11. George
Chapter 11
George
String lights drape the main barn, casting a warm glow over the event. The scent of barbecue mixes with the sound of laughter, country music, and clinking glasses.
People are everywhere—local ranchers, business owners, town officials, even a few reporters here to cover the charity event. It should be a good night.
Except it’s not.
Not for me.
Because my father just pushed Marcus Wade in my direction again, right in the middle of everything.
I stand near the refreshment table, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
Marcus is beside me, too damn close. He’s playing the role of the perfect gentleman. He’s polite, charming, and smug enough that I know he thinks he’s winning.
And Dad?
Dad is across the barn, talking with a group of important donors, occasionally flicking a glance my way as if he’s checking I’m doing what’s expected.
Marcus chuckles beside me, lifting a glass of lemonade. “Your dad’s a smart man, Georgina. He knows we make a good team.”
My stomach knots. “We’re not a team, Marcus.”
He takes a sip, completely unbothered. “Not yet. But people already see us that way. We make sense to them.”
The words land like a weight on my chest.
And the worst part? He’s right. People are watching. I can feel the eyes of half the damn barn on us. Watching the sheriff’s daughter with the “perfect” man he picked for her. Reading between the lines and creating their version of the truth.
Marcus must sense it, too, because his hand drifts to my lower back in a light and possessive touch that’s still blatant enough to tell the room I’m his.
Heat burns up my spine. Not from attraction. From rage.
He thinks this is a done deal and the only thing left is for me to play along.
Something inside me snaps.
I whirl to face him, knocking his hand away hard enough that his cocky smile falters. “Don’t touch me,” I say, low and controlled.
Marcus exhales through his nose and looks at me as if I’m being unreasonable. “George?—”
“Excuse me.”
I don’t wait for his response. I march across the barn, straight toward my father, ignoring the startled looks from people in my path.
His back is to me when I reach him, but he must sense the storm coming because he turns as I step in front of him.
“George,” he says, his voice low. A warning.
I don’t care. Not anymore.
“Enough.” My voice is steady, but I feel hot all over, and my hands shake from the force of everything I’ve been holding back.
Dad’s expression hardens. “Not here, Georgina.”
“Why not?” I throw my arms out, gesturing to the decorated barn, the tables of people, and the banners with his name on them as the event’s main organizer. “This is exactly where you want me to play nice, right? To smile and let Marcus touch me so people get the idea?”
His jaw ticks. “You’re making a scene.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You know what? Good.”
Dad steps closer, lowering his voice. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“No,” I snap. “We won’t. Because nothing ever changes. You don’t listen, Dad. You just decide what’s best for me and expect me to fall in line.”
His nostrils flare, but there’s something worse in his expression. Something tired. Worn. Like he’s already bracing for me to leave.
“You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?” he asks, voice sharp but quiet. “I know you’ve been spending time with that drifter.”
I go rigid. My pulse pounds in my ears.
“That’s not what this is about,” I grit out.
“No?” He exhales sharply, rubbing his jaw. “Then what is it, George? What do you want?”
I swallow hard. “I want you to trust me. I want you to let me figure out my own damn life without forcing me into something that makes you comfortable.”
Dad’s expression flickers like I took a swing at him and landed the punch.
I don’t stay to watch the full impact.
I turn on my heel and walk out of the barn, past the guests, past Marcus, past everything that feels like a trap.
I don’t stop walking until I’m in the open night air, my shoes crunching against the dirt.
I don’t know where I’m going.
I just know I need to breathe.
* * *
Sleep is useless.
I toss and turn all night, the argument with Dad replaying in fragments—his disappointment, my defiance. But beneath all that?
It’s Beckett’s voice I keep hearing.
SEAL. Former.
It shouldn’t have hit so hard. But it did.
Because I know what that means. Not in theory and not from movies. I grew up in the shadow of a man who came home from the military but never really left it behind. I know what it's like to be second to a mission, to lose someone to silence and routine and the weight of always being ready for a threat.
And now I know what Beckett is. What he was.
But he told me. He didn’t hide it.
And that’s what keeps me awake. That, and the way his voice wrapped around me in the barn yesterday. How his hands didn’t simply touch my skin; they anchored me.
How can I want something this much when everything in me says I shouldn’t?
I eventually fall into a restless sleep , only to dream of hands that know too much and eyes that see everything. I wake up tangled in the sheets with his name on my lips.
The morning is too bright. Too loud. Too much .
I splash cold water on my face like it’ll wash the ache out of my chest, but it only wakes the part of me that aches for him.
