Page 32 of On the Run
I not-so-secretly hoped Beale would elbow him back, but instead Beale rolled his eyes and stepped up to the counter.
I frowned, annoyed. Not crazy after all? If I were Beale, I’d have laid that asshole out flat.
“What was that about?” I demanded.
Beale shrugged, apparently used to this. “You know what you want yet?”
“Yeah. Um… Venti ristretto cinnamon dolce macchiato with almond milk, please,” I told the barista, whose name tag said Scotty.
I dug out the folded-up twenty I’d put in my pocket before we’d left the house and set it on the counter, only belatedly noticing that Scotty was staring at me like I’d been speaking Klingon. Actually, no, he probably would have understood Klingon. “On second thought, maybe just an iced coffee?”
“You got it.” Scotty grinned. “Your usual, Beale? Green tea and oat milk?”
“Please.”
When Scotty disappeared to make our drinks, Beale bumped his arm into mine. “I had no idea you spoke fluent Italian, Trey. It’s so…”
“Sexy?”
“I was thinking pretentious, but I guess it depends what turns your crank.”
I laughed and firmly told myself not to ask him what turnedhiscrank. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested, and deflowering virgins was hardly my thing anyway.
Probably.
“You’d think you’d know me better after the decade or so of letter writing. How long have we been pen pals?”
Beale thought for a moment. “I’m twenty-eight, so… a dozen years I guess?”
I winced.
“Problem?”
Only that I’d been twenty-three when he was sixteen. “Not at all,” I lied. Because, really, what was one more lie, at this point?
Scotty brought our coffees over, and I ended up sucking down half my cup before we even left the counter—Rafe was right, it reallywasgood—to fortify myself for the next step.
“You okay?”
“Sure.” I wiped my damp palm on my shorts. “I’ve never met anyone’s parents before, but how bad could it be?”
Beale frowned. “Never?”
“Nope. I don’t do boyfriends any more than you do.”
“Huh.” Beale hesitated, then put a hand at the small of my back to guide me to the table where his dad sat. It felt weird. Nice-weird. Or maybe just nice. “Look, please don’t invent any more details about our summer camp love affair.”
“I won’t!”
“Or promise that we’ll get married on the beach in the fall or whatever.”
“I wouldn’t!”
“Or let Dad rope you into doing anything for the Whispering Key Extravaganza.”
“What extravaganza?”
But it was too late for Beale to explain, because we were already standing by a table in the back of the restaurant.
