10. Beckett
Chapter 10
Beckett
The ranch buzzes with activity the day before the Veteran’s Day Fundraiser—ladders scraping beams, drills whining, voices shouting over country music. The scent of sawdust hangs thick in the air, cut with sweat, hay, and tension.
But I barely register any of it.
Because every time I move a speaker, reroute a cable, or check voltage at the power hub, George is in my periphery. Bending over sound equipment, tapping notes into her tablet, muttering to herself about signal strength.
Sunlight slices through the half-open barn doors, catching the copper strands in her braid. She’s flushed from heat and exertion. Beautiful and sharp-edged, like a knife honed too finely.
She doesn’t look at me often, but when she does, the weight of it hits like a jolt to the sternum. I can feel it in my teeth.
She passes close enough to brush my arm, static crackling in the air between us. Then?—
“Beckett.”
Her voice is rough. Unfiltered. Real.
I turn instantly.
She’s already walking away, boots crunching across the gravel like punctuation marks. No explanation. No glance back. Just that clipped tone that says she’s about one breath from coming apart and doesn't know whether she wants to kiss me or deck me .
Maybe both.
I follow without hesitation, jaw tight, blood loud in my ears.
We disappear around the edge of the main barn, out of sight of the volunteers and stagehands, toward the smaller storage shed stacked with hay bales.
And I already know—I’ll take whatever she gives me.
I follow George inside, tracking the sway of her hips. Her boots kick up dust motes that dance in the light streaming through the gaps in the weathered boards.
The line of her spine is tight with anger, want, and something sharp she’s trying hard to bury. It’s a combination that’s been driving me crazy since our night at The Honey Pot.
The memory hits hard: George in that tight blue tank top, whiskey in hand, telling me she doesn't do complications right before complicating everything by agreeing to come to my room.
We haven’t touched since that night. Not really. Not the way I want. But the memory of her— the taste, the sound, the goddamn way she unraveled in my hands —lives behind my ribs like a live wire.
She’s trying to keep things focused. Professional. But I know what I saw in her eyes that night. And I see it now every time she glances my way and pretends she didn’t.
Now here we are again, tension crackling between us like lightning before a storm. She's trying to outrun this connection between us, but I've spent almost three weeks watching her work and learning her rhythms. I know exactly where she's heading—the back corner where the hay bales create private alcoves away from prying eyes.
Perfect.
The musty-sweet scent of the fresh hay blends with engine grease, creating an intimate bubble around us. Outside, voices drift in—people setting up for the fundraiser, oblivious to the rising temperature with each step I take closer to her.
My boots move silently on the worn wooden planks—years of combat training making stealth second nature. But right now, I want her to hear me coming. I want her to feel me getting closer with every step, just as I've felt her for the past two weeks.
I watch her work on engines, her capable hands making magic happen while I pretend not to stare. I know how she takes her coffee (black, two sugars), how she hums under her breath when concentrating, how her whole face lights up when she solves a particularly tricky problem.
She spins to face me, her back against the rough barn wall, fire and defiance pouring out of her as she grips the front of my shirt. The late afternoon sun catches in her hair, turning the loose strands to copper and gold. My fingers itch to run through those strands, to see if they're as soft as they were that night at The Honey Pot.
She shivers and glares at me like it’s my fault. “I don't do this. Especially not with men like you.”
“Men like me?” I ask carefully.
Her hands fist my shirt, not pulling me closer but not pushing me away, either. “I know what to look for, Beckett. The way you move. How you scan a room and track exits. You see everything.” Her voice lowers. “I grew up watching my dad do the same thing. He was military. I know what it looks like.”
I say nothing. Not yet.
“You’re a soldier.” It’s not a question.
I could lie. Deflect. But I won’t. Not to her. Not now.
“SEAL,” I correct after a beat. “Former.”
She exhales like I just proved her worst suspicion right. “I swore I’d never get involved with a military guy like my dad. Commanding. Controlled. Always putting the mission first.”
“I’m not your father.” I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “And you’re not a mission.”
