Animal Instincts (Gilded Knights Series Book 3)

by Emilia Finn

  “Beckett, you’ve…” I shake his hand off when he tries to grab hold and pull me closer. “You’re my boss! That’s already a big no for us. And I have a boyfriend! That’s two noes.”

  “Tabby—”

  “And ya know what?” I shout and push back. “You’re a fucking liar.”

  Stunned, he startles as though my words are a physical blow. “What?”

  “Any man who meant these things you’re saying, a man who actually means it, and is not just angling for a warm body to hug in the murder house, would want the best for me. He would want happiness for me.”

  “I do want you to be happy! What the hell—”

  “I’m a veterinarian, Beckett! I am skilled, smart, and passionate, but do you put my needs ahead of your own?”

  “That’s sep—”

  “No it’s not! You want me now, because you’re an insatiable dog, and there are no other bitches here for you to look at. But as soon as we’re home again, back where all the blondes with tits and an ass are a part of your daily buffet, I’ll be sitting there, answering your phone calls, and wondering what the hell I destroyed my relationship for.”

  “You’re scared.” He steps forward once more. Closer. Less enraged. “You like stability and security. You like what you know, and you hate change.”

  “Don’t act like you know me!” I spin out of his reach and shake my head. “In these two months, Beckett, it’s me who has studied you. I know you prefer Pepsi over Coke. I know how you like your steak, and how you take your coffee. I know you prefer double-breasted… everything. I know when your birthday is. I know when your siblings’ birthdays are. I know where your parents are right now, and, thanks to me, they know where you are, since they long ago gave up asking you for details of your life.”

  “Tabby, you—”

  “I’m not done.” I storm back in his direction. “I know your middle name. I know you have a thing for double-Ds. I know you have no care in the world for a woman’s brains, but you place a lot of stock in the length of her legs. I know you watch movies with your siblings, but you rarely enjoy what they’re watching. I know you do that simply because you enjoy being part of family movie night and would rather spend two hours staring at the wall than not accept the movie invitation.”

  “Tabitha—”

  “I know your sister is really excited about adopting soon, and I know that the idea of your sister being a mom gives you the heebie-jeebies. I know you donate most of Lakeside’s profits to cancer research. And though that comes with lovely tax breaks, it’s definitely not the reason you do it.”

  “Tabby, stop!”

  “I know that, right now, you think you want me, because compared to Darla and her pregnant horse, I’m the best you’re gonna get out here. But I also know, deep down, you honestly have no affection or loyalties to me at all. Any woman will do, so long as she can keep your schedule straight.”

  “You have no clue what you’re talking about,” Beckett snarls. “But you’ve sure as hell used your two months to form some pretty polarizing opinions about me and mine.”

  “That’s my job!” I snap. “My shitty fucking job where I chase after you and book your dinner dates instead of treating the animals I so desperately want to treat.”

  “Tabitha—”

  “Stop calling me Tabitha! Stop acting like you’re some kind of noble bastard all because you have a quick smile. Whatever you’re talking about from the other night—dream or real—just stop it!”

  “You’re mad because you want me.”

  “I’m mad because if what you say is true, then I’m a nasty slut, and you’re a pig for throwing it in my face. A gentleman would keep that shit to himself.” I turn on my heels and stalk back in the direction of the house. “But I should have known to expect less from the guy who hires boobs over brains.”

  “It doesn’t make you a slut to want me!” he calls out. “It makes you curious. And human. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I’m walking away, then I’m going to book a hotel in town.”

  “You prefer red lemonade over Coke or Pepsi!”

  I stop on the spot, my shoes skidding against the grass. But I don’t turn. I refuse.

  “You prefer coffee over red lemonade,” he continues. “You prefer sleep over coffee, and you loathe anyone who can’t be where they should be on time.”

  Defensively, I remain standing twenty feet away with my shoulders high.

