8. Beckett
Chapter 8
Beckett
I follow Angus to the workshop, squinting against the harsh morning sun. The air carries the musk of livestock and the freshness of grass that permeates every inch of this place. A chorus of bleating goats and nickering horses provides a constant backdrop, evidence of the bustling life on the ranch.
A sharp bang echoes across the yard, like a gunshot. My body tenses instinctively, hand twitching, reaching for a weapon that's no longer there.
Angus doesn't miss it. “Still adjusting?”
I grunt. No point in denying it. “I'll handle it.”
We round the corner of the burned-out barn, which is now under construction, and head toward the workshop. The screech of metal grinding against metal sets my teeth on edge.
Angus grins. “Sounds like George is making friends with the equipment again.”
I nod, picturing some grizzled old-timer with tobacco-stained fingers. Every ranch has one—the guy who can fix anything with duct tape and stubborn determination.
A string of creative cursing erupts from the workshop, followed by the clang of metal on concrete. “Holy fucking shitsticks! Dammit, Bertha! Don't you dare give up on me now, you goddamn piece of rusted garbage! I swear by all that's holy, if you don't start right this second, I'm gonna dismantle you bolt by bolt and sell you for scrap!”
The voice is female, frustrated, and achingly familiar.
It can't be.
I'm already moving toward the workshop, drawn by that voice. By the impossible possibility.
Another clang echoes through the air. Angus lunges for the baby goat that streaks from the workshop, but the demon-in-fur-form is faster, bouncing away.
A woman steps out from under a truck's hood, and everything in me goes still.
Chestnut hair escaping a messy braid. Grease smudged across one cheek. Those curves that fit perfectly in my hands two nights ago now draped in coveralls.
The woman who wrapped herself around me like she belonged there, moaned my name like a prayer and then disappeared before sunrise, leaving nothing but the ghost of her taste on my tongue. The woman who slipped out of my hotel room, taking a piece of me with her.
Seeing her again loosens something inside me while something else clicks into place.
Fuck.
What are the chances?
But this can’t be chance. Feels more like…
Fate? Destiny? Inevitability?
I almost laugh out loud at myself. Since when did I believe in any of that woo-woo shit?
But I can’t deny that I’m drawn to this woman like gravity. It’s unstoppable. Absolute.
She hasn't seen me yet, too busy threatening a goat with a wrench.
“Did you just throw a three-quarter inch at my livestock?” Angus calls out.
“Your ‘livestock’ ran off with the last gasket in three counties.” She straightens, wiping her hands on a rag. “And it was a five-eighths, thank you very much. I'm not wasting the good tools on your demon spawn.”
“George, this is Beckett,” Angus sweeps a hand between us like he's conducting introductions at a church social. “He'll be handling security while he stays with us. Beckett, meet Georgina Lucas, though she'll deck you if you call her anything but George.”
She looks up. And freezes.
Heat licks up my spine as her sharp gaze locks onto mine. The same sky-blue eyes I lost myself in that night. The same lips that begged me for more, that I devoured like a man starved.
Recognition hits her like a physical blow. Her mouth opens. Closes. The wrench in her hand creaks under white-knuckled pressure. She blinks before she schools her expression into something unreadable.
But I see it.
The flicker of shock. The same kind of oh, shit that’s currently pulsing through my veins.
Well, this just got interesting.
“You two know each other?” Angus asks, finally catching the tension.
“No,” George says immediately, voice clipped.
“Yeah,” I say at the same time. I can't help the smirk that curves my mouth. Not when she's trying so hard to pretend I'm a stranger. Not when I can see the pulse jumping in her throat.
Her eyes narrow at my deliberate contradiction. The flush creeping up her neck matches the one I put there two nights ago.
Angus looks between us, confused. “Which is it?”
“We've met. Briefly.” I keep my voice neutral, but I can't stop watching her. The way she shifts her weight, ready to bolt. The slight tremble in her hands that betrays her composure.
“Right.” Angus still looks confused. “Well, George keeps our equipment running. Beckett is staying at the ranch and helping with security for a while.” He smirks. “Plus, whatever other jobs I can talk him into around here.”
George looks ready to strangle someone.
I let my gaze drift over her, deliberate, heated.
Because now?
I have questions.
What is she doing working here? Why didn’t she say anything? And why, after one night of her in my arms, do I already want to pull her right back?
But most importantly, why the hell didn’t her parents consider that Georgina would be shortened to George? Because George Lucas? That right there is gonna give me hours of fun.
“If you're done with introductions, I've got work to do.” George grabs her wrench, pointedly not looking at me. "Unless you boys need something specific?"
Angus sighs, running a hand over his face. “Actually, yeah. Beckett here needs something to do while he's staying. Since he knows fuck-all about ranching?—”
“Hey,” I protest. “I can learn.”
“The last time you tried to help with livestock, you traumatized my father's prize bull.”
