Melody stood in a room full of people chanting her name.
Had it really only been a week since the last time she stood in this spot, preparing to take her turn on the bocce lane? Then, she’d been timid. Terrified of disappointing her coworkers and all the people watching.
Now?
Still terrified. Still timid.
But as she stood at the top of the lane, wooden bocce ball in hand, she knew she had the right to be standing there, taking up a little patch of space. To be on a team. Maybe imposter syndrome was a pitfall some people lived with their whole lives and maybe she would be no different, but breathing was easier now. Being there was easier.
She hadn’t transformed. But over the past week—with Beat, with Wreck the Halls, with an absurd number of people cheering her on—she’d climbed a rung on some invisible ladder toward self-acceptance. Years of therapy might have prepared her for climbing higher, but it couldn’t take that step for her. She’d had to do it herself.
Was this what a breakthrough felt like?
Maybe. Yes.
But in a room full of people shouting her name, she was lonely. What sense did that make? They called at her wherever she went. They asked, “Where is Beat?” They said things like, “You have the exact same chin as Keanu,” and “Beat is in love with you.” What was true and what was fabrication anymore? Were these things just being said to get a reaction?
Melody looked around at the oil painting of smiling faces, outlined in white Christmas lights that ran the gamut of the bar, not one of them giving her a sense of comfort or recognition. Not even Savelina or her coworkers who should have been familiar by now. Something—someone—was missing and there was no use pretending not to know who that someone was. Nearly two nights without him. She hadn’t even turned on the live stream, worried she’d do something impulsive, like take a train to Manhattan and show up at his door.
The cheers around Melody were beginning to die down, because she was taking so long to make her shot. Just throw it. Tension pinched the back of her neck. She shifted, looked down at her toes to make sure they weren’t creeping over the penalty line. Took a deep breath, closed her eyes. And Beat’s image danced its way onto the backs of her lids, blue eyes attentive, inquisitive, confident, stormy. A cooling balm spreading in the center of her chest just thinking about him, simultaneously making her heart race.
As requested, she’d gotten two days of distance and holy Hannah, she missed him. She’d been reunited with a missing rib, only to have it cut back out. Two days of solitude hadn’t changed her mind about being friends. If anything, the need to have Beat in her life in a close capacity had only cemented itself. Unfortunately, that mature decision, made in the name of self-preservation, didn’t save her from the pitiful ache inside her.
Maybe her feelings for Beat would always be there, like imposter syndrome, bouts of loneliness, and the fear of disappointing others, but if she’d learned anything in the short time she’d been filming Wreck the Halls, it was that . . . she was stronger than she’d given herself credit for. Strong enough to stand up to Trina, kick a Santa in the balls, execute a successful box jump, sing in front of a room full of people, dance in public, and deny an orgasm to one of People magazine’s sexiest men alive.
In other words, she could throw this mothereffing ball, right?
Just as Melody was preparing to take the shot, for better or worse, the cheering around her grew deafening. The ground shook. Fists bashed off the bar and Melody’s team jumped up from their stools, visibly excited. And somehow, without even turning around, she knew.
Beat Dawkins had entered the building.
Relief flooded her insides with such intensity that her eyes watered. It was possible that some intuitive part of her knew he was coming and so she waited to take her first turn. Because she had more confidence in this man than anyone else in the world. He returned that confidence—and it was exactly what she needed right now.
Bracing herself for the rush that came from seeing Beat live and in person, Melody turned and looked over her shoulder. The crowd parted—
And she dropped the wooden ball.
Beat was shirtless.
A giant, pink “M” had been written on his chest. Two men followed behind him, sporting the “E” and the “L.” MEL. A few young women hoisted bottles of champagne and danced through the bar behind the bare-chested trio. Melody only vaguely registered them, however, because she only had eyes for Beat. Her surroundings had resembled a blurry oil painting only moments earlier, but they came into sharp focus now, the bar noise going from muffled to clear, the air becoming more breathable. The loneliness inside of her burst like a bubble.
Beat stopped a few yards away, seemingly oblivious to the jam-packed bar going bananas behind him or the camera in his face. He simply looked at her, that jaw muscle bunching, and held open his arms. Without a single hesitation, she walked straight into them.
With a cutoff sound, he lifted her into a bear hug until her toes were barely scraping the ground and the bar went nuclear. “I’m getting paint all over you, Peach,” he shouted over the pandemonium.
“I don’t care.” Melody barely resisted the urge to press her face into the side of his neck. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
His arms tightened. “I’ll always show up for you, Mel.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t give you the full two days . . .”
“Thank God.”
Ever so briefly, he opened his mouth and breathed against her temple, before setting her down with visible reluctance. They stood way too close for a touch too long, Beat’s eyes locked on her mouth, then they each shuffled back, turning to smile and wave their appreciation at the bar.
Before she could say another word to Beat, the “E” of their trio came from behind him, hand outstretched. “I know this fucker isn’t going to introduce me, so I’ll do it myself. I’m Vance. I’ve known Beat since college, but I use the term ‘known’ loosely. If my parents had locked up their liquor cabinet as tight as Beat locks up his secrets, I’d probably be a neurosurgeon by now.” He let his tongue loll out of the side of his mouth. “I don’t mean to overshare, I’ve been champagning all night.”
Melody liked this guy immediately. “Look. When you paint a letter of my name on your chest and risk hypothermia to cheer me on, you get a lifetime oversharing pass.”
“I would marry you,” Vance said, without irony. “I’m not just saying that—”
“Yeah,” Beat grunted, inserting himself in between Vance and Melody. “I think that’s enough. Go be an ‘E’ somewhere else.”
