“You were supposed to text me last night when you got in. I worry about you, you know?”
“Sorry. I’m so tired. I can’t think. I had to go straight into a radio interview when I left the airport. Then there were costume fittings and meetings with the producers.” The tension in her voice carried through the phone. “I only got about three hours of sleep last night.”
“Don’t let them work you to death,” I warned. “Take care of yourself.”
“Oh, I’m good. You know me. I thrive on this shit. What about you?” she asked.
I heard a deep, familiar male voice in the background and sat up a little straighter. “Who is that? Is that Alex? I thought he was in New Zealand.” It didn’t sound like her boyfriend. “Don’t tell me it’s Tucker.”
“Nobody. Don’t worry about it,” she said, a hint of mischief in her tone. “Did you call Beckett? How’d it go?”
“I think he’s in shock.” Shoot, who was I kidding? I was still traumatized. “He’s going to the doctor with me.” The pressure inside my head increased, and I rubbed the space between my eyebrows to ease it. “He was pretty cool about it, considering.”
“Beckett’s a good guy. He’ll take care of you,” she said, and I knew it was true. Beckett’s confidence had lessened the churning worry in my gut, but only a little. “Did you decide what you’re going to do?”
“No, but he wants me to keep it.” How could I explain the complicated emotions I felt around him and the baby when I didn’t understand them myself? “He was very adamant about it.” I feared he might try to pressure me into the wrong decision.
“Just remember, I’m here for you either way,” Sydney said. She must have covered the phone with her hand because I heard muffled murmurs.
“Syd? What’s going on?”
“It was room service.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, about getting my shit together, and I—” My voice cracked. Tears stung my eyes. “You’re right. I’m doing the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.”
“Maybe you should go talk to someone about it. Someone impartial.”
“Like a therapist?”
“Sure. I’ve been seeing Dr. Bob for a couple of years. It helps me stay grounded and deal with work. All this fame can make a person crazy.”
“Seriously? I had no idea.” One of my boarding school teachers had suggested a counselor when I was younger, but my mother had been adamant in her denial. Therapy was for the weak or the crazy, two things a Seaforth could never be.
“I can give you his number. Maybe he can recommend someone for you.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.” I bit my lower lip and sniffed to curb a sob. An outlet for all the pent-up frustrations might be nice. On the other hand, confessing my shortcomings to a complete stranger seemed out of the question. “Thank you for putting up with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Aw, don’t cry, pussycat.” Sydney’s voice softened. “You’re my hero. You dive headlong into life, and I admire you for it.”
“I’m an idiot.” A solitary tear rolled down my nose. I swiped it away with the back of my hand.
“Yes, you are. But I love you anyway.” The warmth in her words shored up the cracks in my confidence. “You need to think things through a little more. These are big decisions. Give them some time.”
“I know. You’re right. I will.” I drew in a shaky breath and straightened my shoulders. “This is a bump in the road, right? I need to shake it off and move forward.”
“Yes! That’s my girl.” I imagined Sydney’s fist pump into the air. “You’re a Seaforth, and Seaforths kick ass.”
“They do.” The tightness in my chest loosened. “I won’t let this get me down.”
“Now get your shit together and fix this.” The edge to her voice strengthened my courage. “It’s never too late to start over.”
“I will. I will.”
“And promise me you won’t do anything else stupid while I’m gone. I’ll be back in a month. Do you think you can stay out of trouble until then?”
“Probably not.” I covered my mouth to stifle another yawn.
“Well, at least wait until I get back.” She sighed into the phone, and I heard the man’s murmur in the background again, deep, intimate, and tinged with a southern drawl. “I’ve got to go. I’m going to fall asleep on you.”
“Okay. Sleep tight.” A smile twisted my lips. “Tell Tucker I said hello.”
Over the next week, I went to two more interviews. Neither appointment lasted longer than fifteen minutes, a bad sign. After the last one, I returned home, dejected but not defeated, and stuck a frozen dinner into the microwave. Every time I received a rejection, it only intensified my determination to succeed. I still hadn’t heard back from Garrison-Tafflinger and chalked up the experience as another failure. Tomorrow, I’d try harder. Eventually, someone had to give me a chance.