  “You rarely wear makeup, but I think that’s because you want to set yourself apart from the Carmels of the world, since I so rudely tossed her in your face that first week. But when you do wear makeup,” his voice comes a little quieter now that I’ve stopped. A little gentler. “It’s a sweet coat of pink blush on your cheeks and above your eyes. A swipe of mascara on top of that when you’re feeling frisky. I haven’t seen you wear lipstick except for the smudged stuff you left on my door that first day.”

  My stomach swirls with emotions, and anxieties, and regrets.

  I just don’t know what I regret yet.

  “Your sister is your best friend in the entire world, and your favorite ice cream is none, because ice cream is for losers.”

  My lips twitch. “I don’t have time for ice cream.”

  “Who the fuck doesn’t have time for ice cream?”

  I jump when a hand presses to my hip and anchors me on the spot.

  “You always come to work smelling like fruit,” he murmurs. “Coconuts and strawberries, mostly. That’s not because you wear perfume—you’re too serious for that nonsense. But you alternate between the soaps you buy. Coconut and strawberries.”

  Beckett’s chest presses close to my back and forces my heart into a dangerous arrhythmia. “You rarely eat steak. You prefer lighter meals; chicken burgers and soups are your thing. You want to cry during movies, but you hold that shit in because crying is for the weak.”

  “Well…” My voice breaks. “It’s true. Crying is also for losers.”

  “And admitting you have feelings for someone is akin to weakness.” His long fingers spider around and touch my stomach. “You’ve lived your life one way for years. Same town, same boyfriend, same, same, same. Now you’re here, with me,” he murmurs by my ear and sends electricity racing down my spine. “You fear what that might mean for your routine.”

  “Beckett—”

  “And that’s totally cool,” he says. “I respect your need for stability. I respect your need for punctuality and straight lines. But I don’t respect this claim that you’re in love with someone else.”

  Like a bucket of ice water has been tossed on my head, I jerk forward and escape Beckett’s intoxicating hold. “You ruined it! You—”

  “It’s been two months, Tabby! He doesn’t want you, and you don’t want him.”

  “Stop it!”

  “He’s part of your old routine. He’s what you know, and you’re incapable of setting that aside.”

  “You’re an asshole!”

  “An asshole who’ll tell you the fucking truth.” He follows; one step for every two I take. “You were both in a rut, you’re what the other knows. That relationship had a purpose, but now it’s done.”

  “He’ll be in my apartment in three days!”

  “So ask him to leave again! It won’t even be hard. Say what you need to say before he walks in the door. Saves you both the trouble of unpacking, and saves me the fucking burn in my gut knowing he was there.”

  “You’re absolutely ridiculous.” I drop my head and stomp toward the house. “You have zero respect for other people’s relationships.”

  “False. I respect the fuck out of what my brothers and sister have.” Beckett’s hand wraps around my arm and spins me back until we crash, and hot breath races down my throat. We’re too close, too hot, too volatile. “But you were moaning in my ear only a few nights ago, Tabby. You were thinking about me while you were coming. So how about we cut the shit and explore this,” he looks down between us. “Let us explor
e what we could have.”

  “You want to explore my vagina,” I growl. “Don’t sugarcoat things.”

  “I want to explore your soul,” he counters with just as much passion. “I want to explore your mind. I want to lie with you for hours and talk. No phones. No one else. No interruptions. No sex required.”

  “That would be a first for you.”

  He scoffs. “Maybe you know my soda preferences and how I like my steak, but you have no fucking clue who I am in a bedroom. When it’s just me and you and four walls to keep the world out, you have no clue who I am. That’s what scares you,” he sidles closer. Impossibly so. “You think you know me. You think you’ve got me pegged as the playboy asshole. So the fact I might actually be someone else terrifies you.”

  “I have to go.”

  Beckett’s hands rest on the small of my back, the same way they have a million times before. But… not the same. They’re steely and strong, which means when he leans forward, into my space, I have to lean back and hope he doesn’t drop me.

