by Cecy Robson
“Tell me anyway.”
Becca seems ready to burst with the truth. But I know her. She’s wrestling between her loyalty to me and the team she’s committed to defending. “Mr. Singleton wanted me to marry Denver. Denver did, too. They offered me a ridiculous sum of money to pose as his wife. It was then I came to terms with how desperate they both were. So, instead of continuing this pretense of love and respect, I gave the ring back.”
“Where do you stand now?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “With a very pissy ex fake fiancé and a boss demanding I return to Charlotte and do right by him.”
“You’re leaving,” I say. I’m not really asking. She made it clear from the moment she sat.
“I fix things.” She smiles. “But I’m not leaving you, I swear it.”
There are several things that infuriate me about this scenario. The main thing is the position I find myself in now. If I had what I had in New York, I’d tell Becca to quit and that I would take care of her. It’s the same damn thing I promised all those years ago, but I learned the hard way all it would do is pry us apart.
The other things annoying the fuck out of me are those shitty excuses for human beings thinking they own her, or can buy her for a price. “You told me you never wanted to depend on another man again,” I remind her. “What’s the difference here?”
All at once she bristles. “I don’t depend on them. They depend on me. The only thing I’m guilty of is being overcommitted to my job.”
“This isn’t work, Becca. Not when they’re expecting more from you than the normal nine to five.”
“I know.” She looks out toward the ocean. The waves are starting to slow their rough caress against the sand. Better weather is ahead, but I’m not sure there’ll be better times to match. Not with what the Singletons have planned with Becca.
“When I was in school getting my degree, it was all about making the clients happy, making them look good, and protecting them at all costs,” she says. “The profs and career professionals who mold and shape you don’t tell you about the white lies that have the potential to turn into storms, or what it takes to do a job well and still hang tight to what remains of your soul.”
“It’s not your soul I’m worried about,” I say. “That and your heart were always your most attractive traits.”
“Not my dual personalities?” she asks, motioning at her breasts as a bitter laugh escapes her pretty mouth.
“Now, don’t you go putting the girls down,” I say. “They’ve done the best they can to lead you right.”
We laugh, this time meaning it. But the conversation is too heavy. It doesn’t take much for that shame to return and make me see how much of her soul Becca’s had to protect. “Would you leave your job if it came down to it?” I ask.
Her face softens in a way that breaks my heart. “I would do that and more if it meant helping you.”
I move faster than I think is humanly possible, scaring the dog off her lap as I gather Becca in my arms. We fall back into my chair, kissing like it’s our last moment while our hands drag over our bodies as if time is all we have.
Each taste, each tease, is sweet and possessive. I brand her as mine with each flick of my tongue while her lips press mine hard, leaving no doubt I belong to her alone.
I don’t remember ever needing to kiss a woman like I do with Becca. I need every part of her, just not in the way that she thinks.
She clutches me, like she’s scared of what’s coming and that I alone can keep her safe. I hate her being afraid and reassure with my shielding embrace that no one will harm her with me by her side.
My rough fingers massage down her back. I want to feel more than the thick knitted sweater she’s wearing. She gasps when I slide my knuckles down her lower back, teasing her bare skin. She likes what I’m doing, not fully comprehending how much hotter I can make her.
She groans softly as my teeth graze over her throat and behind her ear. We kiss. We touch. We make out like the teenagers we were so long ago. I want her and want to do so much more. But I won’t allow things to turn to shit. Not this time.
I’m not sure how much time passes. But the change in position of the shadows against the terrace tell me it’s been a nice, long while. All we did was kiss and here we are, ready to take it to the next level. How did everything between us turn out as bad as it did when we shared all this sweetness from the start?
I cup her face, my desire reflecting in her glazed eyes and the way her breathing releases in quick spurts. “Why didn’t you tell me about Denver before I saw that ring on your finger?”
“I wanted to,” she whispers. “But things were already, strained, between us. I was stuck with this contract. I wasn’t expecting you that night and then . . . then you wouldn’t speak to me.”
“Did you tell Trin?”
She presses her lips, not wanting to admit what she does. “She kept a lot of our secrets. But I’m not so certain that’s a good thing. If she were more of a blabbermouth, maybe it wouldn’t have taken us so long to find our way back to each other.”
“I don’t know about that. You’re a stubborn little thing.”
She throws back her head, laughing.
My hands travel down to her waist and I give her hips a squeeze. “I want this, you hear me? I want us together.”
“I do, too.” She licks her lips, holding on to the taste of me a little longer. “I used to worry about it screwing up our friendship.”
“Becks, we did that just fine without getting together.”
She blinks back what I hope aren’t the start of fresh tears. “It’s been a shitty few years without you.”
“It might be a shitty few more years with me,” I tell her. I don’t want to think like I do, but I owe it to both of us to be honest. “Becca, if for some reason the Feds throw in some bogus evidence just to save face—”
“Don’t.” She tries to pull away from me. I don’t let her get far. “I don’t want to hear you talk this way.”
