Page 50 of The Escape Plan

She doesn’t like pickles. Noted.

“Gramps and I used to come here every Saturday to feed the ducks, and we’d ask each other ‘would you rather’ questions like that one,” she says nonchalantly. Like those sparks between us didn’t just happen and we’re simply hanging out, casual as can be.

“He sounds great,” I say.

“He is.” She screws up her face for a moment before looking at me, eyes full of question marks. “Do you think it’s possible that my gramps and your gran had some kind of…thingwhen she lived here? Romantically, I mean?” She frowns. “Or is that just the journalist in me asking questions about love that she doesn’t really want to know the answers to again?”

I cock a brow at her. “Article’s going well, huh?”

“Swimmingly,” she replies sarcastically.

I chuckle. “I mean, itispossible they dated when my gran was at Spring Brook.” I shrug, her story of ill-fated love still at the forefront of my mind. “Gran married my grandpa when she was twenty-seven and had my mam a couple of years later. So it’s very possible she had a relationship years before.”

Keeley nods, then picks up the last bite of her sandwich. “Ready to go find out?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Chapter Nineteen

Keeley

I findmyself impatiently tapping my foot as Beckett and I wait for Sissy, who is currently giving a mortified-looking middle-aged woman a full run-down of the bodice-ripper romance novel she’s trying to subtly check out.

“Oh, my days, I couldn’t put this one down. Duke Rufus is the swooniest rogue I’ve ever read. Those pantaloons of his had me all hot and bothered,” Sissy says with excitement.

The woman trying to borrow the book goes crimson from head to toe. Next to me, a muscle in Beckett’s jaw tics as he clearly struggles to keep a straight face.

“Wait until you get to the chapter where the duke smuggles Lady Penelope onto a cargo ship. The captain weds them at sea, and then the duke has his wicked way with her in the galley!” Sissy’s voice projects around the entire reception area.

I bite down on my bottom lip, and Beckett ducks his head, a lock of that bronze-tinted hair falling over his forehead as he (badly) disguises his laugh as a cough.

I forget my jitters for a moment as my fingers itch with the urge to reach up and push that piece of hair back into position. Sweep it back and feel it under my fingers—the way his thumb traced over the sensitive skin on my lip a few minutes ago.

All I wanted to do in that moment was lean into his touch, hold onto that feeling for as long as possible. But I had to remind myself that he wasn’t touching me to be sensual and was insteadcleaning Miracle Whip off my facelike I often have to do with Everett. Which was embarrassing enough to begin with, never mind the way I reacted to his touch.

I tried to play it as cool as possible. Although, I have to wonder if my current state of nervous impatience has more to do with the lingering memory of Becks’s touch than it does with finding answers from Sissy.

At that moment, Sissy pauses her verbal book review long enough for the romance-reading woman to swipe her book with impressively quick reflexes. She chucks it in her bag and practically flees the scene.

“Now, I wonder why Renee was in such a rush,” Sissy mutters to herself as she pats her fresh blowout with nails that are metallic silver with rhinestone tips.

Claudia at the salon has clearly upped her nail game this week.

The elderly librarian looks around in bewilderment, and that’s when she finally spots Becks and me standing near the counter.

“Keeley, darlin,” she greets me warmly, but her eyes are already roaming all over Beckett with undisguised interest. “Pray tell me,whois this devastatingly handsome young man accompanying you?”

“Handsome young man? Where?” I ask, making a big show of looking around in confusion.

Becks catches the smug grin on my face and grins right back at me. A sly grin that sayschallenge accepted.

He goes on to flash that charming, dimpled smile at Sissy and extends a hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you, Sissy,” he says, and her heavily-made-up eyes fly wide open in surprise. “I’m Beckett McCarthy.”

“An Irishman,” she says, her startled tone matching her expression. “Honey, that accent of yours brings back some wonderful memories.” The librarian shakes her head as if in wonder. “Been a long time since I heard an accent like that.”

Becks and I share a look, and I’m pleased when he cuts straight to the point. No B.S.

“I’m Noeleen Quinn’s grandson,” he tells Sissy with a pleasant smile.

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