  “I’m going to book new accommodations,” I huff, “then we’re out of here. I apologize for booking this B&B in the first place. I was trying to punish you, which is—”

  “Not at all professional.” His smile creeps up as he murmurs.

  His hands are broad, his fingers long, which means he touches the small of my back, but he also touches the bottom of my shoulder blades. His fingers graze the strap of my bra, and for a single moment, my brain conjures an image of him unsnapping it and putting us both out of our misery.

  “What are you thinking, Tabby? What’s got you heating up?”

  Stunned, I turn my face away and swallow to lubricate my dry throat. “You need to let me go.”

  “But, see,” Beckett leans in closer, closer, heart-stoppingly close, then he presses a gentle kiss to the edge of my jaw. “I don’t think I can.”

  On a cry of despair, I twist out of his hold and race in the direction of the house.

  I need a crowd. Safety. Jesus, I need the murder house to be safe from Beckett and the things he does to my hormones.

  I dart past a row of pumpkins growing from the ground, then around a cow. Just a lone fucking cow out to pasture… on dirt. I sprint past the now-open red barn, around a tractor, and onto grass. Then I stop with a squeal when I find the hood of Beckett’s truck lifted, and half a man—the ass and legs half—leaning out of the engine bay with tools and too many pieces already hanging from his back pocket.

  “What the—”

  The man—could he be Reginald?—pushes straight at my words, only to reveal he’s no more than five and a half feet tall… and that’s including the step he stands on at the front of the truck.

  “Well, hey there,” Reginald waves an oil-stained hand. “You must be Mrs. Rosa?”

  “Wh-what are you doing?” I stammer and stumble forward. My eyes scour the truck. The parts littering the ground, and those hanging from Reginald’s body. “Why are you taking pieces from the engine?”

  “Free service with every stay, miss.” Reginald wipes his hands on his overalls, only to move off his step and force me to look down when he offers one of those hands. “It’s part of the Meadow Hills promise.”

  “Oh…” My brain screams Danger! Danger! Danger! “Um… are you a mechanic by trade?”

  “No, ma’am. But what man doesn’t know how to pull an engine apart in a weekend and put it back together again, good as new?”

  Pretty sure Beckett can’t. And that realization makes my breath come faster.

  “Oh no,” Beck murmurs, surprising me with his proximity. “Guess we’re stuck here.” He throws his left arm over my shoulders and tugs me close so roughly that I grunt. Then he offers his free hand to Reginald. “I see you’ve met my lovely wife. Isn’t she a peach?”

  15

  Beckett

  Doilies

  I’m supposed to be working. Two days of schmoozing and networking.

  That’s what folks call it, right? ‘Networking’ is the fancy new way of saying there’s a popularity contest in the hotel’s bar. Winner ends up with the most friends. Loser buys their own drinks.

  In years gone by when I’ve attended weekends like this, I’ve spent the requisite daytime at the appropriate events, speaking to the right people, and collecting friends in the industry the way someone might collect chess pieces. The nights, however, were spent doing things that turned me on. Drinking, dancing, women, and long sleep-ins.

  I’ve never once claimed to be a saint. I’ve never lied and said I was some kind of innocent schoolboy who has no experience with women. I know who I am, and considering I’ve never broken a heart or knocked a woman up, I consider my adult dating life a success.

  But what I consider a success and what Tabby considers success are two entirely different things.

  Lucky for me, Reginald fucked with my truck, and we aren’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future.

  “We have that auction to go to,” Tabby walks laps into the carpet of our room. I sit on the bed—her bed? our bed?—and try not to breathe too heavily for fear of making the frame squeak. “I already registered you. People are expecting you.”

  “It’s fine, Tabby.”

  “You didn’t tell me how big this event is,” she scowls. Her words are for me, but while she paces, her eyes are for her phone. “Literally every other hotel in town is booked.”

  “And even if they weren’t,” I snicker, “we have no truck to get there.”

  “We’re so much farther out of town than I realized,” she whimpers. “I didn’t think about the practicalities of twenty miles.”