I pull on my work clothes, shove my hair into a ponytail, and head to Havenridge before I can talk myself out of it.
I’ve got my “focus on work” speech ready—an internal pep talk about how Beckett’s hard body pressing me against the barn wall as I shattered on his hand yesterday meant nothing.
But the moment I step inside the workshop at the ranch, my resolve falters.
Beckett leans against a truck like he owns the place, arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps strain against his shirt. Unfairly perfect in every way. Of course, he looks edible. Because the universe hates me.
My stomach does that annoying flip it’s been doing since I first saw him at The Honey Pot. My brain, however, screams at me to ignore him. To pretend I don’t remember his hands on my skin.
I march past him, snatching a wrench from my workbench with more force than necessary. “Why are you in my garage?”
“Jerry’s making a weird noise.”
I freeze and turn slowly. “Who told you about Jerry?”
His mouth quirks up. “Angus mentioned his truck was acting up. Didn’t realize the vehicle had a name.”
“All machines have personalities.” I grab my toolbox, trying to ignore how his presence fills the space. “Some are just more... particular than others. He’s temperamental.” I pat the truck’s hood. “But he means well.”
Beckett’s grin widens. “You name all your machines?”
“Obviously.” I gesture to the ancient tractor in the corner. “That’s Martha. She’s got a good soul; she just needs extra coaxing in the mornings.” I point to the engine block on my workbench. “Hank—loud but reliable. And Gloria—” I nod toward the massive air compressor. “She’s dramatic but gets the job done.”
“And what about me?” His voice drops lower, closer. “Do I get a name?”
My wrench slips, and my knuckles scrape against metal. “You have to earn it.”
“Challenge accepted.” The words ghost across my neck as he reaches past me for a sanding block. “What do I have to do to earn it? More orgasms like yesterday?”
My breath catches as I recall his mouth hot against mine, his thick, talented finger pressing and circling my?—
No. Nope. Nu-uh. Not thinking about that.
“Focus on the truck,” I manage to say, my voice only slightly steadier than my heartbeat.
“I am.” He hands me the wrench, fingers brushing mine deliberately. “But multitasking is a specialty of mine.”
The memory of exactly how good he is at multitasking floods my mind. Heat crawls up my neck. This is fine. Totally fine. Just me, a sweaty mess, and six-feet-four of smug temptation.
I pop Jerry’s hood, hoping work will distract me from Beckett’s heated gaze. “So, what’s the noise?”
“Sort of a clicking when it idles.” He moves closer, and the space under the hood suddenly feels intimate. “Want me to start it up?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. As he slides into the driver's seat, I try to focus on the engine. But all I can think about is how his scent lingers—clean soap, leather, and something deeper that makes my pulse skip.
Why does he have to smell so unfairly good? It should be illegal to weaponize pheromones like this.
The engine turns over with a distinctive click-click-click.
“Hear that?” His voice carries from the cab.
“Yeah.” I lean in, trying to pinpoint the sound. “Keep it running.”
He appears at my shoulder, way too close. “Need anything?”
Tools. I need tools. Focus on tools. “Three-eighths socket wrench.”
Our fingers brush as he hands me the wrench. A jolt of awareness shoots through me, and the wrench slips.
Beckett catches it before it hits the ground. “Careful.” His voice drops lower. “Wouldn't want you getting distracted.”
My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. Great. He’s hot and competent. I’m doomed.
I tighten a bolt with more force than necessary. “I'm not distracted.”
“Mm-hmm.” He reaches past me for the diagnostic reader, his arm grazing mine. His skin is warm—too warm. I swear, he's radiating actual body heat like a smug, sentient space heater. “And how's that working out for you?”
Although he isn’t touching me, the heat radiating off him short-circuits my brain, turning rational thought to static. “You're doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?” His innocent tone doesn't match how his body cages mine.
I lick my lips without thinking. His pupils dilate. I try to step back, but there's nowhere to go. He's got me trapped between his body and Jerry's engine block. “You're impossible.”
“And you're still running.” He traces my jaw with his thumb, leaving fire in his wake. “Even though we both know where this is heading.”
I stay perfectly still, caught in his orbit. His presence is gravity, pulling me in when I should be running. Why am I fighting this?
I'm tired of pretending I don't want his hands on me, his mouth marking my skin, his body pressed against mine until I can't tell where I end and he begins.
But what happens when I let him in? When I let myself need him, and he leaves?
My breath shudders. I should pull away. I should shove him back and tell him this is a mistake.
