America’s Geekheart

by Grant, Pippa

  “Nah, I usually just wait for the charity auction they do for the children’s hospital and then send in signed underwear.”

  And once more, the man’s surprised a laugh out of me. “Seriously?”

  “Oh, yeah. Nobody wants to bid on it, because Dad runs the auction, so usually a guy will win them for like eighteen bucks and mumble something about donating them to a bigger fundraiser at his wife’s office.”

  He’s totally shameless. But I don’t think he actually has an overinflated ego. He’s too self-aware about the awkwardness of the underwear thing for that.

  Plus, as noted, his underwear is really freaking comfortable.

  I angle a pointed glance at the life-size cardboard cutout in the corner, and once again, he blushes. “That’s…for shock value.”

  “You should get one of the rear view. Without the briefs. I have this weird feeling your friends would appreciate playing pin the dart on Beck’s butt cheeks.”

  He chuckles and squeezes my shoulder. “Brilliant idea. And here I was worried about what to get them all for Christmas. Glad you had a place to escape to. I promise I won’t baby-bomb you next time. Bathroom’s through that door. Should have soap and stuff in it. Let me go get some clothes. Be right back.”

  He does indeed have clothes that fit me, though the RYDE sweat pants are tight in the butt and have to be rolled to my ankles—but so, so soft—and the T-shirt he finds me—a Half-Cocked Heroes T-shirt he says Levi sent him as a joke—is like wearing a dress, but I also get to shower in his orgasmic shower with the wall nozzles and rain spout that are utterly scrumptious and luxurious and about the only thing I miss about life in LA.

  And I’ve never used SHYNE shower gel before—his body care line—but holy crap, it’s delicious. And smells just like Beck.

  When I finally emerge from his guest room, buttloads of people have joined the crowd.

  He introduces me to Levi Wilson, Tripp’s brother, who’s impossible to miss because he’s Copper Valley’s version of Justin Timberlake, and also Hank, Waylon, and June Rivers—Cash’s siblings, who all have identical eyes to the boy bander who went on to be a movie star—and Davis Remington, the fifth former member of Bro Code whom I never would’ve identified without the introduction thanks to the tattoos, beard, and man bun.

  “They’re on your side first,” Beck assures me. He has the little boy up on his shoulders, and I’m guessing the kid’s seat of honor has something to do with the crayon marks all over the windows and removing him from further temptation.

  “I always take not-Beck’s side,” Levi agrees. He’s holding Emma, the little girl whose bowels like to make their own introductions, and appears to have no concerns whatsoever about the possibility of his white pants becoming the proud owner of doodoo stains.

  And on a related note, how do men get away with things like wearing white pants?

  It’s mind-boggling. But I realize they’re RYDE jeans, so I assume they’re comfortable too.

  Actually, is anyone here not wearing Beck’s clothes?

  “Not-Beck’s side is usually the safer side,” one of the Rivers guys agrees.

  Charlie arrives with a grocery cart full of food, and I take one whiff, and my feelings for Beck Ryder might just step firmly over that line that I’ve been wrestling to keep them behind, which is bad, because I do not want to go back to a full-time life in the public eye.

  Plus, who says he’s even into me for real? I’m a geek who tasered him.

  And all he wants is to rescue his reputation.

  Still—“Did you order out Moroccan?”

  “Oh, Hersheys, yeah,” he replies with a grin, and I realize he’s censoring himself for the kids’ sake, and could he be any more real and down to earth?

  His mom frowns. “Is Moroccan spicy?”

  “It’s flavorful. You’re gonna love it.”

  He doesn’t wait for Charlie to unload the cart, but instead dives right in with everyone else grabbing cartons and bags and pulling out plates and silverware. “Hey, Charlie, Sarah, you guys go first,” Beck calls.

  Charlie gives my clothes a once-over. “Do I want to know?”

  “Emma’s teething,” Tripp tells her.

  “She mauled you with drool?”

  “Other end,” Tripp corrects.

  “That’s a thing?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m never having children.”

