9. George
Chapter 9
George
Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been.
Two weeks since Beckett Lawson tilted my world upside down and made me want to turn one night into forever.
But the last thing I need right now is his infuriating ability to get under my skin. Yet here he is, looming like a six-foot-four reminder of what should’ve been a mistake but felt more like a blessing.
I don’t have time for this. Not today.
Not when the Veterans Day Fundraiser is in three days
Which is why I’m standing in the newly constructed barn at six in the damn morning, setting up speakers and wiring sound equipment instead of fixing engines.
Awareness prickles across my skin like lightning before a storm. My hands falter on the heavy speaker I'm setting up, and my breath catches. My stupid, traitorous body already knows Beckett is here before I turn around.
The humid morning air mingles with sun-warmed wood as I adjust the speaker cables, trying to focus on anything except his presence. But it's impossible to ignore him.
When I glance up, Beckett is talking to Angus. He's leaning against the barn door frame, one shoulder propped against the weathered wood like a romance novel cover model who got lost and wandered onto a ranch. Yet his hazel eyes are on me like a wolf tracking its prey. His jaw tightens as though he's restraining himself from coming to help.
I can’t look at him without remembering how his arms felt braced above me, his body pinning me in place, his muscles flexing under my touch. I long to lose myself in that again—in him —and hate myself for it.
Because wanting him feels like a rebellion. He’s here to do a job, not build a life. And if I give in to whatever this is between us, I’m scared of how much of me he’ll take when he leaves.
My boots scuff against the worn wooden floor as I adjust my grip on the heavy amplifier rack. The metal case weighs a good sixty pounds, and while I can handle it, the awkward dimensions make it tricky to maneuver between the support beams. One wrong move could damage several thousand dollars' worth of equipment.
I stumble, and heat floods my cheeks—because, of course, he notices, just like he notices every detail in the workshop.
After two weeks of working together, I have to grudgingly admit that Beckett is good. Really good. Yesterday, he diagnosed a transmission issue I’d been puzzling over for days, but instead of showing off, he asked for my opinion. He walked me through the solution like we’d been partners for years, and his interest made me feel as if I was teaching him something.
He probably knew the answer all along, and that makes him dangerous. He's as competent as he is infuriating. Those hands that drove me crazy are as skilled at rebuilding engines as they were at making me shiver. He makes me feel capable, deferring to my expertise on a repair, then spends ten minutes arguing about the correct way to organize socket wrenches.
Tolerating the situation would be simpler if he were just a pretty face mansplaining my job. Instead, he’s quickly becoming the best mechanic I’ve worked with, yet he makes me feel like the star of the show.
I grit my teeth, carefully shifting my weight to keep the rack balanced. I've moved this equipment dozens of times, but the humidity makes the metal slick under my palms. I adjust my hold, letting muscle memory guide my movements.
“Need a hand?” he asks in a lazy drawl.
“I've got it.” I heft the rack higher, determined to prove I don't need his help. My fingers itch to throw something at him. Or caress his chest. Or both.
Beckett pushes off the doorframe, covering ten feet in three long strides. He fills the narrow space between me and the equipment racks, making the barn suddenly feel intimate. “Sure about that?”
“I've run sound for every event in this town since I was sixteen.” I don't need his help. “Pretty sure I can handle one setup.”
“Sixteen, huh?” His voice drops low, intimate enough to make my toes curl in my boots. “Always this stubborn?”
I arch an eyebrow, refusing to acknowledge how his black t-shirt stretches across those ridiculous shoulders. “Always this annoying?”
He’s distracting. The rack is awkward, my palms are sweaty, and I'm losing my grip.
“Let me help.” Before I can stop him, he's there, his hands sliding under mine to take the weight. “Before you drop this very expensive piece of equipment on your pretty boots.”
I hate how easily he steps in—quiet, capable, always there. I’m not used to being the one who’s caught when I fall. I’m not sure I like it. But part of me… might want to.
“My boots aren't pretty; they're functional,” I say, knowing I sound defensive. But we're standing too close now, his chest nearly brushing my back. Every nerve ending in my body ignites, aware of exactly how much space is between us, how easy it would be to lean back and let myself feel the solid wall of his chest. “And I wasn't going to drop it.”
His breath stirs the wisps of hair that have escaped my braid, sending shivers down my spine. “No? Because from where I'm standing, you look like you're about five seconds from taking out both feet.”
“From where you're standing, you're about five seconds from taking an elbow to the ribs.” My breathless voice betrays the lie. What I really want to do involves no elbows, significantly more touching, and a lot less clothing.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling from his chest and straight into mine. “Violent tendencies, technical expertise, and an unwillingness to accept help. You're full of surprises.”
We manage to position the speaker, but now we're trapped in the small space between the equipment and the wall, his chest hovering at my back.