  “Long walk.”

  “I figured a ten-minute drive each way would be punishment enough for you. A way to cool your heels. Plus, no woman is gonna get in a truck and drive to the middle of nowhere with a dude she just met.”

  “So you admit to wanting to stifle my sex life?”

  Swinging around, Tabitha’s glittering eyes meet mine as her chest heaves, searching for breath. “No!”

  “Uh huh.”

  Taunting her, since it’s so easy, I kick my shoes off and inch along the bed until I can rest against the dozen pillows lining the headboard. “This isn’t even a queen, by the way.” I open my arms and legs for a moment to take measurements, then I fold my hands behind my back and cross my legs at the ankle. “This twin is gonna be cozy as fuck.”

  “You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re sleeping on that bed.” She goes back to pacing and typing on her phone. “I can get a guy from roadside assistance to fix the truck, but he can’t come until the morning.” She grunts and looks at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

  “And you haven’t even organized your gown yet.”

  Tabby stops and growls when I grin.

  “There’s no need for roadside assistance,” I tell her. “Reginald has it under control.”

  “Reginald is one red balloon away from turning into a killer,” she snarls. “He shouldn’t have touched our damn truck!”

  “Maybe if you’d read the fine print better, you’d have seen that the full engine rebuild is included with breakfast.”

  “Why aren’t you freaking out?” she demands angrily. “We’re here for work, and we’re going to miss all the work events. And you think kicking back on a squeaky bed is the right answer?”

  “Hakuna Matata.”

  “I will slit your throat while you sleep,” she hisses. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Priorities.” Smiling, I lunge forward and snag her around her hips when she tries to pass.

  Tabitha screams from fright, and then from the sensation of falling, as I tug her to the bed and she drops down on my lap.

  This is sexual harassment in the workplace if I ever saw it, but I can’t stop. I can’t let this go. Now, it’s her job to catch up.

  “I’m not freaking out, because I was kinda just granted two entire days in the asscrack of nowhere…” I press a
daring kiss to her shoulder. “With you.”

  Tabby is stiff as a board and panting, but not because she’s turned on. “This isn’t…” She shakes her head. “We can’t… it’s not…”

  “Two days in the murder house gives us free rein, right? No responsibilities, no regrets, and no outside world interference.”

  “Says the guy who wants to get laid,” she whimpers.

  Her phone vibrates, and when we both look down, Mark’s name is burned to the front of my brain.

  Tabby draws a deep breath that makes her chest expand, then letting it out again, she climbs off my lap and answers the call. “Hey, babe.”

  Shaking my head, I drop back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Water marks from a leak upstairs stain my view. Waves of faded rusted brown draw my gaze. But my ears… they’re all for Tabby.

  “We’re having car trouble.” She stands in the corner furthest from me, like that’ll grant her privacy. She could step into the hall, but threats of disembowelment from an overly creative middle schooler are enough to keep her ass on this side of the door.

  I’ve never been so thankful for a family of creeps.

  “Yeah, something in the engine, but there’s this guy, uh, Reginald.” Her voice breaks on his name. “He’s working on it.”

  “Knock, knock, knock.” I glance across in time to find our door swinging open, and on the threshold, Darla smiles her serial killer grin. “It’s time to prepare for dinner.”

  “No.” Tabitha speaks into the phone. “That means I have ten minutes before dinner is served.”

  “On the contrary, miss.” Darla strides into the room, past me as I watch on with a lifted brow, then she grabs Tabby’s arm. “We need to find you a gown.”

  Tabby’s eyes widen, and though Mark continues to speak—I hear the muffled buzzing of his voice—she’s completely and utterly stunned by Darla. “Huh?”

  “Your dress.” Our hostess snatches Tabby’s phone and tosses it to the bed so it lands face up, the call still connected. “I have something I think will suit, and I’m quick with a needle.” Darla looks to me. “The dinner bell will ring in thirty minutes. Please be washed up and ready.”