  “Sometimes they throw up on you too.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Yes, he is,” Beck calls. “If you have children, you might leave me.”

  “Dude, you have dependency issues,” the Rivers guy that I think is Hank says.

  “Job security isn’t a bad thing,” Charlie retorts with a glare aimed at him, and hello, tension.

  Beck swings James down onto a stool at the island and while I fix myself a plate, he talks the boy into trying a kefta kebab. “It’s like a hamburger on a stick.”

  “I eats ketsbup on my hambagurger,” James says.

  “Little man, you have taste. Hank, grab a ketchup bottle while you’re in the fridge.”

  “I didn’t know he was having a party,” I say quietly to Charlie.

  She snorts softly. “Unplanned, but once you’ve been around long enough, you learn to anticipate it. If it wasn’t a workday, they’d be all over the game room and Ellie and Wyatt would be here too. And Davis isn’t usually here on a weekday. That’s odd.”

  “Night shift,” he tells her while he grabs a spoon and dishes up some couscous. “Remotely.”

  She’s still squinting at him like it’s weird.

  “He’s a secret agent,” June tells me.

  Davis rolls his eyes.

  “Double major in computer science and nuclear engineering,” June adds. “Total recipe for him to be a secret agent. But we pretend we don’t know and buy into his story about working for that nuclear reactor south of the city to keep the feds off our tails.”

  “You’re insane,” Hank tells her.

  “You’re just mad you didn’t come up with the conspiracy theory first,” Charlie says.

  June nods. “What she said.”

  Hank grunts and turns his back to the women to grab a plate.

  Levi and Tripp demand I sit between them in the airy dining room, which also has floor-to-ceiling windows, but these overlook the rest of the downtown skyscrapers. Mink Arena peeks through the buildings, though I can’t see Duggan Field at all.

  The brothers pepper me with questions about where I went to school, how long I’ve been in Copper Valley, where I lived in town before I bought my house, how long I’ve kept bees, and when I started blogging.

  It’s unlike any party I’ve ever been to with famous people, because nobody mentions movie roles, agents, managers, endorsement deals, or gossip rags. Mostly. Davis does pull up a seat at the end of the table and fist-bumps Levi for having another number one hit on the Billboard charts.

  But that’s it before the talk turns to last night’s baseball game.

  “Nice job shoving that funnel cake in Beck’s face,” Levi tells me. “We’ve all wanted to do it a time or two.”

  “She had to seize the moment,” Tripp says. “Especially since the Fireballs probably won’t last another season.”

  “Wait, what?” I ask.

  He hands Emma a plate of mashed up chicken, vegetables, and couscous. “It’s like management is trying to make them lose so Copper Valley will kick them out. They need new owners.”

  He slides a look at Levi, who ducks his head, but I don’t miss the other looks going around the table. Between Beck and Davis. The Rivers brothers. June and Tripp.

  Even Charlie’s stopped clicking away at her phone, like she’s supposed to be taking notes, or maybe she’s mentally filing them away.

  These people can talk without saying a word.

  A chill slinks down my spine, because that’s tight. Not blood tight. Family tight.

  And I feel like I’m eavesdropping on
a conversation that I’m not supposed to know exists.

  “Oh, for goodness sakes, boys, get your elbows off the table,” Mrs. Ryder says, breaking up the silent conversation that wasn’t really a conversation, and I surreptitiously remove mine as well. But when she beams at me, I get the feeling I could leap onto the table and do the MC Hammer dance naked and she’d think I was still just utterly perfect. “Sarah, where did you say you went to college? It’ll be so nice for Ellie to have someone to talk to about work. Not that Wyatt doesn’t listen, of course, but it’s hard for her to make girlfriends sometimes. People always want to talk to her about Beck, and they never stop to get to know her first.”

  I can’t decide if I want to cry or hug her, because she clearly gets it. What it’s like to be liked for who you’re related to instead of who you are.

  “Mom, Ellie’s been in two weddings in the last year,” Beck points out.

  “But not for female engineers.”

