by Dani Wyatt
I let out a little whimper, closing my eyes for a second and shaking my head.
My arms dart around my waist in an attempt to muffle further embarrassment. I am acutely more aware of my extra muffin’ top that curls over the waistband of my jeans.
He reaches to the top of the door frame with both hands and stretches, pushing his chest forward while he lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a painful sigh. His left eye closes a bit more than his right when he smiles, and I find his face, scars and all, fascinating and stunning.
The vivid white of his t-shirt stretches over his chest and then tightens around his center. I hate that I notice the indentations around what must be the world’s most perfect set of abs. If I can see them through a t-shirt, what must they look like without?
STOP
Visions of Brat Pitt’s body in Fight Club flash through my mind. He’s that guy. Sleek but hard with just enough of everything without being too much. More cut than bulked.
Only, he’s better, bigger, and as far as I know, he’s not a psychotic vision of himself that exists only inside his own head.
My stomach roars again.
“Oh. My. God. I’m so sooooorrrry. I didn’t plan very well.” I look anywhere but at him. “Since your Dad is asleep, maybe I can run down the street? I think I saw a Subway a few blocks down.” This is not really a neighborhood where I would feel all that great about running down the street, but I didn’t think to bring anything else to eat after I left Windfield.
I tug at a long strand of wayward hair that has attached itself to my lip and feel his eyes on me.
He’s staring silently, and I realize just how big he is. I feel like an impish child under his gaze.
I stand up from my chair, unsure what else to do. I want to get my coat and go. The way he stares at me makes me want to do things—to him.
Things I swore I would never do again. Or have done to me.
“Wait. I have a better idea.” His voice sends what feels like some internal sonic boom resonating deep inside me.
He doesn't move from his spot, blocking the door as he pulls out his phone and taps the screen.
He’s still half-smiling at me, now holding the phone to his ear. My stomach is done growling for the moment, but it is doing all sorts of other shenanigans that feel like hummingbirds dancing in an Ecstasy-fueled rave.
He’s ordering pizza probably. Would be nice if he asked what I like on mine.
“Hey, this is Beckett Fitzgerald. How busy are you right now? Can we get a table for two?” He nods at me, and I swear his eye shoots some kind of devious Cupid’s arrow through my chest. “Great. Yes, Beckett. Be there in fifteen. Don’t give that table away.”
He hangs up with a self-satisfied, smug look.
“What was that?” It takes a concentrated effort to keep my voice from shaking.
“That was me trying to solve your little hunger problem. That’s what I do; I’m a problem solver.”
“Really? You think I want to just leave and go eat somewhere with you?”
Because I don’t. But, I’m a liar—even to myself. I have to be.
“Do you?” He steps closer, shoving his hands down into his jeans pockets. I hate that my eyes follow and take a longer than polite glance at his zipper.
“I shouldn’t leave your dad alone. You’re paying me—”
“You were going to run to Subway.” He calls bullshit on my lame excuse.
“Yes, but you would be here. I don’t want him to wake up and not know we’re gone.”
He’s still staring at me, and those eyes are dripping heat from my face and down my body until I feel like it’s flowing through my veins all the way to my toes.
“Dad!” Beck yells with a smile, his eyes still pinned on mine.
I jump, and Mr. Fitzgerald lets out an irritated growl.
“What? Jesus, I’m sleeping.” Mr. Fitzgerald puts his head right back on the chair, barely blinking at Beckett.
“We’re going to get food. Be back in a bit.”
“Go on. Leave me alone, both of you. I don’t need you hovering. Go on.” He waves his hand in a very clear sign of our dismissal.
“See? He doesn’t want us here.” Beckett closes nearly all the space between us, and I fight the urge to step back. I can feel the tension in the inch or so left. “I’ll get your coat.”
I heave an audible sigh of relief when he spins and walks back into the loft space.
He looks so good walking away. I’m liquid again, pulled along in his wake as he holds my eyes captive.
It’s been a hundred years since I thought of how it would feel to kiss someone, but the thought just crossed my mind about a thousand times in the course of sixty seconds. I counted.
His strides are so confident, uneven but incredibly sexy. He runs a hand up and over his close-cropped, black hair, and I see his neck do that twitching thing again as his hand grips the back of it as if to stem the tide of whatever it is that keeps happening.
A second later and he’s back in front of me, and my pulse is somewhere near where David Banner turns green.
I take a few steps toward where he is now holding my jacket out like a gentleman.
“Okay. I’ll go on one condition.”
“What’s that? That I let you pay? Sounds good.” He smiles.
“No. You are definitely paying. But, I want to know what all that is.” I point to the long tables and actually break into my own little smile.
He licks his lips and those kissing thoughts start up again. But, just as my smile is warming up, his disappears.
“I can’t do that. Pick something else.”
His eyes turn from stunning to stone. I think of asking why, but I can see from his look that that door is bolted shut. Now, I feel like an idiot.
“Okay, never mind.”
“Hey, sorry. I just can’t tell you about all that right now. Pick something else, really, I’m an open book. Except about that.”
