Some nights, I lie in bed for hours and replay the last month or so, frame by excruciatingly detailed frame, searching for a hint or a clue that he was having second thoughts. But I always come up with nothing.
And then I imagine my life alone. Without him. And it’s actually not that bad.
“Oh, there you are.” I yank my phone down and find Beckham straight ahead, head cocked like he’s trying to get a read on me. “Food’s here.”
“That was quick.”
“What were you doing?”
“Washing up.” I slip my phone into my pocket and shrug.
“With what? Travel brochures and gumballs?” His hands hook his narrow hips. “You wanted to get away.”
“The conversation was getting a little…personal.”
“That’s how Uncle Leo is. You earn the right to be brash when you’ve lived as long and hard as he has.” His face tightens. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I take a step but he doesn’t budge.
His rigid stance blocks me in. “I owe you an apology. From earlier.”
I don’t want to have this conversation here, at this greasy spoon. I didn’t want to have it at all; I wanted to forget it happened.
“I shouldn’t have said you weren’t special. I didn’t mean it.” He slicks his hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful of dark strands and tugging on them before exhaling. “And that just came out wrong.”
“Beckham, please…”
“I don’t know how much you heard, but if I hurt your feelings…” He shakes his head, our eyes catching.
This is Beckham.
This is Beckham being nice.
Genuinely nice.
For a second, I stop breathing, and I’m not sure why. Intimacy filters into this exchange, and I’m not sure how it got there.
“You didn’t hurt my feelings.” It’s the truth. His words didn’t hurt because they were a lie. He lied to his brother. He absolutely thinks I’m special and worth chasing. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have accused Dane of eye-fucking me from across the table. A man who doesn’t find a woman interesting wouldn’t have been upset over the prospect of losing her to someone else. He staked his claim with one pointed accusation whether he realizes it or not.
Beckham King likes me…
Which is absurd because he doesn’t know me.
He’s intrigued by me, enthralled by the chase.
“Food’s probably getting cold.” I point toward the end of the narrow passage, but he still won’t move. My gaze traces along the bottom of Beckham’s lip, the memory of the way he tasted two weekends ago floods my mouth.
His stare heats me in this tight space, raw energy zipping up my center, swirling in my chest, and radiating through my fingertips.
I squeeze past him and weave through pulled out chairs and oddly placed tables, mentally conjuring an image of Jeremiah for experimental reasons.
My body stays tepid. Not a single thunderous pound hits the inside of my chest. No melancholy ache in my heart.
I try to remember what Jeremiah smells like, tastes like, but every sensory memory is replaced with ones of Beckham. Every inhalation brings a flood of Beckham’s clean aftershave, like I’ve memorized it without even trying. I feel the weight of his stare from behind, watching as I lead us back to the table. Leo and Dane stand when I return, and I scoot back into my spot between them all.
My appetite vanishes when Beckham’s hand slides over mine under the table. I glance down and it’s gone.
Chapter 13
BECKHAM
“Odessa.” I catch her seconds before she disappears into her suite for the night.
She pauses, her hand flush against the wooden door. “Yes?”
We haven’t spoken since my apology in the diner, where she proceeded to keep her attention focused on Uncle Leo and Dane the rest of the evening and pretended to rest her eyes on the car ride back.
“You sure we’re okay?” I invade her space like I own it. Spending the rest of the week with my tail tucked doesn’t appeal to me. Plus tipping the power balance back to my favor requires a small dose of chivalry.
Her head falls back, sleek auburn strands spilling down her back as she groans.
“Beckham, why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Making this into a thing. It’s unnecessary.” Her spine zips straight as she spins on her heels to face me. “You said what you said. I told you my feelings aren’t hurt. Let it go. I can’t move past this unless you do.”
Odessa shrugs, her mouth holding straight. There’s something off about the way her gaze holds mine. Can’t put my finger on it.
“I’m tired.” Her hand rests on the doorknob.
It’s all I can do not to bang my head against the wall behind me. I’m getting nowhere with this one.
I’m not a man built of remorse and difficult choices, but fuck if I don’t regret every decision I’ve made in the last five days beginning with that kiss in the elevator. Had I known it would catapult me into unchartered territory, I’d have never considered it. I’d have sent her off, crawled back in bed, and rested my ego.
I loved my old life. Relying on no one. Seeking my happiness the best way I knew how. Free and untied, my mind hedonistically unconsumed.
“Goodnight, Beckham.” Odessa disappears behind her door. The click of the lock is mildly insulting.
Challenge accepted.
Mathilde meets us by the porte-cochere with brown-bagged breakfasts still warm from the kitchen.
“Bonjour,” she says, placing the bags in our hands. “Monsieur Townsend had our chef prepare your breakfasts. He went into the office earlier, but he wanted to ensure you were fed before you left.”
“Merci beaucoup,” Odessa says, pressing the warm bag against her chest.
Bronson pulls the car up, and we shuffle outside.
“You sleep well?” I ask once we’re settled in the back.
