Chapter 6 #2
The bar was loud, crowded, full of people laughing and dancing and living their lives. But all I could focus on was the point where Beau’s skin touched mine, and the way he was looking at me like he was about to do something reckless.
“Mason—”
“We should stop,” I said, but I didn’t pull my hand away.
“Stop what?”
“This. Whatever this is.”
“Why?”
“Because we work together, and it’s complicated. Because—”
“Because you’re scared.”
The words hit like a slap. “I’m not scared.”
“Then prove it.” Beau’s hand covered mine completely now, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “Dance with me.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Of course you don’t.” But he was standing, pulling me up with him, not giving me a choice. “Come on, Price. Live dangerously for once in your life.”
The dance floor was packed, bodies moving together in the semi-darkness. Beau pulled me into the center, and suddenly we were pressed close, his hands on my hips, my hands on his shoulders, moving to music I couldn’t even hear over the pounding of my heart.
“This is a bad idea,” I said, but I didn’t move away.
“Probably.” His breath was warm against my ear. “But you’re here anyway.”
“I’m drunk.”
“You’re tipsy. There’s a difference.”
He was right. I was just drunk enough to have an excuse, but not drunk enough that this was anything other than a choice. A terrible, irresponsible, absolutely inevitable choice.
Beau’s hands slid from my hips to the small of my back, pulling me closer.
“Mason,” he breathed, and when I looked at him, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.
I don’t know who moved first. Maybe we both did. Maybe it was gravity or fate or just the inevitable conclusion to weeks of tension that had been building since the moment he’d walked into that conference room.
But suddenly we were kissing.
His mouth was hot and demanding, tasting like tequila and lime and something that was uniquely him. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that went straight to my groin.
This wasn’t a tentative first kiss. This was desperation and need. His tongue swept into my mouth, and I met him stroke for stroke, giving as good as I got, swallowing his groan when I bit his lower lip.
We were in the middle of a crowded dance floor, and I didn’t care. Didn’t care who saw us or what they thought. All that mattered was Beau’s hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he kissed like he did everything else—with his whole being, holding nothing back.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“Holy shit,” Beau whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Come home with me.” His voice was rough, wrecked. Not a question. A statement.
My body screamed yes. My body was already saying yes, already imagining what would happen when we got to his apartment, what his skin would feel like, what sounds he’d make.
“Yeah,” I heard myself say. “Yes.”
Beau’s smile was blinding. He took my hand—actually took my hand, fingers laced with mine—and started pulling me toward the exit.
We made it halfway across the bar before reality crashed back in.
My hand in his. The fact that we worked together and that Carter and Patsy trusted us with their biggest case.
I was on partner track, and getting involved with a colleague—with Beau specifically—could destroy everything I’d worked for.
For fuck’s sake, I’d spent fifteen years building walls, and Beau had demolished them in under an hour.
I stopped walking.
Beau turned, confused. “Mason?”
I pulled my hand from his. “This is a really bad idea.”
“What?”
“We can’t—we work together. We have a case. This is—” I was backing away, my chest tight, panic flooding my system. “We can’t do this.”
“Mason—” Beau reached for me, his expression shifting from confusion to concern.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out strangled. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Then I was moving—pushing through the crowd, ignoring Beau calling my name, shoving open the door and stumbling out into the chilly night air.
I’d made it to my car before my brain caught up with my body. Keys in hand, door unlocked, engine waiting. Then I’d looked at myself in the rearview mirror—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, the unmistakable glaze of too much tequila—and realized what I was about to do.
Drive drunk. Break the law. Risking everything I’d built on one moment of poor judgment.
Just like I’d almost risked everything by going home with Beau.
I’d locked the car again and walked away, ordering a Lyft with fumbling fingers.
Now I sat on the cold concrete, watching my phone tell me that “Marcus” would arrive in a silver Camry in four minutes.
I could still taste Beau. Could still feel the ghost of his hands on my back, the heat of his body pressed against mine.
My phone buzzed with a text. I knew without looking it was Beau.
I’d seen three notifications already, but I couldn’t read them.
Couldn’t face whatever he was saying—whether it was anger or confusion or something worse.
The Lyft pulled up. I climbed in, mumbled my address, and leaned my head against the cold window.
“Rough night?” The driver asked sympathetically.
“You have no idea,” I whispered.
As we drove through Richmond’s empty streets, I stared at my phone. Four unread messages from Beau. My thumb hovered over them.
Then, I turned my phone face-down on my lap and closed my eyes.
When I got home, I’d hate myself enough for both of us.