I can see the sincerity in his eyes, and I hear it in his voice. But, there is sadness with it, and I feel like I’ve crapped all over our moment.
He slips my jacket onto my arms, leaving his hands on my shoulders a few seconds longer than necessary. He is close enough that I catch the fresh and clean scent of him along with a hint of some spicy cologne.
The back of my neck warms from the heat he radiates.
The fact that he denied me my one condition, now it’s all I can focus on.
What could be in all those notebooks? All those perfectly stacked letters? I fight off the urge to push the subject because he made it very clear that it is off limits.
Beckett steps away and slips his amazing arms into a heavy, navy blue and white flannel shirt and rolls up the sleeves. His eyes are still attached to me, waiting.
“Alright, then. I’ll leave out the condition. But, I want to know where we’re going.”
“You’ll see.” His amazing smile is back, and a wave of relief comes over me like a little kid looking up at someone she doesn’t want to disappoint.
I hate to admit that this is as close to a real date as I’ve had in more years than I can count, and I almost forget that he hasn’t told me our destination.
Why Beckett seems to be able to draw me in, I’m not sure. It’s so strange how that happens. I mean, that first day I didn’t think about him much after I left Mr. Fitzgerald’s room.
Now, I can’t seem to blink and not think about him.
Three days ago he was no one and nowhere, now he’s everything and everywhere. I can’t get away from him even when I’m alone.
To most people, I’m sure he is more than a little scary—not just because of the scars that cover half his face and end somewhere below his collar . . . but because of his everything. His size, his demeanor, the way those crazy, blue-green eyes look right through you.
Then, there is something in him that makes me think those same eyes could turn on a dime. That this man could be humming a show tune just as eas
ily as he could be snapping a neck, both with the same impact on his heart. I’ve never been on a date with someone I knew so little about.
This is not a date. But, it’s close, and I can’t believe I’m looking forward to it.
Beckett
We are taking the stairs from the loft down to the street, and Promise is in front of me by just a step. I breathe her deep, her soft scent straight out of a fairytale created in some mystical witch’s lab just to drive me to the brink of insanity.
I am trying not to focus on the ten thousand reasons this could potentially be a bad idea as we walk out the door onto the nearly empty street. I hold the door as she brushes past and a crash of the other million reasons this is exactly the right idea beats the shit out of my doubts.
Two cars rumble passed as I fall into step next to her. The image of her younger face hits me, and I fight off the gnawing guilt that comes when I think of what could have been different for her.
How the choices I made . . .
Changed her life . . .
And she has no idea.
“So, you like working at Windfield?” I have an overwhelming need to get to the million or so questions I have for her. A drive to know everything about her scratches at me like an itch that will not be ignored.
“Sure. I like the people I help. I’ve never been much of a socializer, and I don’t fit in most places . . .” Her voice trails off, and I hear her blow out a breath.
“Fitting in shouldn’t be anyone’s goal. This world has too many copies—you are no copy.”
I’m making sure my strides match hers. I like how she dresses. Her jeans are just the right amount of tight. Her sweater is a warm brown turtleneck that hugs in all the right places. I stifle a chuckle when I see that one of her socks is bright orange, and the other is pink argyle. She’s a mismatched, tumbled mess, and it only makes her tug even harder at me.
“Well, you try looking like this in high school. Trust me, I didn’t fit in, and it wasn’t all that fun being the outsider.”
“You’re beautiful.” I watch her face to be sure my words hit her straight on.
And this time, I want her to hear me.
What I did to have this opportunity with her I have no idea, but I can feel the countdown in my head. I’ve got a limited amount of time, and I am not going to fuck this up.
She’s staring at the sidewalk when I say it. Her pace doesn’t change, but I can feel her shift—tightening her shoulders and pushing her hands down further into her coat pockets as she absorbs my compliment.
“Does that make you uncomfortable, for me to say that?” I can’t remember ever telling a woman she was beautiful before. I’ve told them their hot, sexy, cute, pretty . . . but never beautiful. That word has been waiting just for her.
“A little.” She shrugs the shoulder closest to me, bringing it up next to her ear for a long moment.
It’s late March, and the wind is still blowing winter down on us. A gust takes her hair and wraps it around her face like an ivory mask. She doesn’t try to fix it. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s cold or I’ve made her so nervous she doesn't want to move.
“Here—” I spin in front of her, both hands working what looks like spun moonlight and gold thread, and I think about what it would be like to have that hair dangling down onto my face as she sits on top of me.
I’m trying to walk backward and guide the wayward hair from her face. I have no cool with her and just to make it worse, my heel catches on a crack in the sidewalk, nearly sending me crashing down.
“You okay?” She’s trying to hold back the smile at my near collapse.
“I’m good. I made you smile, so the evening’s a win.” More than anything, I want her eyes to meet mine, but they’re pinned on my feet as I work her hair back over her shoulders.
I remember all the times I’ve imagined being able to touch her hair. The real deal is far better than any or all of those imaginary moments.
That realization frightens me because there are so many other ways I want to touch her, and if a brush of her hair has me this jacked up, God only knows what will happen if—I mean, when—I touch other parts of her. Parts that won’t involve clothing.
