Page 26 of Heartsmashed
Beckett held my gaze, almost like he was checking that I was okay, and then gave a small nod. “Deal.”
Simple. No questions asked, just the steady acceptance he kept showing.
The tension that had been sitting in my chest since Peter had first walked into the lobby finally eased up, and I took a sip of my drink.
“Whoa,” I said, glancing down at it and just now realizing what it was. “How did you know I love White Russians?”
“I might’ve run into Rome at the bar and he let it slip. That’s what took so long.”
“Ah,” I said, understanding dawning. “He was flirting with you, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t think there was anyone within a twenty-foot radius who was safe.”
I laughed, the sound foreign to my ears, but welcome. Around us, the party was in full swing—the music louder, people venturing out of their chairs to dance.
“So…shall we?” I asked, gesturing with my glass in the direction I’d last caught a glimpse of my moms. “I feel the need to show you off.”
Beckett nodded with a chuckle, a warm, throaty sound I wanted to hear more of. Then his hand settled again at my lower back, guiding me through the crowd.
With every conversation, every group we stopped to talk to, the dread I’d felt leading up to tonight dissipated, even as I felt eyes watching me from across the room.
Through it all Beckett stayed by my side, a steady but charming presence that wasn’t over the top or begging for attention the way other guys I dated had been. Instead, he checked in with me in subtle ways, and I was almost ashamed to admit how much I enjoyed his preference for physical touch. I didn’t know whether it was just the job or who he was, but every time our shoulders touched when we were standing too close, or when the back of his hand brushed against mine, I felt something stir low in my belly.
It was dangerous, whatever it was, and I refused to put a name to it, not when nothing could happen between us.
This was temporary. One week. That was the arrangement. That was it.
But standing there, with Beckett’s arm curled around my waist and his voice low by my ear as he said something to make the group laugh again…it didn’t feel fake.
It felt easy.
Tooeasy. Too right.
But that was what he was paid to do, to be whoever his clients needed, and he was playing his part perfectly.
So why did I feel a little disappointed?
9
BECKETT
BY THE TIME we’d left the party and were walking back to the cabin—in not-so-straight lines—Sawyer was talking. A lot.
Not the rambling sort of talking he did when he was nervous, which was cute as hell. Alcohol made him looser and more open in a different sort of way. I could only imagine how the buildup to seeing Peter again had put him on edge, but their interaction had sent Sawyer into “fuck it” mode.
“I’m just saying,” he went on as he kicked the cabin door shut behind us and shrugged out of his blazer, tossing it somewhere in the general vicinity of the chair but missing. “If someone dares you to prove you can still do the Worm, you do the Worm. That’s, like, a rule.”
“No is a full sentence.”
“Eh, where’s the fun in that?” He bent down to remove his shoes and winced.
“And that’s why,” I said, my eyes going to his rolling his shoulder to try to relieve the ache, “stretching beforehand might’ve helped.”
“Well, in my defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Did it at least look impressive?”
“Oh yes. The Worm’s always a showstopper.”
Sawyer grinned to himself and kicked off his shoes instead. “I bet Peter’s date wouldn’t even be able to get back up off the floor if he tried it.”