She releases my shirt, gesturing between us. The fabric feels cold without her touch. “I don't do relationships or complications or?—”
“Or deputy-approved dating schedules with Deputy Wade?” I keep my voice low and controlled, even though every instinct screams to hunt him down.
“It's not like that.” Her voice wavers.
Anger rises in my gut at the memory of how he cornered her the other day, making her shoulders tense. I haven’t trusted Marcus Wade since the second he stepped too close to George with that politician’s grin and polished badge.
I reached out to Emmett Furbane after running into him at The Honey Pot. The man is a digital bloodhound and can find what official channels bury.
He hasn’t found anything concrete so far. But there are gaps. The kind of gaps that are intentional.
Wade’s hiding something. And I intend to find out what.
“Then what's it like?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle as anger churns inside me.
She tries to brush past me. I don’t move. Can’t move. Not when she’s this close, her scent—something sweet and intrinsically her—wrapping around me like a physical touch.
“From what I've seen, that guy is two steps away from becoming a problem.”
“He's already a problem.” The admission seems to surprise her. “Dad's been pushing us together. He says Marcus is stable. Safe.” She laughs, but there's no humor in it. “The perfect match for his daughter who needs settling down.”
Her chin lifts in that stubborn way that makes me want to kiss her senseless. She yanks her hair free from its elastic, raking her fingers through it like she's trying to comb out her frustration. “I've tried being nice. I’ve tried being direct. Marcus smiles like I'm cute, and Dad...” She twists her hair back up, her movements sharp and precise. “Dad means well. He worries. But I'm not marrying someone because they look good on paper and know how to shoot straight.”
Understanding clicks into place. “Is that why you were at The Honey Pot that night?”
She nods, looking away. “He wasn’t always like this,” she says quietly. “Not until after my mom died. I was twelve. It was a car accident, a hit-and-run in the rain. She was picking up a pie for my school fundraiser, of all things.”
I don’t say anything. I let her talk.
“After that, everything got tighter. Stricter. Like if he controlled enough things, nothing else bad could ever happen.” She swallows. “And I became something to protect. Not someone to raise.”
Her voice wavers. “He stopped seeing me as a daughter with wants and dreams and started seeing me as a responsibility.
She shakes her head, blinking fast. “Anyway, yeah. That’s why I ended up at The Honey Pot that night after another argument with Dad about my ‘lifestyle choices.’ How I should quit working and let Marcus take care of me.” Her voice cracks. “Like I’m a broken-down truck that needs the right man to fix me.”
“What do you want?” I keep my voice neutral, even though everything in me wants to hunt down Marcus and explain exactly how unwelcome his attention is.
She meets my eyes, chin lifting. “To run my shop. To fix things with my own hands. To choose my own path.” A breath. “To not have to explain why that's enough.”
Something fierce and protective roars in my chest.
I want her.
The realization slams into me, sharp and undeniable. Fuck, yes, I want her. Not to fix. Not to tame. Just as she is—stubborn, capable, a force of her own making. She doesn't need saving; she needs space to choose. And damned if I'll be another man deciding her future for her.
“George.” I cup her face, making her look at me. Her skin is soft under my calloused palms. “You don't need someone to take care of you. But that doesn't mean you have to do everything alone.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“Do you?” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, catching a tear before it falls. “Because from where I'm standing, you're so busy proving you don't need anyone that you're not allowing yourself to want anyone either.”
She bites her lip. “It's complicated.”
I've watched her these past three weeks, learning her tells. How her hands fidget when she’s nervous, the subtle flare of her nostrils when she’s frustrated, and the slight catch in her breath when I get too close.
And now she’s biting her lip and lying to herself about this connection between us. But this time, I'm not letting her run.
“It's really not.” I lean in, letting my breath ghost across her lips. “You want this. I want this. Everything else? We figure it out later.”
The rough wood of the barn wall catches at her shirt as she presses back, but there's nowhere to go.
“Tell me this means nothing.” I step closer, deliberately invading her space. The temperature between us spikes, and her breath hitches. “Tell me, and I'll back off.”