“Yes. You?” She pulls a container of steaming oatmeal from her bag followed by a banana. Her fingers grip the girth of the ridiculously oversized fruit, and I fight the twitch in my lips when a thought originates in the filthiest corners of my mind.
“Like a baby.” I tossed and turned all night before cranking one out. Forcing myself to stare at the assortment of topless picture messages stored in my phone didn’t do it for me either.
It had to be her.
“Think we’ll have time to go over the website today? Devin would like to wrap the project up by Friday. He’s got another lined up for next week.” She stirs her oatmeal with a plastic spoon and takes a bite. A small blob falls on her chin, and without thinking I drag my thumb across to catch it before it lands on her freshly pressed pencil skirt. Odessa jerks away.
I smirk. “You’re welcome.”
“Anyway, the website?”
I see what she’s doing. She’s keeping the conversation safe.
“I’ll carve out some time to discuss the website, yes.” I watch her politely consume her breakfast from the corner of my eye, her pink tongue gliding along the bottom of the spoon in slow motion. She’s trying not to drip. Her phone chimes, and judging by the speed at which she drops her oatmeal and pulls the phone from her pocket, I’d think she was expecting a call from the President of the United States.
With shameless curiosity, I check out the screen, eyeing a message from someone named Jeremiah asking what she’s doing in Utah.
She fires a message back and stares at the screen, waiting for a response.
“That your ex?” I ask.
Odessa pulls the phone flat across her chest and leans away. “Were you reading over my shoulder?”
“You’re sitting a foot away from me,” I say. “It’s not hard. Besides, I wanted to see who could make you move that fast. I’ve never seen you move like that.”
Her phone chimes again.
“How’d he know you were in Utah?” I ask.
S
he sighs, typing another reply.
“Does he still keep tabs on you?” I ask. “Even though you’re not together?”
Odessa jerks her head once. “Carly must’ve told him.”
“Who’s Carly?” Funny how she’s letting me into her personal life, one thin layer at a time. She’s so consumed with texting that ass that she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it.
“My best friend,” she mutters. “She’s his best friend too. We all went to Purdue together.”
“Tricky.”
“What’s tricky?”
“Your friend. She’s a double agent. Don’t you question her loyalty?”
Odessa rests her phone in her lap, staring ahead. “I don’t think that way.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Solid advice, which I will kindly decline.” Her tone is preoccupied, fading. She picks her phone up, her nails clicking feverishly against the glass. It’s angled now, reflecting in the passenger window though I still can’t read it.
“You should make him wait longer than five seconds.” My fingers rap against the armrest in the door. “Huge turn off when you know she’s waiting on the other end.”
“He’s not like that.”
“All men are like that,” I huff.
“Dating you would be a nightmare then,” she mutters.
“Which is why I don’t date. I’m the first to admit I’d be a shitty boyfriend.”
She turns to me. “You never get lonely?”
“Never.”
Leaning across the middle seat, she places her hand across my heart. “Yep. Just like I thought. You’re dead inside.”
I pound my fist into my chest. “Alive and beating, sweetheart. I’ve yet to meet a girl who can go toe to toe with me. Live life at my pace. Make me sing a different tune.”
It almost happened. In my post-Sophie stupor, I met an Argentinian bombshell with legs for days and a sexual appetite that only rivaled mine.
We did the fuck buddy thing for a handful of months. It was the closest thing I’ve had to an actual relationship since my failed engagement.
Things with her were amazing until they weren’t…
“You’re going to meet your match one of these days, Beckham.” Odessa’s head falls back as she lets out a haughty chuckle. She tucks her hair behind her ear, slipping her phone into her purse and retrieving her cold oatmeal. “She’s going to knock you sideways. You’ll go insane and love every minute of it too. God, I’d pay money for a front row seat to that.”
Chapter 14
ODESSA
“You going to silence that or what?” Dane groans from across the conference table, his eyes fixed on Beckham’s glowing phone. It’s been chiming and buzzing almost nonstop for the last three hours.
“Never,” Beckham says. “If Peterson calls, I don’t want to miss it.”
“Who’s been calling all morning? Can’t you block their number?” I interject, though it’s not my place. Can’t help but feel comfortable around these two. Despite hardly knowing them, they’re easy to be around. Hardly intimidating once you get past Dane’s tungsten-strength front and Beckham’s relaxed arrogance.
“I don’t block anyone’s number,” Beckham says.
“Maybe you should stop giving it out so much.” Dane slams his pen down, flipping to a new page in his legal pad. “Ever think of that?”
“Don’t go there, Dane.” Beckham sits up, silencing the fresh call that comes in.
“May I?” I place my hand out, palm up. “It’s a woman, right?”
The men exchange looks, and Beckham carefully slides his phone my way.
“Beckham King’s phone,” I answer, injecting friendliness into my tone. “How may I help you?”
There’s hesitation from the other end though I can hear someone breathing.
“Hello?” My voice lilts. “Are you still there?”
“Who is this?” The woman on the other end finally speaks.
“This is Mr. King’s personal assistant. I handle his social calendar and other engagements.”