“You're blushing.” A callused finger traces the flush spreading down my neck without touching my skin. “Right here.”
My lower belly tightens. “It's warm in here.” I try to sound dismissive, but my voice wavers.
He reaches past me to adjust a wire, deliberately invading my space until I'm surrounded by the wall of his chest. “You're thinking about our night together, aren’t you, my little Ewok?”
I suck in a sharp breath, my body betraying me with a full-body flush I can’t hide. “I’m thinking about how fast I could short this wire and make your hair stand on end if you keep calling me that.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, his mouth dangerously close to my ear. “It was a compliment. Ewoks are scrappy, stubborn, and incredibly loyal.”
I should step away. Should elbow him in the ribs like I threatened. But instead, I stay perfectly still, letting the heat of him seep into my skin.
His hand brushes my waist lightly like he’s reaching for a cable, but I feel it everywhere. “I remember how you sounded when you stopped pretending. I’ve been replaying it in my head every damn night since.”
A whimper catches in my throat, and I curse my reaction.
“One little touch, and you're right back there with me, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice rough now.
My breath catches, but I lift my chin. “You’re awfully confident for someone who didn’t even get a name.”
He leans in, his voice silk-wrapped sin. “I didn’t need a name to make you fall apart. But you keep teasing me, sweetheart, and I’ll make you scream mine next time.”
Yes. God, yes.
I forget how to breathe. Memories flash into my mind: Beckett’s hands in my hair, his lips ghosting my neck, the low growl he made when he came. My knees go weak, and I almost stumble.
I swallow thickly. “There won’t be a next time.”
The unmistakable thud of heavy boots comes from the barn entrance. “George!”
Deputy Marcus Wade’s cologne reaches me before he does, like someone dumped an entire bottle of “Trying Too Hard” on his pressed uniform.
I duck my head out from behind Beckett, summoning a smile. “Deputy.”
Marcus’s gaze slides over me in a proprietary way that makes me want to hit something. Preferably him. “Your father mentioned you’d be working here. Thought we’d stop by to see if you needed any help.”
I try to step around Beckett, but he angles his body, positioning himself between Marcus and me. The protective gesture shouldn't make heat pool in my belly. It absolutely does.
“We're good here.” Beckett's voice has a hard, protective edge, nothing like his intimate tone a moment ago.
Marcus’s smile doesn't reach his eyes as he extends his hand. “Don't believe we've met. I’m Deputy Wade.”
Beckett pauses, assessing the deputy before accepting the handshake. “Beckett Lawson.”
The testosterone in the air is suffocating. The contrast between the two men is stark. Marcus, with his manufactured charm and regulation haircut, versus Beckett's raw power and laser focus. The deputy carries a badge and a service weapon, but Beckett doesn’t need either. He carries himself like a man who’s been in enough fights to know he’ll win.Like a man who’s seen things. Done things.
I shouldn’t know that. But I do.
I saw the scars on his body. The old ones. Not from bar fights or dumb luck. The kind that don’t happen by accident. The kind you earn.
He said his name was Shadow that night. And later, he told me it was a nickname. But I’m starting to think it wasn’t meant to be casual. It feels more like a call sign. Or a warning.
I step away to grab my toolbox, needing space before they beat their chests or launch a pissing contest against the barn wall. “If you’ll excuse me, I've got work to do.”
Marcus follows, hovering too close as I check the electrical connections. “How about dinner tonight? Be good to hang out before the fundraiser. There’s a new place in town?—”
“Can't. Working late.” It's the same answer I always give him every time I see him and every time he calls, but he never seems to hear it.
Just like Dad never seems to hear that I don't want the life he's trying to plan for me.
“Come on, George.” Marcus’s voice drips with patronizing charm. “We both know where this is heading. Your father thinks we'd be perfect together. Why fight the inevitable?”
Beckett materializes before I can tell Marcus where to shove his dinner invitation, his hazel eyes swirling like a storm. He radiates a deadly grace—loose-limbed, steady-eyed, already mapping out every angle like it’s second nature.
And in that instant, I know.
It’s the way he moves—fluid but alert, like his body’s always half a second from action. Controlled. Efficient. Ready.
That’s not something you fake. It’s combat. It’s training. It’s muscle memory.
My dad moved like that, too, especially when he thought trouble was coming.
Whatever Beckett’s hiding, it’s not small. And ‘Shadow’ sure as hell isn’t just a nickname.
The temperature seems to drop ten degrees as Beckett towers over Marcus. His presence fills the space, a living wall of barely contained aggression.
Marcus instinctively steps back, his Adam's apple bobbing as his survival instinct overcomes his inflated sense of authority. His hand twitches toward his belt—not his weapon, but a nervous tell that broadcasts his uncertainty.