The timer on the microwave dinged. I opened the door to withdraw a steaming tray of rubbery lasagna and sniffed the contents. I’d never learned to cook. For the duration of my childhood, I’d been waited on by servants, my meals prepared by trained chefs like Dakota’s mother, and later, when I’d gone to college, I’d dined out every night. The need to cook had never seemed necessary or important. Now, staring at my pre-made pasta, I vowed to make cooking a priority, maybe take a class or two.
I transferred the meal to a china platter, poured a glass of red wine then remembered the baby and poured it into the sink. I took a seat at the dining room table. Alone. I missed my friends. I missed Sam. What was he doing? Was he happy? I’d pushed him away to punish him when all I’d done was punish myself. I wasn’t ready to call him. Not yet. Not until I’d reached a decision about the baby. Not until I got my life together. I set my fork alongside the plate, appetite gone. Before I could spiral too far into self-pity, the phone rang in the kitchen. I went to it. My pulse leaped at the sight of Beckett’s name.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hey.” The deep timber of his voice shimmered over me. Excitement stirred butterflies in my stomach. I never expected him to reach out to me after the awkwardness of our previous meeting. “What are you doing?”
“Um, nothing.” I dropped the lasagna into the trash can and leaned against the kitchen countertop. “What’s up?”
“Well, I was just thinking.” He paused. A mental image of his tanned fingers curled around his phone and his full lips close to the speaker sent prickles of gooseflesh along my arms. “If you’re not doing anything, and I’m not doing anything…” My heart tripped, absurdly excited to hear his next words. “Maybe we should do nothing together.”
“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” An insane smile curved my lips. He’d been thinking about me. It was silly, but the notion made my hands tremble.
“Come over,” he said. “And I’ll cook for you.”
Butterflies fluttered in my belly as I sat on a barstool in Beckett’s kitchen. The studio apartment had good bones with soaring ceilings, exposed brick, and a view of the city park, On the downside, the bare walls lacked personality. There were no family pictures, no knick-knacks. It seemed a lonely place, and my heart twisted for his solitude. I understood loneliness. Maybe we had more in common than I thought.
In my head, I painted the walls a buttery yellow and chose eclectic metal sculptures to complement the bare pipes stretched overhead. He had only a few pieces of furniture. A sofa and chair clustered around an enormous TV to create a living area. Beyond, a mattress and box springs sat on the floor to form the bedroom. I tried not to think about Beckett asleep on his bed, naked to the waist, wearing only a pair of boxers…
“V? Are you okay with garlic in the sauce?” By the slant of his brows, he’d asked more than once.
“Yes, sure.” I swallowed and watched as he expertly smashed a clove of garlic beneath the flat side of his knife blade. He moved easily about the galley kitchen,
opening cabinets, rummaging through drawers. Country music played from an invisible sound system, the soft notes a pleasant background to the sizzle of butter and herbs in a saucepan on the stove. When he turned his back to retrieve the chicken from the refrigerator, I stole a chance to admire the width of his shoulders beneath a soft pinstriped shirt and the hard curve of his ass inside over-washed blue jeans. He hadn’t bothered to gel his hair, and the inky black locks curled softly above his ears.
“Why so quiet?” He flicked a drop of water into a skillet and watched it sputter before placing the chicken breasts onto the oiled surface.
“I was mentally decorating your apartment.” It was a half-truth. I’d been dressing his living area before mentally undressing his body, but he didn’t need to know that. “How long have you lived here?”
He glanced up from the chicken and pursed his lips. “A year. Maybe two.”
“Seriously? Beckett, that’s terrible. You don’t have one picture on the walls.” I wrinkled my nose. “It smells like bachelorhood in here.”
“I work all the time. I haven’t had time.” His easy shrug and boyish grin sent a tingle of sexual awareness along the inside of my thighs. “Besides, I’m not into it. Give me a comfortable couch and a flat screen TV, and I’m good to go.”