She opens her mouth, probably to deny everything, but no words come out.
Smart girl.
“That's what I thought.” I brace one hand on the wall beside her head, caging her in without touching. Yet. The contrast between her soft skin and the weathered wood makes my fingers ache. “Now, want to try telling me the truth?”
A laugh escapes her pouty lips. “The truth is that you're impossible. Infuriating. Too damn smug for your own good.”
“And?”
“And I can't stop thinking about that night at The Honey Pot.” The words rush out like she can't hold them back any longer. “The way you looked at me at the bar. How you knew exactly what I needed before I did.” Her voice drops lower. “How your hands felt when…”
“When what?” I lean closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. Every breath she takes pulls her chest closer to mine. “Say it.”
Her hands come up to my chest, but she doesn't push me away. Instead, her fingers curl into my shirt, holding on or holding back; I'm not sure even she knows which.
She swallows hard. “When you held me like I was something precious and dangerous at the same time.”
My thumb traces her jaw, and she trembles. “You’re both those things, sweetheart.” The endearment slips from my lips before I can stop it, rough with need. Her eyes darken, and I hear the slight catch in her breathing. “And a whole lot more.”
She tries to look away, but I capture her chin. Something vulnerable flashes across her face before she masks it.
“I hate how you look at me.” Her hands ball into fists at her sides. “Like you can see right through me. Like you know exactly what I'm thinking.”
“Do I?” My free hand finds her hip, and she shivers. The thin cotton of her shirt does nothing to hide how her body responds to my touch. “What am I thinking right now?”
“That you want to kiss me.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And I hate that too.”
“Liar.”
The word hangs between us for one heated heartbeat. Then she tightens her hold on my shirt and yanks me down to her level. The force of it makes me stumble forward, and I catch myself by bracing my other hand on the wall beside her head. Her breath stutters at the sudden cage of my body.
“Last chance to run,” I warn, even though every cell in my body screams to close that final inch between us.
Her response is to arch up, letting me feel the soft curves of her breasts against my chest. “Shut up and kiss me.”
The kiss is explosive. Desperate. Like we've both been drowning and finally found air. Her mouth opens under mine, hot and demanding, and I growl low in my throat.
One hand tangles in her silky hair while the other grips her hip, pulling her closer until no space remains between us.
She tastes like coffee and defiance, sweet and sharp all at once. Her nails dig into my shoulders through my shirt, and I press her harder against the wall, wanting to feel every inch of her.
When my thigh slides between hers, she makes a sound that shoots straight through me.
Her body instinctively responds, hips tilting to grind against my thigh. The heat of her core burns through our clothes, sending a jolt of desire coursing through me. Her hands clutch my shoulders as if she's holding onto a lifeline.
“Beckett,” she breathes, her voice laced with a mix of need and resistance.
I lean in, my mouth brushing against her ear. “Ride my leg, sweetheart. Chase it. Let go.” My voice is rough and commanding yet gentle. I want her to feel every sensation, to lose herself in the moment.
She shakes her head, stubborn to her core, but her body tells a different story. The rigid line of her spine softens, melting into the wall behind her. Those capable hands that rebuild engines now clutch my shoulders like I'm her only anchor in a storm.
“Beckett,” she breathes again, my name a plea now.
I tighten my grip on her hips, guiding her movements. I know what she needs, even if she doesn't. “I've got you, George. Just let go. Let me give you this.”
Her hips move with more urgency. Tension stretches her muscles, her breathing choppy, her pupils dilating. I hold her tight, my thigh pressed firmly against her, driving her closer to the edge.
“That's it, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice low and encouraging. “Feel it. Feel me.”
Her body trembles as her resistance crumbles. Her hips move faster, her head drops back against the wall, and she bites her plump lower lip. I know she’s getting close, but she needs a little more.
Making quick work of the button on her jeans, I slide my hand inside, delving beneath her panties to find her slick heat.
“Oh, God.” George jerks as I slide my finger through her wetness to circle her clit. “Beckett,” she moans, her voice filled with need and surrender.