  “She smells fresh blood,” Levi tells me, hitching his chin toward Mrs. Ryder while I blink away the sting in my eyes. “Since Ellie’s basically committing incest with marrying Wyatt—”

  “Oh, stop.” She points a fork at him. “They are not related.”

  “It would be like her marrying me,” Davis says. “And Ellie’s my sister too.”

  Everyone stops and looks at him, then a wave of laughter rolls through the open rooms. The amusement is so thick, it’s practically lifting a level of atmospheric pressure. I feel ten pounds lighter, which is something of a relief after the weird tension about the baseball thing and my sudden attack of feelings about inherently realizing that I can trust every single person in this room.

  It’s weird. But good. No one here cares who my parents are. They don’t care how awkward I was in high school and before. They’re not angling for anything. And they have each other’s backs, and they’ve adopted me too.

  “So Wyatt’s in no danger of losing Ellie to Davis?” I ask Levi.

  “None of us are, and to Davis least of all. She used to babysit him.”

  “She did not,” June says. “She was too young.” She turns to me. “Don’t listen to anything any of these guys tell you. They’re complete looneys. All of them.”

  “Like you can talk,” one of her brothers says.

  “They all have good hearts,” Mrs. Ryder insists.

  Beck kisses his mom’s hair. “Because we had you.”

  “Awwwww,” everyone intones, like they’re making fun of him, but I don’t miss the smiles coming from all of them.

  Like they agree, but they have to give Beck shit as a matter of routine.

  Emma joins in by squealing and throwing a handful of couscous all over the table, and later I’ll contemplate why Beck has a high chair in his penthouse, but I’m already a wee bit too attached.

  Especially with how weirdly normal this entire meal feels, despite all these people basically being strangers to me.

  Until the great blow-out of this morning, anyway. I guess touching a man’s kid’s poop lends itself to fast friendships.

  “Whoa, hey, where’s the tea?” Beck asks.

  “They don’t make it by the gallon,” Charlie tells him. “You’re out of luck.”

  He’s already eaten two plates full of food, and he’s piling sesame shortbread cookies and the honey-coated chebakia onto another, but he’s so crestfallen at the lack of tea that I take pity on him. “I have a teapot at home. And fresh mint. Just need some gunpowder tea.”

  Beck beams at me, and it feels more genuine than it should. “All that and she has the Serenity you’ve been looking for, Levi.”

  All eyes are suddenly on me, and another hush falls over the room, but this one’s reverent.

  “You have the Serenity?” Levi breathes.

  My face is getting hot, and I know I’m going blotchy. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Of fu—udging course it’s not,” he mutters. “Can I touch it? Just…just once?”

  “Don’t let him have it without getting something out of it for yourself,” Tripp says. “He’s such a spoiled brat.”

  Beck’s grinning. “You want to touch it, you’re gonna have to do something stupid while you’re in town to get the paps off Sarah’s street.”

  “Says the king of stupid distractions,” Levi fires back with a grin.

  “You don’t get to negotiate with my ship,” I inform Beck. “It’s my ship. And he’ll have to get through my father first.”

  “I know,” Beck says with an evil grin. “I’m gonna be the one hiding in the bushes taking video when that happens.”

  “Cash says your dad’s cool,” June says cautiously.

  “That’s because he’s not Cash’s dad,” I say.

  “I’ll put your giraffe on my video screen in my next ten concerts,” Levi offers.

  “Oh, fine, sure, bring out the big guns,” Beck says. “Dude. Any rock star can offer her that. And you should do it anyway to save the giraffes. For the rest of the whole year. Get that baby giraffe up there too.”

  “I’ll hijack all the national news signals and broadcast anything you want about the giraffes if I can take a picture with the Serenity,” Davis says.

  I laugh, but I stop when I realize I’m the only one. “Wait, you’re serious?”

  “It’s the fucking Serenity.”

  “I meant about hijacking—” I start, but James interrupts me.

  “The fucking Serenity!” he cries.

  Tripp gives Davis the you’re going to die in your sleep look, and this time, everyone cracks up.

