“I have my reasons.” Number one, being competitive was just in the Beckett DNA. Number two, it was all part of Grandma Betty’s master plan of getting two-thirds of the oldest Beckett cousins to slow down long enough to fall in love. Her instructions that she’d left him in a letter to be read after her death had been clear. He had to play along so they wouldn’t suspect anything and mess up their happily ever afters.

“Well, whatever they are,” Bristol said, her tone making it more than crystal clear that, whatever they were, she thought they were dumb, “I think this marriage is good for you. It’s an opportunity for you to step out of your comfort zone and stop acting like you don’t need anything. It’s okay to put yourself first sometimes.”

“I see you’re using that psych minor tonight.”

Deflect? Him? Fuck yes. He didn’t deal in feelings. He dealt in solutions.

“Well, you know they say the kids that take the psych classes only take them because they’re fucked up.”

“You’re not fucked up.” He picked up his phone and glared at his sister for thinking something so patently false. “You’re perfect.”

Her ever-present smile wavered a little at that. “I’m not, but you’re sweet to say that.”

Seeing her like this, vulnerable and a little unsure, kicked his big brother, let-me-take-care-of-it-all instincts into high gear. “All you need to do is—”

“Oh man, look at the time!” She held up her bare wrist as if she were wearing a watch, which she was not. “It’s no mansplaining o’clock! Gotta go.”

“Love you, Bristol.”

“Love you, too, Nash,” she said, back to her usual grinning self. “Now go out and have some newlywed fun with your sexy wife.”

His sister ended the call before he could remind her—again—that his marriage was only temporary while reminding himself that he’d agreed to a sexless temporary marriage.

The other night had been a fluke. If it hadn’t been, she would have said something to him during their dog walk, or breakfast, or when she’d gotten back from coffee with her friend, or a million other times over the past few days. Instead, she’d shut herself up in her room as much as possible and had gotten straight to writing her book, going by the clickity-clack of her keyboard.

Her silence was obviously her answer. He just had to find a way to live with that.

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Chelle

Empanadas were the food of the gods.

“Oh my God,” Chelle said, not even trying to hold back on her groan of appreciation. “This one wins. I thought it was going to be the falafel, but it’s definitely this one.”