“That was one time. And in my defense, who keeps a bull named Sunshine?”
George snorts, then quickly covers it with a cough.
“Point is,” Angus continues, “we need help with equipment maintenance. Can't afford new gear, so we need to keep the old stuff running.”
“That's your cue,” George says, turning back to the truck. “Unless you plan on teaching Mr. Security here how to rebuild a transmission?”
Angus’s grin turns devious. “That's exactly what I had in mind.”
She spins back around. “What?”
“Beckett needs to keep busy. You need help when you’re here. Seems like a perfect solution.”
“No.” George's voice could freeze hell. “Absolutely not.”
“I'm a quick study,” I offer, enjoying the way her eyes narrow. “Good with my hands, too.”
The wrench clatters against her workbench. “Angus, I swear to God?—”
“Look at it this way,” Angus interrupts, already backing toward the door. “Now you'll have someone to throw wrenches at besides the goats.”
She turns on her heel. I watch as her hips sway in those coveralls that do nothing to conceal her curves, and I don't bother hiding my appreciation.
Angus whistles under his breath. “What happened between you two? Looked like she was about to set you on fire.”
I stretch, rolling my shoulders. “She can try.”
Angus snorts. “You’re a goddamn menace, Beckett.”
I don’t argue.
Not when George has just become my new favorite problem.
“I should get back, too,” Angus says. “The carpenters need direction on the barn. You good here?”
I nod, already planning. “I'll do a perimeter check and get familiar with the layout.”
He claps my shoulder as he heads off. “Good to have you here, Beckett.”
I pick up the wrench George dropped, testing its weight. I wait until Angus has disappeared before approaching the workshop. George is bent over the engine again, but the tension in her shoulders says she knows I'm here.
“I'm working.” She doesn't look up.
“I can see that.” I study the way her coveralls strain against her breasts when she reaches for another wrench—beautiful breasts I remember tasting. “So, where do we start?”
Her laugh is more of a growl. “We don't start anywhere. This is my workshop. My rules.”
“Your rules?” I step closer, close enough to catch a hint of citrus that's haunted me for almost two days. “Funny. Didn't hear you complaining about my rules the other night.”
Color floods her cheeks. “That was different.”
“Was it?”
She gestures vaguely. “That was then. This is now.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “By the way… ‘Shadow’? Really?”
I blink, playing dumb. “What about it?”
“That’s the name you gave me. Shadow.” She folds her arms. “I figured it was a fake. Or a stripper alias.”
I chuckle. “You think I moonlight as Magic Mike?”
“I think you’re avoiding the question.”
I shrug. “Shadow’s a nickname. Been mine since before I could grow a proper beard and just… stuck.”
She eyes me, unconvinced. “From what? Lurking in corners and brooding professionally?”
I grin. “Something like that.”
She huffs. “Still sounds like something you’d name a feral cat with trust issues.”
I lean in, voice low. “You didn’t seem too worried about trust issues when you were screaming my name.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “That was before I knew you’d end up here.”
“And now we're working together.” I can't help the satisfaction in my voice. “Looks like you're stuck with me, Georgina.”
The look she gives me could melt steel. “Don't call me that.”
“What should I call you?” I ask, lips twitching. “Chewie? General Lucas? Or are you more of a ‘May the torque be with you’ kind of girl?”
She groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Seriously?”
I grin. “Come on, you had to know I’d go there eventually.”
“I’ve heard every Star Wars joke known to humankind. You’re not the first.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” I say, stepping close enough to invade her space without touching. “I absolutely was the first. The first man inside you. The first man to make you come on my mouth. And the last, if I have anything to say about it.”
Her breath catches. For a moment, I think she might throw the wrench at me. Instead, she sets it down with deliberate care.
“This?” She gestures between us. “Isn't happening again. I work here. You work here. That's it.”
I smile slowly. “If you say so.”
“I do say so.” But her voice wavers.
“All right.” I back toward the door, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just work. Nothing else.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Really?”
“Really.” I pause in the doorway. “But George?”
“What?”
“You bite your lip when you're lying.”
The wrench clatters to the floor. I grin as I walk away, counting down in my head.
Three. Two. One.
The sound of metal hitting metal tells me she just kicked something.
I smile wider. Oh, this is going to be fun.
Cheese Puff trots past with Angus’s mangled hat in her mouth.
I scratch her head as she passes. “Good goat.”
Time to do that perimeter check. Get the lay of the land. Set up surveillance. All the things I came here to do.
But as I walk toward the barn, my mind keeps drifting to blue eyes and engine grease. To the way she gasped when I kissed her neck. To how she'll react when she realizes I'm not letting this go.
I didn’t come here looking for complications. I thought I’d be passing the time at Havenridge Ranch until something better came along, but I have a new mission. To figure out what makes George tick. But more importantly, what made her want to run in the first place.
Because watching George fight this attraction? That’s worth complicating things for.