“Good. I don’t like talking this way. But Becks, as much as I’m innocent, as much as I’ll fight this, and as much as my team is swearing up and down that I’ll get off, if I am found guilty, I’m looking at a few years, minimum.”
Her head falls against my chest. I gather her close, trying to comfort her. She needs it more than me. “Nothing can happen to you, Hale. We have the best legal team money can buy. We have the pictures and the spread all planned out. Every magazine that matters is going to show the world that you returned to your throne. That in spite of all these bogus charges and sloppy work on the side of the Feds, you were innocent and all the lies are behind you.”
“Twinkles did take some mighty fine shots.”
“Tootles,” she murmurs.
“I know,” I say. “I just wanted to see you smile.”
“I will when all this is over.”
We hold each other for a long time. We finally see red and gold burn in the horizon, showing us our first hint of sunset. Our two pups sit near our feet, panting and waiting to see what’s next.
I whistle, calling them to us, so me and Becks can give them some of our love.
Love? Damn. Is that what all this has been with her? I shake my fool head. Must be so, for us to hurt as bad as we did apart and to heal as easily as we’re starting to.
“You sure you have to go?” I ask.
“For now,” she says. “I have some fires to put out, a fake ex-fiancé to shut up, and a bullheaded boss to placate.”
“They can’t pay you enough for that shit,” I mutter.
“It’s something that has occurred to me more than once,” she admits. “When we get back, I want to work on your 60 Minutes interview.”
“What?”
“Or the one for Anderson Cooper. I haven’t decided which one will air first yet.”
“What?”
She nibbles on her lip, trying not to laugh. “Hale, I told you.
You hired the best.”
“We’ve never discussed payment.” I waggle my eyebrows. “However can I make this up to you?”
“With kisses,” she says. Her fingers trace over my lip. “And more when I get back.”
“How much more?” I ask, flashing her a lopsided grin.
She teases the arch of my ear with her nose. “Enough to make me glad I’m on the pill.”
“Nice,” I say, taking a nip of her chin. “Just as a public service announcement, I’m clean as whistle and more than happy to prove as much.”
She moans softly when I kiss her neck. “Same, but now isn’t the time to show you.”
“Huh?” I ask, my hands immediately stopping over the snap of her jeans.
“Hale, things are so screwed up in Charlotte. As much as I want to stay here, all night, I have to go.” She glances down briefly. “And the last thing I want is to rush this.”
I watch my hand as it splays across the soft denim of her jeans, not wanting to let her go, but not being too much of a selfish bastard to realize that, for now, she has to. “I don’t want you to go. But I won’t make you stay. When we make love, I want it to last. I want to take my time and make you feel good. I want to wake up with your bare skin pressed against me.” I stroke back her hair. “I want you to scream my name in pleasure and beg me to give you more, just like I’ve always dreamed you would.”
Her voice is thick with surprise and desire. “You don’t just want to have sex? You want to make love to me?”
“What else would you call it?” I murmur.
I speak the Gospel truth. Becca was never a woman I could fuck. She was always Becca, my beautiful friend and the woman I’ve desired since I first realized what it means to want someone.
“I call it really hard to leave you now,” she says, falling against my shoulder. “God, Hale, I really wish I could stay.
My body relaxes as hers does. I cradle her in my arms, not wanting to move. After a while, I start to drift, thinking she’s already asleep. “Are you sure about the dogs?” she asks.
I chuckle. “Dogs?” I ask. “I’m only offering Samson the Mighty here a place to live.”
She lifts her head. “Hale,” she says, her smile content. “You can’t keep these two apart. Not after what they went through.”
My fingers thread through her hair and I pull her closer for another kiss, passing my lips over hers so tenderly I barely feel them skim over mine. “You’re right,” I say, my voice as soft as my gaze as it melts into hers. “Some souls were always meant to be together.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hale
I woke up smiling today. My business is in ruins. I have the feds trying to make a case out of shit that ain’t there. Oh, and Sean has some kind of rash on his ass he was more than happy to go into detail about. Again. I can’t help my smile and it’s all due to Becca.
From the foot of the bed, two dogs wag their tails at me. “Y’all ready to go out?”
More tail wagging followed by an excited sneeze from Sam. Becca decided to name her dog Rosie, ’cause that’s how the little thing makes her feel. Personally, I think she should have left it Anarchy, but that’s me.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved gray shirt, stretching as I walk toward the bathroom and, yeah, thinking about Becca. It was after midnight when she made it back to Charlotte. We talked on the phone as she drove, laughing about things I haven’t thought about in years and talking about making more memories. It was a sweet call. Almost as sweet as our kisses on the terrace and the one I gave her before she slipped into her car.
Yesterday, we didn’t speak as much. She had meetings to attend and a shit ton of people to placate. But she still called and I still heard her voice and her laughter. It’s enough for now, but I’m still counting the minutes until she returns.
I open the sliding doors that lead out to the beach, allowing the dogs to race ahead of me. I get a good stretch in and start my run, kicking up sand and sending it to ghost in the air. The dogs chase after me, jumping up to play before falling into a steady pace beside me. I don’t know if there’s a leash law or a license these dogs are supposed to wear around their necks. I’m not even entirely sure they won’t run away. But they seem smart enough to stay beside me.