  They’re one big, happy, crazy family.

  And I have this weird feeling that if I’d grown up with them, I might like people as much as Beck does too.

  Twenty-Two

  Beck

  Sarah’s ass looks amazing in my sweatpants.

  I think. The shirt’s covering the pants, but the shirt’s also hugging her curves right there, and yep, definitely amazing.

  She sways side-to-side while she stares out the window at the wide expanse of Reynolds Park below. The zoo’s on the far side. I could take her over there. Get her a private viewing of Persephone.

  Hell, she could probably get her own private viewing.

  But if I offer, she’ll stop the swaying, and I’ll have to stop watching her ass.

  I shift uncomfortably on the couch, where I’m pretending to check my email and text messages on my phone, because my pants are getting tight.

  “I should really be at work,” she says.

  Guilt creeps up next to me and shoves a cream pie in my face. And not the good kind with real whipped cream either. This one has fake banana flavoring in it, and I don’t like it. “Can you work remotely? Ellie does that sometimes when I make the news and people talk too much to her about it.”

  “I can, but I don’t want to.” She turns away, and I manage to look away from her ass before she catches me watching.

  Tripp left so the kids could nap. The Riverses all had to go back to work. So did Mom. And Levi and Davis took off for a public appearance for Levi that’ll end with both of them at a bar, where I can’t go, because I’m grounded. Charlie said so when she left to go work alone downstairs.

  Leave this building and I’ll quit.

  So it’s just me and Sarah.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask. “We could sneak into the zoo. Or head out to my place in Shipwreck. Ellie beat my high score on Frogger a year ago, and I need to work on getting it back.”

  She bites her lower lip and stares at me.

  “Or, yeah, we could make out,” I agree, and it’s odd how easily it comes out, and how much I mean it, because I could see letting this woman all the way in.

  I let people in all the time. I don’t care if they take my stuff. I’m usually okay with taking photos, always with signing shit. But I don’t let them have me. Not the parts that count.

  Her cheeks erupt in a splotchy flush. “I was thinking about working on my blog.”

&n
bsp; “Making out, blogging, it’s all the same.” I’m such a dumbass. “All of it revs my engine. You need a compu—oh. Right. Never mind.”

  And now I’m a dumbass who’s not making any sense and who’s getting a little more turned on because she’s staring at me like I belong in a mental institution.

  A mental institution for attractive sex gods—I swear, she’s into me right now—but still a mental institution.

  “I was gonna offer mine, but I spilled coffee all over it this morning,” I tell her lamely.

  “I have a computer downstairs in my car.”

  “Oh.”

  Her brows furrow. “Do you spill coffee on your electronics often?”

  “Only when I need to get out of a video conference.”

  “If anyone else said that to me, I wouldn’t believe them.”

  I grin. “Look at us, getting to know each other so well.”

  She crosses to sit at the other end of the couch with me and pulls her knees up to her chest, which I can’t see at all under that shirt she’s swimming in. She’s not petite—more like average, with healthy curves to her everywhere—but I got the Ryder shoulders, which makes fitting through doorframes and buying normal shirts hard sometimes, and also makes my shirt way too huge on her.

  “I’m not totally opposed to the making out idea, but you’d probably ultimately be a disappointment,” she tells me, and all thoughts of clothes leap out the window and go flying to the ground forty-some stories below.

  “Only one way to find out,” I say, scooting to the middle of the couch and tossing my phone across the room.

  She holds up a hand. “I said not totally. There’s a large margin of error in there for how opposed I actually am.”

  “Okay. Hit me with the problem, and I’ll fix it.”

  “It’s you.”

  “Me? I’m not a problem. I’m fucking fantastic at making out.”

  “My mother told me once—when I was entirely too young to hear it—that the reason she and my dad worked was that he checked his Hollywood ego at the bedroom door, and knew he had to work for it if he wanted to see her naked frequently.”

  I open my mouth, then close it, because there’s literally nothing good that anyone can say about someone else’s parents in the bedroom.