Why set himself up for similar pain?
“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said.
Jase picked up one of the photos Beck had framed and brought to work. One of a young Harlow sitting in a tire swing, smiling at whoever held the camera. Her mother, most likely. “I’m the ex-con, but you two have a way of making me feel like a shining star of mental health.”
“Anything for you,” West said, patting him on the back.
“Just shut up and help me pick a man for Harlow.” Beck gripped the arms of his chair with so much force he expected the entire thing to crumble. Right now, the only hope he had of returning to the life he’d once known was losing interest in her, and the only way to make that happen was to follow through with Brook Lynn’s plan. “Only the best for her.”
He hated this, but he would do it right. And in the end, Beck wasn’t the best. Not for her, not for anyone. He simply wasn’t enough.
“What about Mark Timberlane of S&S?” West splayed his arms, all meet your solution. “He runs his own company, makes a ton of money and is recently divorced.”
Can’t shake the life out of my friend for doing what I asked. “He’s not the one.”
Jase unveiled a slow grin. “Please. Do tell.”
“Did you not hear West? Mark is recently divorced. He didn’t fight to keep his marriage together, which means he has no real sticking power. Therefore he’s not the one for Harlow. Next.”
“What about the new guy who hired me to do the video game?” West suggested. “He saw some of Harlow’s sketches and had a mindgasm.”
“No.” Beck had spent a lot of time with the guy, coaxing him into choosing West rather than some other computer genius. “He’s indecisive.”
“And that’s a hard limit for Harlow?” Jase laughed outright. “Face it, my man, you don’t want her with anyone but yourself.”
Beck leaped to his feet, his hands curling into fists. The urge to punch a hole in the wall was strong, overwhelming, and what the hell was he doing? He eased back down, the answer pretty plain.
“What about Dorian Oliver?” Dorian didn’t live in Strawberry Valley, but he met Harlow’s other criteria.
West whistled. “The guy’s perfect for anyone. If I swung that way, I’d be all over him.”
“I remember Dorian.” Jase cracked his knuckles. “Keep him away from Brook Lynn. Women look at him and experience that, what’s it called, insta-love.”
True, but he wasn’t a player. Like West, he was choosey. But unlike the pair of them, he preferred commitment. He’d married his high school sweetheart and would still be with her if she hadn’t died from cancer.
Beck had spent a summer with him years ago, both of them fostered by the same family. They’d liked each other from minute one and had kept in touch over the years.
Fighting the urge to throw his phone across the office, Beck picked it up and made the call.
* * *
HARLOW EXPECTED BECK to come knocking at her door. Not because she’d agreed to spend the evening with him, but because of what she’d done to his bedroom walls. When the entrance swung open, however, he wasn’t glowering at her. He smiled and held out a bouquet of pink and white flowers.
“For you.”
What the...? “Uh, thank you?” Trying to coax her from her earlier upset? She accepted the gift, a sweet scent teasing her nose. “What are they for?”
“Do I need a reason?”
Yes! But she nibbled on her bottom lip and shook her head.
“They reminded me of you,” he said then. “Soft and pretty, delicate and dewy.”
Killing me. “Have you not been home?”
“No, why?”
“Well, uh... I kind of painted my—your bedroom walls.”
He frowned. “Kind of?”
“Fine. Definitely painted.”
“Why would you do that? I liked my room the way it was.”
“So? You’ll like it better now.”
“I won’t.”
“Well, you can suck it,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
The frown morphed into a scowl. “Grab your paints. If you have to work all night, you’ll work all night, but those walls will be beige by morning.”
“Not even in your dreams. You were willing to keep the mural when you first moved in.”
“But now I’m used to beige.”
Frustrating man. “We’ll talk about the walls tomorrow.”
“Harlow—”
“Brook Lynn came by, saw what I’d done, and asked if I’d paint a mural at her house.” A zombie mural, of all things, for easier target practice. “She knows talent when she sees it.”
“Did you tell her no, you already have a job?”
“Please. I said yes so fast I broke records. I will work for food.”
He went still, sniffed the air. “Do you have a pie in there, Harlow?”
“No,” she said, and his shoulders drooped with disappointment. “I have two pies. I haven’t painted the mural yet, but I demanded an advance.”
He pushed his way inside, a drug dog on the trail of the biggest bust of his career. “Blueberry and apple. Good girl.”
She filled two bowls, then joined him at her small table. One bite, and they both moaned. Waiting had been difficult, almost impossible, but somehow she’d managed it, wanting to share this moment with him. And now she was glad she had.