“I want to talk to him.” She sounds like a child stomping their foot at a toy store. “I don’t want to go through someone. This is ridiculous. Put him on the phone.”
“Unfortunately he’s preoccupied at the moment,” I say. “I’m happy to take a message.”
“Put. Him. On. The. Phone.” Her voice falls an octave, but it doesn’t intimidate me.
“And your name?” I ask sweetly. It’s an old trick from when I used to answer phones at a doctor’s office. Patients would call and make demands, and the second you lead them to believe they’re about to get their way you ask their name. Half of them would hang up and never call back. The other half would pretend they didn’t just have a conniption fit over the phone and offer their name without hesitation.
“Listen, you’re going to put him on the phone.” The woman’s words are sharp but weightless.
She’s still not getting through.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I just can’t do that. Are you a personal friend of Mr. King?”
“You could say we have a connection.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
She sighs.
I peer across the table. The guys are watching me like I’m about to perform some kind of Voodoo ritual. I point a finger up and excuse myself, dashing from the conference room and finding a quiet hallway.
“Listen,” I say to the woman when I’m alone. The things I’m about to say are hurtful but only half-true. Beckham doesn’t need to hear them. “He’s not that great. He’s just good at making people think he’s great. He’s like a desert mirage, you know? He looks like something we want, but it’s all an illusion.”
She’s quiet.
“You still there?” I ask.
A sigh comes through her end. “Yes.”
“Calling him repeatedly is a huge waste of your time, and honestly, you’re not doing yourself any favors by acting like some crazy ex-girlfriend,” I lay the words as gently as possible, though it’s difficult to be sympathetic when someone’s behaving like a lunatic. “Am I making sense?”
“Give him a message for me, will you?” Her voice is surprisingly pert all of a sudden. “Tell him to go fuck himself. And I hope his fucking cock falls off. Oh, and my friend is about to give birth to his baby.”
“Y-your friend?”
“Yeah,” she snips. “I’m not stupid enough to sleep with that fuckwad but she was. She’s being induced tonight at New York General. It’s a girl. Tell him congratu-fucking-lations.”
My heart falls, sinking to the deepest part of me. “D-does he know?”
“Hell if I know. She won’t tell us a damn thing, just that the baby is his.”
“I’m sure if he knew, he’d be there.”
Beckham might be a lot of things, but I can’t imagine him being a deadbeat father.
“He probably doesn’t know. I’ll talk to him,” I say.
“Yeah, you do that. And tell him to man up or I’ll personally see to it he’s paying out the ass for child support for the next eighteen years.”
My heart races at the thought of dropping this bomb on him. Here I thought I was saving another broken heart Beckham left in his path of manwhoring destruction.
“What’s your friend’s name?” I ask.
“Eva Delgado,” she says. “And if he wants to talk to her from now on, he’ll go through me.”
“I’ll relay the message right away.” My fingers quake, weighted by the kind of news I never expected to deliver.
My legs wobble as I amble back to the conference room. The walk back feels longer than the one that carried me to that quiet hall. Beckham and Dane observe with amused smirks as I shut the door quietly and hand Beckham his phone.
“How’d it go?” Beckham asks.
A long breath drags across my lips as I sink down into my chair. My bottom lip falls, and my gaze drifts between theirs.
“Congratulations,” I
say.
“What the hell are you talking about, Odessa?” Beckham laughs.
“You’re going to be a father.” I search his eyes for a hint of something that tells me he had no idea.
Chapter 15
BECKHAM
It’s impossible.
But at the same time it isn’t.
Nothing rattles me, but I’m shaking like a leaf and Odessa hasn’t stopped staring at me since this morning. She’s unusually quiet, and I’m particularly grateful. This situation is none of her business, and I’m not about to shell out the complicated details.
The plane grounds at JFK, and I unbuckle my seatbelt before we come to a stop. I’ve got to get the hell out of here, call my attorney, call Dr. Brentwood and rush to the hospital.
If this kid is in fact mine, I refuse to miss its birth. I’ll deal with Eva the first chance I get.
Two cabs wait for us at the tarmac, and I watch Odessa pull away in one as I climb inside mine. I pull up the number from this morning, the one belonging to Eva’s friend, and call her back.
“Where is she? Which room?” I ask the second she answers.
“Is this Beckham?”
“Yes. Where can I find Eva?”
“Room 8174,” she says. “Pitocin’s been dripping a couple hours. Contractions are starting. Doctor thinks she’ll be here soon, so get your sorry ass down here.”
“She?”
“Yep. It’s a girl.” I’ve never felt so much hatred in someone’s voice. Apparently she doesn’t know Eva as well as I do.
“On my way.” I end the call, tapping the driver on the shoulder and handing him an extra twenty to step on it. Spinning through my contacts, I find my attorney’s cell and give him a call. His voicemail picks up on the first ring. He’s probably in Tahiti or some shit like that. I scan through my contacts once more, dialing Dr. Brentwood’s office and telling his secretary that an emergency has come up.
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