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The renovated 18 th-century hacienda where Jo had arranged for Kat and Beckett to take their engagement photos was surprisingly intimate considering it was one of the hotel’s most popular event spaces. Dark wood paneled ceilings and buttery leather furniture, gleaming hardwood and flickering candles gave the impression of privacy, even as the click of the photographer’s camera sounded incessantly. Beckett hated that sound.

“Let’s try one with your legs in Mr. Hayes’ lap,” the photographer said to Kat as he switched out his lens for the umpteenth time.

“Like this?” She tentatively hooked one knee over Beckett’s, her foot dangling awkwardly.

“Like this.” Beckett snaked his arm beneath her knees and turned her so her legs draped over his. The slit in her dress fell open to reveal more of her bare thigh, an endless stretch of soft, pale skin. She squeaked as the sudden movement shifted her center of gravity, and she fell forward, catching herself on his shoulder. Still, he could feel her holding herself at a distance, not letting her full weight lean against him.

“Stay just like that.” The photographer aimed the camera, the shutter clicking rapidly.

Beckett slid his thumb lazily over Kat’s ankle, his palm resting just above the strap of her shoes. If he focused on the feeling of her skin beneath his hands, he could hold off the prickle of unease nagging at the back of his neck with every new photograph. Kat wrapped her hand around his bicep, and he cursed Jo for making him wear his leather jacket when it muffled the sensation of her touch.

“Now turn towards each other,” the photographer directed.

Beckett turned his head towards Kat, their noses almost touching as they locked eyes. What was she thinking? There had been a time when he could read her thoughts as easily as his own, when all he had to do was look into her eyes and he knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed from him. But now…

“How about a kiss?”

Her lips parted—in surprise or expectation? He wasn’t sure, and he hated that. He tilted his head just enough to drag the tip of his nose against the length of hers, but he didn’t close the distance between them. Her grip on his bicep tightened, nails digging into the leather, as her eyes fluttered closed, but the tension in her forehead didn’t soften.

“Can I kiss you, Luna?” he asked, low enough that only she could hear.

The puff of her exhale was warm against Beckett’s lips, but it still wasn’t a yes. He’d never wanted to kiss someone more, his whole body aching for it—for her—just like he’d ached for her for years. But the stiffness of her shoulders and the way her nails pressed divots into his jacket screamed this wasn’t right.

Pulling away, Beckett turned his attention to the photographer, determined to shove down the disappointment winding its way around his limbs like vines. “We good?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Hayes,” the photographer said, already disassembling his camera, tucking the various parts into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “I’ll have these over to Jo by tomorrow afternoon.”

Beckett gently set Kat’s feet back on the floor and stood to shake the photographer’s hand, slipping him a wad of cash as a tip. He had no doubt that Jo and Derek had paid the photographer well, but he’d found over the years that when he tipped generously, someone was less likely to sell the story of their meeting. It wasn’t foolproof, but for the most part, when someone felt appreciated by him, they were more inclined to help protect what little privacy he was able to maintain.

When he turned back to her, Kat was already standing, her controlled strides putting as much distance between them as possible in the small space. She pretended to inspect a painting on the wall, but the way she shifted her weight and ran one hand up and down her arm gave her restlessness away. Beckett dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Ready for dinner?” he asked.

She smiled, a bright, plastic thing that felt all wrong. “We can skip dinner. You’re probably sick of me by now anyway.”

“I’m not.”

Her eyes flashed, a small crack in the veneer, there and gone as she adjusted her smile the way she adjusted their wireless packs before they went on stage. “Are the guys meeting us there?”

“Do you want them to?”

“We don’t need to go out. I’m not even that hungry.”

Her stomach gurgled, a loud, almost alien sound. Kat’s mouth fell open and Beckett bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“So… dinner?”

The Sandia Mountains glowed sherbert pink as the moon rose over their distant peaks and Ray steered the town car through the streets of Albuquerque. It was a short drive from the hotel to the farm in the Rio Grande Valley that, according to Reddit and at least one vehement Google review, served the best farm to table dinner in New Mexico. Mercifully short given Kat’s apparent lack of interest in speaking to him, her gaze fixated on the mountains.

The car pulled to a stop at the edge of the quiet farm, a wooden pergola strung with fairy lights and gauzy white curtains set beside a bustling courtyard, tables filled with people of all ages, laughing, drinking, passing family-style pottery platters. For the first time since the photographer had left, Kat’s face relaxed, her red-painted lips spreading into a soft smile. Beckett rounded the car, opening her door and holding out his hand for her before she could protest. She let him help her from the car, let him press his palm to her lower back and guide her across the tiled courtyard to the hostess stand where a woman in pristine black waited to escort them to a table at the edge of the pergola, the only empty table in the area. Thankfully, if any of the nearby patrons recognized Beckett, they didn’t let on.

As she took her seat, Kat’s hand shot out, fingertips caressing the velvet petals of the bright yellow and orange poppies in the simple glass vase at the center of their table. Her gaze mapped the twinkle lights over their heads, the bright spots blending with the stars in the rapidly darkening sky.

“It’s like that place in Maine,” Beckett said.

“It is,” she said with a slow grin, and he wondered what exactly she was remembering about their favorite late-summer retreat.

“I hear the food is better here,” he said.