Page 55 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
How cruel to keep her gaze fixed on Beck. What, he’d moved on after she cheated, and she couldn’t let him go? Let him be happy? I might not have been in love with Chad, the one who cheated on me, but that betrayal still cut deep. He’d found someone prettier, more lovable, better. And Reagan had done the same to Beck.
Time for her to get a taste of karma.
I leaned closer to Beck and, ever so lightly, pressed the nail of my fingertip to one of the bands on Beck’s arm. From there, I followed a stem all the way to a brilliant red flower. “How long did it take to get it done?” Beck froze as I traced a petal. I could relate. Just running a finger across his skin sent a hum of electricity down my spine. “Follow my lead,” I purred. “Reagan is watching.”
For a long moment, I didn’t think Beck had heard anything I said. Goosebumps rose on his arm as I stroked the flowers with the slightest whisper of a touch. But then he swallowed and found his voice.
“Uh, six—” he cleared his throat. “—six hours or so.” I didn’t know what I enjoyed more, touching him or my touch’s impact on him.
I gave a sympathetic wince. “That’s a long time. Did it hurt?”
“I’ve had worse,” he rasped.
“And,” I said, smiling now that I had him in a trance, sure I could get more information out of him. “What does it mean, again?”
His pupils narrowed into focus. “Nice try.” He grabbed my hand to stop the movement but didn’t let go. My hand felt radioactive, encased in his.
“Come on,” I said, “just tell me.”
“I will. After you beat me at swimming.”
I snatched my hand away with an eye-roll. “We both know that’s never going to happen.”
“Kind of the point,” he said.
“Alright. Fine. But you’ve left me no choice but to assume I was right all along about your flower obsession—that you grow carnations in your backyard as a hobby.”
Beck’s mouth quirked. “And what would be wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” I sniffed. “Keeping it a secret is the weird part. You get a tattoo on a part of your body that’s generally on display, then refuse to share the meaning. Why not put it someplace less . . . obvious . . . if you don’t want people to know what it means?”
“Maybe I like to keep you guessing,” Beck mused.
I started to retort, but our server and a team of helpers set down mouthwatering dishes before us.
Thrumming music sparked the group’s curiosity as soon as we stepped into the humid night air. We followed the sound to an outside bar under colorful banners and stringed lights. The DJ had the crowd mesmerized, including our group.
Beck and I shared a worried look. We were supposed to be a couple. It would be weird if we didn’t dance. And this kind of music didn’t call for sweet movements—hands at the shoulders and lower back. This was ass-to-pelvis bumping and grinding.
Beck leaned close to whisper, “We can come up with an excuse to go back to the resort. I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”
Right away, Reagan found a stranger in the crowd to dance with. The guy looked at her like he’d won the jackpot. And I didn’t blame him. Her perky breasts peeked out of her dress just enough to still be tasteful. Not to mention the way the fabric at her backside stretched to reveal a tight ass she clearly worked hard to maintain.
It didn’t bother me that she’d picked a stranger to dance with. We were in Costa Rica to have fun. It was the way she’d looked right at Beck when her dance partner ran his hand across her thigh that ignited my anger.
I took Beck’s hand, leading him to the dance floor. “Nope. Not uncomfortable at all,” I said, partly because that Pura Vida had been strong, partly because I wanted to make Reagan turn a shade of green, but—if I was honest with myself—mostly because I wanted to dance with Beck.
The first song, as it turned out, was uncomfortable.
We tried to find our rhythm and placement of hands that showed we were definitely a couple who did things like this all the time while still maintaining a respectable workplace distance.
It didn’t work.
“This isn’t working,” I voiced.
We looked like we were eighth graders at our first dance.
Beck dipped his head so we could talk without yelling. “You said cotillion hand positions when we set ground rules. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