If he kisses me now and I kiss him back, I won’t be able to pretend this is casual. I won’t be able to convince myself that this doesn’t matter.
Beckett tilts his head, reading me like an open book, his fingers curling slightly around my wrist, grounding me. His touch is careful and patient as if he’s waiting for me to make the final move.
I exhale slowly, my resistance cracking. Maybe it was never there to begin with.
His mouth brushes against mine—not quite a kiss but a question. “You know how good we could be.”
Yeah, I do. Which is exactly why stopping would be the smart thing to do. I’m already teetering on the edge with him, spiraling faster than I can pretend to handle. If I’m not careful, my heart will be the next casualty.
I should make a joke. Give myself some plausible deniability. Logic demands it, but my body betrays me. His proximity is causing my ovaries to throw a damn parade.
My fingers curl into his shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only steady thing in a world that won’t stop spinning.
His breath brushes my lips, hot and uneven. Something about his stillness sets me on fire, knowing he’s holding back and waiting for me to tip us both over the edge.
Beckett’s thumb strokes absently against my hip as if he’s memorizing the shape of me. His other hand ghosts over my ribs, close enough to tease, making me crave the pressure.
I sway forward, my resolve crumbling between us like something fragile and inevitable.
His control snaps. In one fluid motion, he lifts me onto Jerry’s hood, stepping between my thighs. His mouth crashes into mine, hot and demanding, and I arch into him with a desperation that should frighten me.
He groans when I bite his lower lip, his hands sliding under my shirt to span my waist. “George...”
The way he says my name, rough and reverent, makes me shiver. I hook my legs around his hips, pulling him closer. He just... fits. Like he's always been here. Like he belongs.
His hands move up, tracing the curve of my waist, sending shivers of anticipation through me. The heat of his touch and the roughness of his palms drive me wild. I pull him closer, my fingers digging into his back, needing more of him.
Beckett's mouth leaves mine, trailing kisses down my neck, each one igniting a new fire within me. I tilt my head back, giving him better access, a soft moan escaping my lips.
His hands move to the front, cupping my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples through the fabric of my shirt. I gasp, arching into his touch. I’m not wearing a bra, so his thumbs send jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
Reaching for the hem of his shirt, I pull it up and over his head. He helps me, tossing it aside before doing the same with mine. His eyes roam over me, dark and hungry, and I feel a rush of power knowing that I'm the one causing that look.
He leans down, capturing one of my nipples in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. I cry out, my hands moving to his hair, holding him in place. He lavishes attention on one breast before moving to the other, his hands exploring every inch of my bare skin as if it’s ground he’s claiming.
His arousal presses against me, and I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in my haste. He takes over, undoing it with a quick flick of his wrist before pushing his jeans down. I do the same, kicking off my boots and shimmying out of my jeans until we're both naked, our bodies pressed tightly against each other.
Beckett's hand slips between my legs, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends waves of pleasure coursing through me. I moan, my hips moving in time with his touch, the friction building to an almost unbearable level.
“Beckett,” I gasp. “I need you. Now.”
He doesn't need any more encouragement. He positions himself at my entrance, and his eyes lock onto mine as he slowly pushes inside. My walls stretch as every inch of him fills me perfectly, and it's the most incredible sensation I've ever experienced.
He starts to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm that has me seeing stars. I lift my hips, meeting each of his thrusts, our bodies moving in sync. The sound of our skin slapping together fills the garage, mixed with our panting breaths and soft moans.
The tension within me builds, coiling tighter and tighter until I'm on the edge, ready to fall over. Beckett's fingers fly over my clit, and that's all it takes. I cry out, my body convulsing around him as waves of pleasure wash over me.
Beckett follows soon after, his body tensing as he finds his release with a harsh grunt. He collapses on top of me, his breath hot against my neck as we both come down from our high.
We stay like that for a moment, our bodies still connected. Eventually, Beckett pulls back, his eyes soft as he gazes down at me.
“George,” he murmurs, his voice filled with emotion. "Fuck, that was incredible.”
A plaintive bleat cuts through the blissful moment.
We freeze, the spell broken.
I turn my head to see Cheese Puff in the doorway, chewing on what looks suspiciously like?—
Beckett groans, dropping his forehead onto my shoulder. “Tell me that goat isn’t eating my shirt.”
I bite my lip, trying and failing not to laugh. “I could tell you that. But I'd be lying.”
Cheese Puff lets out another cheerful bleat, completely unfazed by the naked humans she’s walked in on.
Beckett sighs. “This is not how I pictured the afterglow.”