2. Beck
TWO
BECK
I pull into Jack and Pete’s U-shaped driveway and kill the GTI’s engine. I pat the bottle of ibuprofen in my pocket to reassure myself it’s still there, even though it’ll be a few hours before I can take more, and force myself out of the car. The house seems relatively quiet—looking at the charming two-story Cape-style house today, I would never have known a hundred-person wedding reception was held here the night before.
In fact, if my hangover wasn’t still making me feel like the sun is actively trying to kill me while I wait for someone to answer the doorbell, I’d have no evidence at all of the big event.
Except for the memory of Donovan Eastman this morning, teasing me over coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich.
And Jack’s platinum wedding ring, which glints offendingly in the sun when he finally opens the door.
“I’m never drinking again,” I declare, passing into the cool, blessedly sun-free interior of the house.
Jack chuckles, the jerk. “Feeling it this morning? You were pretty wasted.”
I take off my sunglasses and hook them onto the front of my shirt. “Don’t laugh. This is your fault. Tell me again why you and Pete had to get married?”
“Because we’re madly in love with each other and we want the world to know it,” Jack says with a wickedly smug smile. “Come on, there’s coffee in the kitchen.”
I trail my cousin to the gorgeous space with its clean white counters and handsome dark blue accents and take a seat on one of the blue leather barstools lined up on one side of the big kitchen island. “I already had coffee, but can I get some water?” Donovan’s parting words echo in my brain. Sure, the stupid actor hadn’t asked for my number, but at least he cared enough to remind me to hydrate.
I swallow a disappointed sigh. It’s not like I can get involved with anyone at the moment, anyway. Donovan is probably heading back to the city right now, while I spend the next two months house-sitting while Jack and Pete go on an extended honeymoon. Yesterday, I’d been excited about not having to worry about the future for a little while longer. Today, with my hangover and my strange but intriguing morning with Donovan, I kind of wish I had the freedom to head off to New York if I wanted.
Oh well. That’s me in a nutshell. The grass is always greener, and no amount of fence hopping has brought me any closer to knowing what I really want to do with my life.
Jack hands me a tall glass of cold tap water. “There’s a ton of leftovers in the fridge.”
“Later.” I down half the glass gratefully. Donovan was right. The water helps. “So, give me the download. Where is Cleo, anyway?” House-sitting really means dog-sitting for Jack and Pete’s cute brown rescue pup.
“Miss Cleo is in the backyard with Pete. They’ll be here in a minute. Actually, I need to talk to you about something. There was sort of a mix-up and it turns out Pete and I both accidentally?—”
The front bell chimes. Jack shoots me an apologetic glance. “Hang on. It’ll be easier to explain to both of you at the same time, anyway.”
“Both of us?” But Jack’s already gone.
I set my phone down, then lay my head on my arms. The cold surface of the white stone countertop refreshes my skin and eases the pounding in my head. It hadn’t been so bad when I was talking and, okay, flirting a little with Donovan. But without the distraction, I’m forcibly reminded how spectacularly I overdid it the night before.
Voices are coming down the hall, but I can’t be bothered to lift my bowling-ball-heavy head.
“—he’s in the kitchen. Want some coffee?” Jack offers the visitor.
The newcomer says, “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.” Donovan’s voice.
Donovan .
I raise my head too fast and the resulting stab of pain shoots from the base of my skull to my eyebrows. I wince and shut my eyes against a wave of dizziness.
A hand on my elbow steadies me somewhat.
“You okay?” Jack asks. But when I crack open my eyes experimentally, it’s Donovan who’s six inches away, Donovan’s hand on my arm. From this distance, I can clearly see his blue eyes, a darker shade than my own, framed by thick black lashes, and a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks.
“I’m okay,” I say after a beat. I shift slightly and Donovan drops his hold. “Sorry. Just got dizzy for a second. What are you doing here?”
Before Donovan can answer, the French doors that lead from the kitchen to the back patio open and a thirty-pound bundle of chocolate brown fur bounds inside, followed by a lanky six-foot-something man with longish brown hair that curls around his ears.