“George.” Beckett's voice is quiet. Dangerous. Like thunder before lightning strikes. “Angus needs the south speaker checked.”
The deputy's cocky swagger evaporates. He retreats with a jerky tip of his hat, trying to salvage what's left of his dignity. His boots scuff against the wooden floor as he backs away, shoulders hunched, before finally turning tail.
I've never been so grateful for an excuse to escape. I need to think. To process what my instincts are telling me about Beckett.
But as I pass him, he catches my elbow. The heat of his palm brands my skin through my shirt sleeve. “You need me, just say the word.” His thumb traces a small circle on the sensitive skin of my inner elbow, and my traitorous pulse skips.
He shouldn't affect me like this. I don't do overprotective alpha males who think they can swagger into my life and rearrange everything. But my body hasn't received the memo because every cell feels magnetically drawn to him, like iron filings to a lodestone.
Beckett is everything I swore I didn’t want.
I grew up under the rule of one military man. And I’m not about to sign up for another if my gut instinct is right about Beckett.
Dad has spent my entire life planning my future for me, deciding what’s best, pushing me toward his version of stability. It’s why he keeps shoving Marcus in my direction, as if a shiny badge and an inflated ego are all I need in a man.
Beckett carries the same commanding presence, the same expectations that people will fall in line.
I know his type. He was trained to lead. To give orders. And my entire life has been spent fighting against that very thing.
So why the hell does my body betray me every time he gets close?
Why did I let myself fall into his arms that night at The Honey Pot, let him break down all my carefully built walls as if he was born to do it?
Why do I crave the way he watches me like I’m worth protecting and claiming?
I clench my jaw, shoving the thoughts aside. That’s not my life. He’s not my future.
Even if a part of me, the reckless, foolish, traitorous part, wants him to be.
I square my shoulders, pretending I don’t remember exactly how good he looked without his clothes. Like I don’t remember the way his hands—big, rough, commanding—slid over my skin or the way his mouth and cock ruined me in the best possible way.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
“Thanks, but I don’t need your help. I can handle it myself.”
I’m a strong, independent woman who does not fall for overprotective, broody men with abs that could cut glass and a voice that makes my knees weak.
I absolutely do not?—
“Are you done glaring at me?” His voice is all smug amusement, and just like that, my fantasy of being unaffected goes up in smoke.
I hate how easily he sees through me. How part of me wants him to keep pushing, but not enough to admit it.
Damn him. Damn that smirk. And damn me for wanting him the way I do.
* * *
I manage to avoid Beckett for the next hour when I somehow end up helping Dad repair a broken fence along the south paddock. I don’t even remember agreeing to it. He just handed me a hammer, and I took it because I’m used to him giving me orders.
Dad and I work in relative silence, save for the rhythmic thunk of hammers hitting wood and the occasional grunt of exertion. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy either.
I swipe at the sweat on my brow, shifting my grip on the wooden plank. I can feel him watching me in the way he always does, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how.
I pretend not to notice, driving another nail into place.
“You ever gonna learn how to swing a hammer right?”
I glance up. “I fix engines, Dad. Not fences.”
“Same concept,” he mutters, pulling another plank into place.
I snort. “Yeah, because wood and steel are exactly the same thing.”
Dad grumbles something under his breath, but there’s no real bite to it.
For a moment, it almost feels like old times. Before the fights. Before I felt like I had to shrink myself to fit into the version of me he wanted.
We work in silence for a while, falling into the familiar back-and-forth of passing nails and adjusting boards—wordless communication that comes from years of knowing how the other moves.
It reminds me of when I was a kid, following him around like a shadow, trying to prove I could keep up.
Back then, he let me believe I was strong enough to carry the world.
Now, he only wants me to carry the life he’s picked out for me.
He clears his throat, breaking the silence. “You know… not everything has to be perfect.”
I glance up, hammer mid-swing. Does he think I’m trying to prove myself or being rebellious? Doesn’t he know me at all? “Come again?”
He keeps his focus on the fence, his movements steady and deliberate. “People. Plans. Life. Sometimes, you do the best you can and let the rest be.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with my father?”
The corner of his mouth quirks slightly. “I mean it, George.”
I don’t know what to do with that. It’s not an apology, not really.
But it’s the closest he’s ever come to giving one.
I want to take it at face value. I want to believe he’s saying, in his own rigid way, that maybe he’s been too hard on me.
But then I think about Marcus.
About the fundraiser.
About all the ways he’s pushed me toward a life I don’t want.
And I realize that wanting to believe him and actually believing him are two different things.
So instead of responding, I drive another nail into the fence post and focus on the steady rhythm of work.
A few feet away, Dad does the same.
Neither of us says another word, but the tension between us feels… lighter. Not gone, but maybe not so impossible to carry.
And for now, that’s enough.