Page 83 of Hopeless Romantic
Shewas ridiculous. Standing in front of the sexiest man she’d ever seen, who’d arranged the most romantic date in the history of first dates, and she was dressed like Punky Brewster and bawling over a chicken.
“It’s not like I’m never going to see him again.” She sniffed. “He lives a mile from my house.”
“It’s how you feel. That’s as real as it gets,” he said, zero judgment in his voice. “When Michelle and Paisley moved in with Gray, it was only a block over, but it could have been on the other side of the country. It felt like my heart had been shattered. Not seeing Paisley every morning when I woke up, knowing some other guy was tucking her into bed. Sure, Paisley was happy to see me when I dropped by, but to me it felt as if I’d been replaced. I couldn’t deal.”
It was that same fear that kept Beckett so involved with her family. She knew they needed her around, but that didn’t mean they wanted her. In fact, when she came home after a long day, she rarely got the feeling that she’d been missed. Her answer was to carve out a place in their lives that no one else could fill, but even that security didn’t reassure her like it used to.
“What did you do?” she asked, self-consciously fiddling with the hem of his jacket.
“Found a new rhythm. Started renovating the boat where my dad and I let off, joined a softball league, anything to pull me out of my misery. Happy distractions, I guess.” He stilled her hands and pressed them against his chest. “Not that I didn’t eat breakfast at Michelle and Gray’s for the first few years, but I knew the only way I’d get through that feeling of loss was to find my own space. Hell, I even started dating.”
“Was that when you moved onto the boat?” she asked casually. “When you started dating?”
Dipping his head, he looked at her. “Actually, I moved onto the boat after Vikki left. I sold the house, fit everything that mattered into the bed of my truck, and crashed on that hammock”—he pointed to the reef-green hammock on the port side of the boat, swinging gently in the breeze—“while I made the master cabin habitable.”
“With its calm and soothing shades,” she teased, taking in the masterfully redone upper deck.
Unlike the dark wood and masculine design of the restaurant, his boat was bright and warm with an understated ruggedness. The modern lines of the boat were softened with round throw rugs and plush fabrics, dividing the large upper deck into several smaller, more intimate areas. Everything looked custom but not ostentatious, built with purpose.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think ofRhodes Less Traveled?”
“Your boat feels like you.”
“What exactly do I feel like?” His hands slid down to her ass.
“Warm, cozy, fun,” she whispered. “Like home.”
He pinched her butt. “You just described Diesel.”
“Not the kind of fun I’m thinking of.” She went on her tiptoes to kiss his lips. “And I don’t feel at home when I’m home.”
“But you feel that way with me?”
“I feel a lot when I’m with you,” she admitted, and Levi pressed a whisper of a kiss to her lips.
Around them, thick clouds soaked up the setting sun as the tide rolled in and seagulls circled the marina. Vibrant hues of orange and pink reflected off the massive glass doors that separated the outdoors from the interior galley, the warm light turning his eyes a tropical blue. But neither of them moved. Just swayed gently in each other’s arms.
She didn’t know how long they stood there, gazing into each other, both aware that something significant was happening, and neither pretending to fight it anymore. It was as if only the two of them mattered in that moment—and then her belly growled.
“Come on,” he said, laughing and giving her a playful smack to her butt, “let me show you what we will be dining on this evening.”
She grabbed the cake boxes and followed him to the barbecue, where he lifted the lid.
A warm blast of broiled bacon teased her senses, and the possessive way he claimed her hand, as if she were his, teased a whole lot of other things. She peeked over his shoulder into the grill and gasped, because in addition to the bacon-wrapped scallops was a feast for six. Slider-sized patties; crab cakes; a stainless-steel steamer filled with clams, garlic, and simmering white wine. But what had her heart skittering to a stop were the two gigantic artichokes, halved and placed facedown on the hot grill.
She breathed in the savory mesquite scent and groaned. “What’s all this for?”
“I may have heard that you had a rough day. Annie called.”
“So you decided to raid the restaurant freezer and cook me everything?”
“Actually, the plan was to make a few of my favorites, a few of yours, and see what crosses over.” He looked at the boxes and half-eaten ice cream on the table. “But now, I’m wondering if this is more of a straight-from-the-cake-box kind of house visit. Should I grab a couple of forks and pour the ice cream into glasses?”
“And waste perfectly good scallops and artichokes?” She took a seat at the bar, which overlooked the barbecue, and sipped her beer. “Did you know that I happen to love artichokes?”
He met her gaze over the grill’s lid. “I did.”
“Honestly? Or did you get lucky?”