His dark eyes connected with mine across the kitchen island and reminded me of feelings I didn’t want to have, shouldn’t have. He’d hurt my pride in New Orleans, and I couldn’t quite forgive him. Not yet. Not until I knew the fortress around my fragile inner self had been shored up. We could be friends to raise this baby, nothing more.
To break the line of electricity sizzling between us, I stood and walked to the window. The weight of his gaze followed me across the room. A black, starless sky stretched over the city beyond the glass. The yellow globes of streetlights lined the sidewalks of Everest Avenue. A few leaves, liberated by the cool day, danced along the pavement and skittered between the parked cars lining the avenue.
“Nice view,” I said, glancing back at him over my shoulder. A chill travelled the length of my body, and I wrapped my arms around my waist.
“Cold?” Beckett lifted a remote control and with the press of a button, flames flickered around the gas logs in the fireplace next to me. The concern in his voice warmed me more than the heat of the flames.
“I’m not used to this weather,” I admitted. “I’ve always spent the fall and winter in warmer climates.”
“Why not this year?” He poured two glasses of wine and carried them to me with long, graceful strides. I could watch him move for hours, admiring his easy athletic grace. “You could live anywhere in the world. Why Laurel Falls?”
“I need to settle in somewhere. Even before I found out about the—about it.” I still couldn’t bring myself to say the word “baby”, so I shrugged. “Sam is here, and Sydney has family here too.” He offered the wine to me. I frowned at it, knowing I shouldn’t drink alcohol.
“It’s sparkling grape juice,” he said.
The thoughtful gesture chipped a crack in the shield around my heart. I took the goblet from him. His fingertips grazed mine, and I struggled to keep my features neutral at the sizzle along my nerve endings.
While the chicken cooked, he sat on the arm of the sofa, attention trained on my face. The tails of his pinstriped shirt were untucked, the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms dusted with black hair. He was big, male, and smelled clean like soap and aftershave. It unnerved me to be so close.
I took a step back and nearly tripped over something on the floor. Stacks of plain brown boxes lined the wall near my feet. “What are these?” I nudged one with my toe.
His eyes followed mine, lingering on the stretch of my calf before dropping to the hardwood floor. “Care packages for the homeless.” His gaze returned to meet mine.
I kneeled and lifted the lid on the first box. It was neatly packed with bandages, deodorant, protein bars, hand warmers, and other miscellaneous toiletries. “You make these?”
“Sure. I carry them to work and give them out to the displaced people on the streets.” The timer on the stove buzzed, and he rose to his feet. “It’s starting to get cold out. They’ll need all the help they can get.”
A curious mix of tenderness and warmth washed over me at his unexpected generosity toward strangers. I’d seen the disproportionate number of homeless along the streets, camped in doorways, and huddled on park benches. I passed by them, averting my eyes. My mother had been a huge proponent of charities, but never advocated direct contact with the less fortunate. I’d paid little attention to her causes, too absorbed in the petty dramas of my life to care. Shame left me cold once again.
Beckett returned to the stove. “I’m sure you’re involved in some charities, right?”
“No. I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure.” I couldn’t tear my gaze from those boxes. They taunted me from the floor. “My accountant handles all those things.” A team of accountants, actually. Set up by my mother to handle the trust fund, later managed by Sam. “I’ll ask Sam.” If we ever spoke to each other again, that is.
“Have you talked to him yet?” With practiced ease, he shook the skillet then flipped the chicken over. The pan sizzled. The sound called me to the kitchen, where I stood next to the breakfast bar and admired the sight of a man cooking for me.
“No.” With every passing day, the rift between us grew wider and hurt a bit more. I was too stubborn to consider I might be wrong, and Sam was too stubborn to concede. As far as I was concerned, we were at a stalemate.
“I had dinner with him last week. He asked me to keep an eye on you.” Beckett shot a sideways glance in my direction.
