Page 28 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“I don’t know,” I said, straightening a framed picture of my mom, Hailey, and me. Then I backed up, wanting to swat my own hand. I didn’t care what Beck thought about my apartment. “He’s just—”
“Hot?” Hailey supplied at the same time I said, “Intolerable.”
“What?” I asked, thrown by her off-topic answer and how she’d even leaped to that conclusion based on our conversations about him. Also, at how—objectively—correct her guess had been.
“He’s hot. Isn’t he?”
“God, Hailey. This guy stole my promotion and caused extra work for me because he’s careless. He’s Beckett, Senior-level Asshole. My office nemesis. Enemy number one. Remember?”
“I haven’t heard one denial about his hotness. So, my assumption was correct. The enemy thing only magnifies that. Trust me. All of BookTok agrees.” I glared at her stupid, adorable face in the frame on my wall as she continued, “So, poor baby. You have to spend the next few hours with the office hottie while you do calligraphy—your favorite activity on the planet.”
“At this point, I’d rather spend the afternoon making voodoo dolls of you and Beck.”
A knock at the door made me jump. “Shit! He’s here. I wasted my time to back out on calling you.”
“Always a pleasure, babe.”
I opened the door to a dressed-down Beck, and damn it if the T-shirt and blue jeans didn’t look even better on him than his Atteridge-worthy button-downs. Being able to see the floral work on his arm certainly didn’t hurt.
“I didn’t know you lived on the third floor when I offered to deliver this,” he declared, slightly breathless.
I stepped aside so he could carry the large rectangle wrapped in cardboard.
“You should try carrying the groceries up.”
“I’ll pass. Where do you want this thing?” he asked, hauling the mirror into the living room.
I motioned toward a bare wall. While Beck worked, cutting the monstrosity of a mirror free, I couldn’t help but watch his T-shirt stretch over the muscles in his back. Muscles that were hard-earned from punishingly fast laps in the pool. I forced myself to turn away. He hadn’t even been in my living room for three minutes, and I was already ogling him.
He straightened after cutting the last of the tape and unveiling the mirror, which looked like it had fallen straight out of the Baroque period. It was a piece of art on its own—with its swirling gold frame.
I felt panic rise like bile in my throat. This thing belonged in a museum, not in my modest apartment.
“This apartment definitely looks like your place,” Beck said, distracting me from the welling dread of touching a marker to the masterpiece before me.
I frowned. “What do you mean?” I asked, immediately thinking of the water-stained ceiling, crinkled blinds, and discolored carpet. Insecurity buried itself in my chest. I should have gotten those things fixed and spent more money on making my apartment feel like a home, but I didn’t because I obsessively saved for that down payment on a future house. I’d be there in a couple of years if I kept the course, but I didn’t feel like explaining that to Beck.
He gestured around vaguely. “The pastel colors.” Then he pointed at the blanket I’d draped over the couch. “The flowers.”
“The flowers?” I asked, eyeing the print—made to look like watercolor—with its dots of lavender and bunches of baby blue hydrangeas.
“Yeah. Whether it’s your skirt or just a headband. You always have some sort of flower on you.”
A blush heated my cheeks. He’d stunned me, noticing anything at all about me that wasn’t centered around being clumsy or pushy or something equally annoying.
I looked down at my outfit. Today I wore a plain white shirt and olive green shorts. My pointer finger rose, ready to object to his observation. But there on my wrist was the watchband I’d picked out for today—the design had cacti and wild desert flowers. My mouth opened, just to snap shut.
Then I used that finger to point at the carnations inked on his arm. “So do you.”
Beck’s lips flattened to a straight line. “You got me there.” He leaned against my desk, and God, why did it feel so sensual to see him in my living room?
He nodded toward the mirror. “How long is this going to take? I’m just wondering how long I need to brace myself for your emotional abuse.”
I eyed the pages of names I’d printed from Victoria’s RSVP list. Luckily—with it being a destination wedding in Costa Rica—only 148 of the 230 invited had RSVP’d. Still a lot of names, but considerably less than I’d imagined. “A few hours. Minimum.”
“Do you mind if I sit at your desk? Or do you have a corner and a Dunce cap you’d rather me use?”
“Are you sure you want to stay? I don’t even have a TV.”
