sits up, leaning his back against the couch. “I may not always be appropriate, as you say, but I’m also not talking to an eight-year-old.” He scoffs.

“That is a valid point.” I grin, nudging his leg with mine. “Now try the damn pancakes.”

He scoops up a heaping forkful and takes a bite. I wait as he chews. With raised eyebrows, he nods. “Damn good.”

“Right?”

He quickly shoves another bite into his mouth. “I’m going to need seconds.”

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