“Did he?” Hearing this meant more to me than I cared to admit. An ache surrounded my heart. Maybe Sam was coming around. Maybe I wouldn’t have to apologize. I fiddled with the edge of a dishtowel.
“Sure.” He drained the pasta through a strainer, tossed it with olive oil, and plated it on thick paper plates. “One of you needs to make the first move, you know.”
“I know.” Capitulating had never been easy for me, even when I was wrong. I still held to the belief that Sam had made a mistake by remarrying Dakota, and until I knew otherwise, I had no intention of apologizing. “But it’s not going to be me.”
“Dinner’s ready.” The aromas of sage, garlic, and chicken drifted across the room and rekindled my appetite. He nodded to the small folding table and chairs set for two. “I hope you don’t mind. I haven’t gotten around to purchasing a real table.” He’d thrown a bed sheet over the surface and placed a pair of candles in the center. The twin flames danced as he dimmed the overhead light. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was coming on to me. I snickered at the implausibility of the idea.
“What?” He settled the plates onto the table and raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing.” I drew in a deep breath. The food smelled delicious. My stomach growled. I couldn’t help but be impressed with the pile of angel hair pasta and perfectly prepared chicken, garnished with sprigs of rosemary.
“Are you appalled by my meager offering?” A mischievous glimmer sparkled in his black eyes. “Horrified? Have you ever eaten on a paper plate before?”
“Give me some credit,” I retorted. “This is very thoughtful.” Was I so vain? Did he think I was a snob? My shoulders drooped a little. Who was I kidding? I was a snob—of the worst kind. Servants, tutors, chauffeurs—I’d taken for granted all the niceties and never considered how hard my life could be without them. “I hate to admit it, but when you called I was heating up a microwave dinner. I don’t even know how to boil water.”
His laughter brought out his dimples again. “Oh, come on.”
“No, really. It’s embarrassing.” I paused to take a bite of the chicken and moaned at the play of spices across my tongue. “This so good. I’m impressed. If I could cook half this well, I’d weigh a thousand pounds.”
“What if I made you a deal?” He sat across from me, his long l
egs bumping mine beneath the table. “Sorry,” he said and eased his knees alongside my thighs in the cramped space. An absurd thrill raced up the lower half of my body. Maybe it was wrong, but I couldn’t wait for it to happen again.
“What kind of deal?” I asked.
Before answering, he took a bite and chewed it thoughtfully, teasing me with his silence. His eyes twinkled with challenge, and there was nothing I loved more than a good challenge. “How about if I teach you to cook a few basic meals and you help me decorate this place?”
Chapter 15
Beckett
LOOKING AROUND my apartment, I saw it through Venetia’s eyes, and I wasn’t impressed. The bulk of my days were spent at the office, my free time in the gym or out with clients. I’d been so bent on making junior partner, senior partner, and making money, that I’d never taken the time to fully move into my apartment. It was merely a place to rest my head at night or screw the occasional girl when time permitted.
“I don’t need much,” I said. “A nice TV, a comfortable couch, and a good bottle of wine. Do you mind if I have a glass?” I lifted the pinot noir to show her the label before filling my glass. “Or would that be rude?” It was full-bodied but light and paired well with the chicken.
She took the glass from my hands. Our fingertips brushed. She held the goblet to the light, swirled the liquid around the sides, then lifted it to her nose for a delicate sniff. “Nice,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me how it tastes.” Her smile instigated a rush of warmth straight into my dick. Wow. Pouty lips parted to show even, white teeth. I hadn’t seen that smile in a long time, and I was instantly addicted. It became my personal agenda to wring more smiles from her pretty mouth before the end of the evening.
We chatted about sports over the meal. She was an avid Bulls fan and followed basketball. Her knowledge of statistics and the players astounded me. Before long, I became lost in the flutter of her eyelashes, the curve of her hair around her shoulders, and the tantalizing peek of full breasts every time she leaned forward.
Pretty Dirty Secrets: An Unconventional Love Story (Pretty Broken Book 3) Page 9