“Van, hey,” Pete says, closing the French doors behind him. Cleo sniffs at my knees, then inspects Donovan’s sneakers. “And Beck, great. Sorry about the mix-up, but I think this will actually work out well for you two.”
“What mix-up?” Donovan asks at the same time I say, “What will work out?”
“I haven’t told them yet,” Jack says, giving Pete an exasperated smile.
“Told us what?” I’m starting to get a bad feeling about whatever my cousin isn’t saying.
“Spit it out,” Donovan says gruffly.
“So, we accidentally double-booked the house. Pete asked Van if he could stay here and take care of Cleo, and I asked you, Beck. And since you,” he turns to Van, “are such a great friend and you,” he points to me, “are such an amazing cousin, you dropped everything to help us out. Which we really appreciate.”
Jack doesn’t point out that he’s doing me a favor by giving me a place to live rent-free for two months, and I don’t bring it up.
“So what now?” Donovan asks.
“Well, if one of you wants to be let off the hook, now’s your chance to speak up,” Pete says.
I’m not about to give up the gig that easily. My fantasies about following Donovan to New York notwithstanding, I don’t really like the city. And if Donovan’s here, I’ve lost my incentive to leave. I glance at him, but he keeps his lips pressed together.
“Or you can both stay here,” Pete goes on. “Which I think is the ideal solution. That way, if one of you has something come up, there’s a backup to take care of Cleo. She’ll get twice as much attention, and the house is big enough that the two of you don’t even have to see each other much if you don’t want to. I know it’s a little strange to have an unexpected roommate, but, hey, we’ve had worse living situations, right, Van?”
Donovan’s lips curl. “Don’t remind me.” He glances my way, seeming to study me. I’m overly aware of my wrinkled shirt, my battered boat shoes. I was in too much pain to be self-conscious this morning, but now it feels as if I’m being inspected and will be found wanting.
It doesn’t help that Donovan, even in a casual T-shirt, jeans, and a plain black baseball cap, emanates a sort of rugged magnetic beauty, the kind that makes you want to never stop looking at him and shy away at the same time. I’ve never seen him act, but I can imagine a camera loving him, an audience hanging on his every word.
Maybe he’ll bail and I won’t have to figure out how to live in close quarters with a man I have a hard time simply looking at.
“Well,” Donovan catches my gaze for a split second, then turns to Pete and shrugs nonchalantly, “I’m cool with it if Beck is.”
I’ve never regretted my love of tequila more. My brain is too foggy to think this through. I don’t want to find somewhere else to live for the summer, but is it such a good idea to share a house with a guy I’m attracted to? On the other hand, outside the thrift shop, I gave Donovan an opening to ask me out—and he hadn’t taken it, so that answers that.
Donovan is just a guy. I try to remember the way we bantered in the coffee shop, the thrift store. We’d gotten along, right?
Besides, I really don’t have much choice. I have nowhere else to go.
“I’m cool with it.” My voice sounds far away to my own ears.
Pete and Jack share a relieved smile and Cleo barks once, as if to signal her approval as well.
I lean down to scratch her behind the ears, and the dizziness comes back with a hefty dose of nausea. I gingerly let myself off the stool. “I’m going to throw up now.”
“You don’t want to throw up that delicious breakfast, do you?” Donovan asks, sounding amused.
I put a hand on my stomach. “Might not have much of a choice.”
“Jack, do you have an ice pack?” Donovan asks quickly.
A moment later, a cold pack is being pressed to the back of my neck, and I’m being led to the living room couch.
“Better?”
I blink up at Donovan, my nausea receding. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Donovan winks. “No problem, roomie.”
My stomach swoops and it has nothing to do with my hangover. Shit.
“I’ll get the info on Cleo and fill you in later. Take it easy.”
“Thanks,” I say again, and Donovan leaves me to suffer in peace. I’m not at my best right now, but I have to believe that when I get the poison out of my system, I can handle spending two months living with a guy who presses all my buttons. It doesn’t have to be weird. I’m a grown up. I can totally handle this.
I close my eyes, move the ice pack from my neck to my forehead, yawn.
I’ll handle it just as soon as I wake up from my nap.