I circle and press her bundle of nerves, my focus solely on her pleasure. “Let go, George. I've got you. I've always got you.”
And in this stolen moment, with dust motes dancing in the stray beams of sunlight around us, George finally stops fighting herself.
Her body shudders, and she cries out, her orgasm crashing over her. Her shoulders tremble against the rough barn wall, her defenses crumbling like sandcastles at high tide. George doesn't yield easily. The miracle is that she's yielding now—to me.
I hold her tightly, supporting her as she rides out the waves of pleasure. Her breath is ragged, her body limp against mine, and I relish the satisfaction of having given her what she needed.
When her breathing finally steadies, she rebuttons her jeans and looks up at me, her eyes filled with vulnerability. “Beckett,” she breathes, her voice soft.
I ease back to study her swollen lips and wild eyes. Satisfaction burns through my veins. She looks like she did that night at The Honey Pot—wrecked, beautiful, and mine.
But it’s also different from that night. That was all heat and surprise. This is inevitable. Like every moment these last few weeks, every shared glance, every “accidental” touch has led us here.
Emotions flash across her features like summer lightning as I frame her face, my fingers brushing her cheekbones where heat blooms beneath my touch.
“George!” Sheriff Lucas’s familiar baritone calls from outside. I’ve met her father once when he came to check on the progress with the barn, so I’d know that clipped tone anywhere.
“Shit.” She pushes against my chest. “Let me go.”
I don't budge. “Not until we talk about this.”
“Beckett.” A warning edges her voice. “My dad is looking for me.”
I ease back slightly, giving her enough space to breathe without escaping. “We're not done here.”
“We are absolutely done here.” Yet her hands remain fisted in my shirt, contradicting her words. Her chest rises and falls rapidly against mine.
I trace her bottom lip with my thumb, sensing it quiver. “From where I'm standing, that felt pretty damn inevitable.”
Her hands slide up my chest and hope flares in my gut.
“George!” Sheriff Lucas is closer this time, and reality crashes back.
She jerks away like her body has betrayed her. Her eyes dart to the barn door, not out of fear, but looking for escape. Distance. “This was a mistake.”
I catch her wrist before she can run, her pulse racing under my fingers. “Yeah? Then why do you look like you want to do it again?”
Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't pull away. Progress. “I have to go.” But she doesn't move. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “The fundraiser?—”
“Can wait.” I release her wrist but stay close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. “This isn't over, George. Not even close.”
She stares at me for a long moment, something wild and wanting in her eyes. Then she turns and walks away, her boots echoing on the wooden floor. Each step feels like she's taking a piece of me with her.
I watch her go, already planning my next move. She’s right about one thing—this is complicated. But she's wrong about the other. This isn't a mistake. This is inevitable. I just need to figure out a way to prove it to her.
I watch her disappear around the corner, my body still humming with the imprint of her—the ghost of her touch leaving a trail of heat under my skin like whiskey burning its way down. Her taste lingers on my lips, something uniquely George that burrows under my skin.
This wasn't the plan. Not even close.
And maybe she was right to pull away.
She had me all figured out. I shouldn’t be surprised. She grew up under the roof of a soldier. She knows what military looks like, even when it’s wearing jeans and a ball cap instead of camo.
And now she knows what I am. Or what I was.
Former SEAL. The kind of man trained to walk into fire and not blink.
It wasn’t supposed to come out like that. Not today. Not like a confession pressed from my chest between a kiss and a warning.
But the second I saw the suspicion in her eyes, I knew I had to give her something real. And still, it wasn’t enough.
Because whatever I gave her—my truth, my touch, my fucking patience—George looked at it like it might be another weapon waiting to go off in her hands.
Maybe that’s why she walked away even after she gave in.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. Funny how a temporary place to stay and work on “security detail” turned into “can't stop thinking about the sheriff's daughter.”
Real professional, Beckett.
I came to Havenridge Ranch to help a friend. To rest for a while. To enjoy the silence. Instead, I found her, all sharp edges and hidden softness.
And now I can't remember what quiet even felt like.