It’s only a matter of time. She’s already mine. She just has to catch up with my reality. She already owns my ass. She's owned me for years.
“We’re going to my favorite restaurant. It’s been around for almost fifty years. You ever heard of Bello’s?”
I’m thankful her eyes raise from my shoes as I pivot back into step next to her.
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” she answers.
“Ever been?”
“Nope.”
Bello’s is a Cleveland icon. Old world Italian place with an enormous, walnut carved bar where they are as happy to serve you a thousand dollar bottle of Scotch as they are a Miller Lite. The owner, Leo, is the father of one of my SEAL brothers. It’s unusual for two guys to be from the same old neighborhood, but Sean and I both hail from here. Except, he grew up in a very different world than I did.
“Well, tonight will be a night of two firsts for you. First time at Bello’s . . .” I rub a hand over my head, and I wonder if she will take the bait.
I want all her firsts to be mine from now on.
It’s hanging there. Come on, bite.
“And, what’s the other first?”
“It will be the first time I kiss you.”
“What?” She bursts into a disbelieving smile and shoves me with a more than adequate push against my shoulder.
“Hey, you never know. I’m quite persuasive. I mean, I got you to go to dinner with me, and I didn’t even have to ask. Don’t doubt my super powers.”
“Right.” She clears her throat before she continues. I love that she’s a little nervous. “Now that you mention it, you didn’t ask, and this isn’t a date, just in case you think it is.”
“Call it what you like, I’m not one to get caught up on semantics.”
She is trying not to smile again and fails.
Huge. Win.
Somewhere between her Trout Almondine and my Fettuccine Fresco, I can feel us strike an uneasy balance. I have a hard time keeping my dick from taking over the more gentlemanly portions of me, but so far I’ve won the battle.
What is it about her that lights my fuse? She’s somewhere between vixen and virgin. An angel with broken wings and a spirit that needs to be set free. The combination is so intoxicating, I have to concentrate on each word of our conversation. Otherwise, I’d revert to a primal animal and be grunting and growling out my claim in the face of any other motherfucker that looks her way.
“I will assume since you accepted this date with me that you are unattached. No boyfriend, fiancé, husband?”
She sits up straight and forces a disbelieving smile.
“I didn’t accept a date. I accepted dinner. Which, by the way, thank you.” She nods her head and folds her hands down in her lap. “But, no. None of the above.”
“Unbelievable.” I can’t help but stare straight at her face, and I don’t care how obvious I am.
“I’ve never found relationships worth the price. I like to be alone. Always have.”
I know that is the truth, and my heart forms deep fissures knowing I could have prevented some of it.
“Can I ask you something?” My mind is drifting somewhere between my need to know everything about her and my need to dig into her with my tongue.
“I’ve never understood that question.” She lets out a chuckle. “I mean, it’s a question in and of itself, ‘Can I ask you a question?’ and why preface a question with a question about asking the question? Just ask, and I can always tell you to piss off if I don’t want to answer.” Her answer is straightforward and precise without any hint of bitchiness.
You don’t have to be a bitch to get your point across, and Promise has that down in spades.
“Fair enough.” I lean forward as the waiter’s hand comes across to clear our dinner pla
tes. I notice how she sits stick straight, her sweater pulling perfectly across her chest.
The restaurant is so quiet, I wonder if she can hear the smashing of my heart against my ribs, and I have to admit I am very happy for the cover of the tablecloth over my disobeying sentinel, trapped in a war of wills against my zipper.
I’m trying to decide what to ask first.
I want it all.
Everything.
I want to know what happened to her eye. I want to know about her parents, where she grew up before she landed in foster care. How she ended up in the system. Where she lives. Who her friends are. What is her favorite color? Has she ever been in love?
Wait. No, scratch that last one. I don’t want to know that, especially if the answer is yes.
“Where do you live?” I settle on something safe.
“I live with Bruce. An apartment not far from Windfield.”
I can’t help it when my eyebrows pinch together and my lips open, taking in a quick breath.
“Wait, you live with him? Like, live with him?”
I suddenly hate him. With a seething, volcanic hatred.
“Not like that. Just roommates. He has a big apartment over in Jersey Village. He leased it when he was with his partner, and when they broke up, he was a little tight on the rent. I came along at just the right time, and it works. He’s hardly ever home, and neither am I.”
Okay, I don’t hate him anymore, but I envy him.
Why is she hardly ever home? What does she do after she leaves her shift at Windfield?
She is zipping the cross back and forth on the chain that hangs around her neck, and I want to put my lips there . . . and hold her hand.
I’ve never wanted to hold anyone’s hand before. Never. I guess I saved that for her as well.
Everyone has a thing. Something that they reserve. Hold back. It’s that one personal thing you don’t want to give someone—until you meet the right someone.
She moves that hand down to play with the spoon left next to the spot where her dinner plate had been. She’s nervous; her hand doesn’t seem to know where to light.
Fortune favors the brave, so before I know it, I’ve got my fingers under hers, pulling her hand into mine.