“We have to stand together or it won’t make sense!”
“Where is the ‘L’?” Melody asked, searching around, puzzled. After a few seconds, she found him and gaped at where he’d landed. “Oh. The ‘L’ is making out with my boss.”
Vance rolled his shoulders back with a sigh. “I love the holidays.”
The crowd started to chant her name again. “Oh God.” She hurried to pick up the ball that she’d dropped. “They’re not letting me off the hook.”
Beat rubbed his hands together, scrutinizing the bocce pit with a groove between his brows. “Okay, I googled the rules of bocce on the ride over and I’m going to try to help you. Just give me a few seconds to calm down after Vance said he would marry you.” He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “A few more seconds. Christ.”
Melody’s heart flopped around like a fish in the bottom of a boat. “He’s been champagning, Beat.”
“No,” he said, drawing out the word. “He’s been falling in love with you like the rest of the world.” The corner of his lips tugged into a smile that he couldn’t quite hold on to—and it dropped. “But no one is good enough for my . . . best friend.”
“Beat . . .” Heat pricked the backs of her eyelids, a lump rising in her throat. “You picked a really interesting time to say all these sweet things to me.” Numbly, she held up the bocce ball between them. “I can’t feel my hands anymore.”
“Sorry.” His fingertips touched her elbow, stroking slowly upward where he massaged her wrist with magical circles of his thumb. “Is that better?”
“Friends, Beat,” she whispered, trying to keep herself from slipping into a stupor. “Friends.”
With a swallow, he relinquished her wrist. “Believe me, Mel, I know.” Once again, he put some distance between them, but not much. He couldn’t, really, if they wanted to continue communicating against the backdrop of noise. “Okay, what’s your feeling here? What shot were you thinking of playing?”
“Before you arrived half naked?”
One end of his mouth jumped. “Noticed that, did you?”
“Ham. I was thinking there is no way I’m going to get my ball as close to the pallino as my opponent’s ball, so I better try and knock his out. ‘Try’ being the operative word.”
Beat stroked his chin. “I think you’re right. Just knock it out.”
“Just? I’ve got maybe a ten percent chance.”
“That’s a higher percentage chance than we had trying to reunite Steel Birds and you jumped feetfirst into that enterprise.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Mel. At the risk of adding even more pressure, you have millions of people believing you can do anything. And I don’t think that many people can be wrong.”
“What about you? Do you believe I can do anything?”
He huffed a laugh. “Do you even have to ask me that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
After a prolonged moment of not-so-friendly staring, he dipped his chin and stepped away. “Knock it out.”
Mel nodded and turned on a heel to face the bocce pit once again. Had her surroundings even been in color before? They were now. The neon flamingo mounted on the wall buzzed, pink and vibrant. The ball in her hands was a verdant green. The one she aimed to knock out was red. No, she would knock it out. She allowed herself to feel the energy of the people standing at her back. Their belief in her. Beat’s. And she bowled her shot.
Halfway down the lane, she knew it was going to hit.
She heard Beat’s hissing intake of breath, followed by the crack of the balls connecting and she watched in disbelief as her opponent’s ball went rolling toward the back wall, a good two feet from the pallino. Hers remained in place, nearly kissing it.
An unbeatable shot.
The crowd erupted, along with her heart.
“Oh my God,” she said breathlessly, turning and leaping into Beat’s arms. He held her tight, spinning her in a circle as she clung, his heart pumping like an engine against hers.
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
She didn’t realize her legs had naturally wrapped around his hips until they pulled away slightly, their mouths close enough to kiss. So. Close. His breath was warm and tasted like peppermint, throwing her senses into a tailspin. Dear Lord, how was she going to restrain herself from kissing him? Maybe she could keep it friendly?
A platonic, little kiss with minimal tongue never hurt anybody.
“Mel,” Beat groaned, his chest shuddering. “That skirt you’re wearing. With black tights?” He zeroed in on her mouth. “God help me, I’m not having friendly thoughts.”
“Oh. Hmm.” Her toes flexed with traitorous anticipation in her ankle boots. “They’re not tights, though. They’re stockings.”
He squinted. “What’s the difference?”
“These ones stop. At the tops of my thighs.”
Beat let out a strangled cough.
“I should probably unwind m-my legs from your person.”
“Hard, isn’t it? When they feel like that’s exactly where they belong?” With a curse, he made a visible effort to get himself under control, tilting his hips away as he slid her down the front of his body to her feet. Not quite enough for her to avoid his stiffness, though, the bulk of it dragging up the hemline of her skirt as she descended. “Maybe tonight isn’t the best time to talk.” He shook his head. “I don’t trust myself.”
Speaking openly about their attraction made that fiery funnel of need inside her spin faster, but Melody kept her features schooled. “M-maybe you’re right. We should wait until—”
“Are you two ready to hear the idea of the century?” Vance stepped in between them while posing that question. “Besides me and Mel getting engaged and languishing in bed while naming our future babies, I mean.”
“I don’t want to have to kill you, man,” Beat said with mock cheerfulness. “But I will.”
Vance chuckled. “Relax. Anyone witnessing the last ten minutes of Belody knows I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. But. Speaking of snow.” Vance elbowed each of them in the ribs, in turn. “While you two were mooning at each other over here like star-crossed lovers, we made friends with Melody’s coworker nerds and decided that we weren’t done quite yet with friendly, low-stakes competition for the evening.” He paused for dramatic effect. “That’s right, my friends. We’re having a snowball fight in Prospect Park. Right now. It’s on. Because we’re drunk adults and that’s the only excuse we need.”