I chuckle as I run. From the day we returned to Kiawah, I started moving full speed ahead with Becca. I haven’t been down here ten days and here we are, making out like real lovers should, adopting dogs, and talking about having a future together. I won’t complain, although at times, it feels too good to be true.
The dogs and I are out of breath when we decide to turn around to head back. Sam keeps up just fine, but the run was too much for Rosie’s little legs. I scoop her up, carrying her all the way back to the house.
I feed them more chicken and fill the Tupperware bowls I scrounged up with more water. I’m just starting on making breakfast when the phone rings and Becca’s face lights up the screen.
I answer the phone and turn up the volume. “Well, hey,” I say.
“Good morning, baby,” she says.
“Mornin’,” I reply. “You all right? You seem tired.”
“I was up late,” she says. “How’re Sam and my precious Rosie doing?”
“They’re missing their momma,” I say.
She laughs. “I miss them, too. They’re cute. Oh, how did we end up with them again?”
“We really didn’t. We were actually accused of kidnapping.”
She pauses. “Are you serious?”
“Yup. Turns out you’re a wanted woman, Becca. Miss Silvie was out with Trin and the grandbabies all day yesterday. She didn’t get your message until late and had to track down the shelter owner to assure her that, no, we hadn’t eaten the big one and sent the little one to kick ass in the dog fighting ring.”
“Oh, no. What a mess!”
“Expect wanted posters with your face on them upon your return.”
She laughs. “Just make sure it’s one of my windblown shots. Those are my favorite.”
“They’re mine, too,” I murmur. “But them nudies are a close second.”
“Mm,” she groans. “I wish I was there with you.”
“Same,” I say. I toss Sam a slice of bacon he’s more than happy to catch. The little one shuffles over to me, evidently still tired, but not too tired to scratch at my ankle and remind me I forgot to feed her. I hand her a strip, watching her floppy ears bounce as she returns to her spot on the floor.
“When are you headed back?” I ask. I wash my hands and pop in a piece of bread into the toaster, pausing when Becca doesn’t answer right away.
“I’m hoping by Thursday night.”
“Thursday?” I ask. “That’s three days away.”
“I know. Things aren’t great here. Don’t worry. Tootles and I are working on the spreads online. We already went through the one for Forbes.”
“I wasn’t worried about that. I’m worried about you.” I add cheese to the eggs and stir, noting the strain in her voice. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to know.”
I scrape the eggs onto the plate. “Yeah, I do.”
“I’m getting a lot of pressure from Mr. Singleton to become re-engaged to Denver.”
“Ah, why?” I ask, wishing it didn’t come out in a snarl.
Becca groans. “He’s in trouble again.”
“Because he’s a dumbass,” I helpfully add.
“And narcissistic,” she mumbles.
I fill my glass with water a little too aggressively and slam it down beside my breakfast. I take a breath, trying to cool down. I have to remember this isn’t my home or my things. I need to respect them, just as I need to be respectful of Becca and not drive to Charlotte and break Denver’s neck.
I grip my fork, although I can’t seem to take a bite. That doesn’t stop me from gritting my teeth. “What are you going to do?”
; It’s a nice question. A decent one. And a hell of a lot more polite than telling Becca her asshole boss and his even more asshole son can fuck off. See? This here is what’s called growth and maturity.
“I’m trying to spin what Denver did as a man with a broken heart acting out.”
I roll my eyes. “And how exactly did he act out?”
“Oh, another accident in his Lamborghini. But don’t worry. He wasn’t drunk. He just lost control, because the young, naked woman in his passenger seat was giving him head.”
“As a man, I can respect that.” I manage a decent chew and swallow when a thought occurs to me. “That young woman wasn’t of age, was she?”
“He’s not that bad. She’s twenty-two, I think. In fact, blow jobs are one of her specialties, given she’s worked as a high-priced prostitute for quite a few years now. That blow job cost him ten grand and a three-inch gash below his crown line.”
“Nice,” I say, wondering just how many times Denver was dropped on his head as a child. “So, tell me. How are you equating prostitutes and blow jobs to a grieving and jilted lover?”
“Funny you should ask. We weren’t willing to pay off the prostitute this time.”
“We weren’t?” I ask, finishing up my eggs.
“No, because by the time she was released, she’d already contacted several magazines—the less reputable kind, mind you—and offered an exclusive for her near-death experience at the hands of Denver Singleton the eighth, or whatever the hell number he is, for two million dollars.”
“Two million for ten minutes of head?”
“Three minutes. She’s that good.”
“Damn,” I say. “I should’ve been a prostitute.”
I’m trying to get a laugh out of her, given that the more Becca speaks, the shriller her voice becomes. “You know, it’s bad enough this fuck-up got into yet another car accident, ripped through a park the Boy Scouts had cleaned that day, and attracted the attention of a crowd of two hundred seniors who were attending a symphony mere yards away. He had to go and hire a prostitute.”
“No kidding,” I agree.