14. Beckett
Beckett
Apparently, surgeons don’t get flustered. They’re all masters of control and staying calm, cool, and collected.
Greer got back to our table and dropped into her seat like nothing happened, all polite smiles and thank-yous to anyone who stopped by to congratulate her.
But I could still taste her, feel her on my tongue, and had a distinctly hard time concentrating on anything else.
At one point, she dropped her purse into her lap and opened her hand to me.
“You weren’t going to let me keep them?” I leaned forward, pulling the still-wet lace from my suit pants, and holding it out to her between two fingers. My voice was still rough, and all she’d have to do was look down and see me straining against my suit pants to know how turned on I still was, and probably would be forever.
She gave me a flat look and stuffed them in her purse, going back to the conversation like nothing happened.
Something did happen—and I don’t think I’ll forget it for the rest of my life.
The girl. The way she tasted. The way she felt against my tongue and fingers when she came.
What it was like for her to trust me.
Not because she thought I was dependable and reliable.
But because she saw the real me and still thought I was worthy.
It’s probably dramatic, but everything feels different now. Like that girl altered my brain chemistry in that empty closet. Reached down with her hands that save lives, curled her fingers around my heart, and whispered that it should come back to life.
She looks different—shoulders straight, all that exposed skin alight under the moon.
We’re just walking down the street to where I parked the truck, but she’s got this pensive look on her face, silk of her dress fluttering around her legs, and she looks a bit like she should be wading into the water of a moonlit beach somewhere, thinking about burning the world down. I palm my jaw, glancing sideways at Greer. “Are you okay, to be in the truck? To drive home?”
She wraps her arms around herself against the night air. I’d take my suit jacket off and put it around her, but I doubt that would play well.
She tips her chin up, seemingly eyeing the stars in the sky before she stops in front of the truck. Her eyes cut to me, and she nods. “It was a long time ago. I get in cars and drive all the time. They don’t scare me.”
I don’t say anything until we’re both in the truck, and I’m driving down the street. “What happened?”
“Just your run-of-the-mill car accident on a bridge that ended with us in the water. I was with my dad and my sister.”
She says it like it’s nothing, and I take my eyes off the road to look at her. She’s turned away from me, plaque discarded on the floor in front of her, purse in her lap and arms still crossed over her chest. “How old were you?”
“I was seventeen. Stella was fifteen.”
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Was everyone okay?”
“Eventually,” she says softly, and I glance away from the empty city streets again. Her forehead rests against the window, eyes tracking all the buildings we pass, and the streetlights casting shadows across the sharp edges of her face.
“But it still bothers you?”
I see her shrug one shoulder from the corner of my eye. “Sometimes.”
“Is that what happened the day outside the hospital? With the Gatorade commercial?” I ask, and I think she nods.
“Yes. There were sirens and a car backfired...” Her voice trails off, and I think that’s all she’s going to say, but she keeps talking. “It’s a lot better than it used to be. But sometimes, when I’m not expecting it, my nervous system reacts before my mind can tell it to stop. That it’s just a noise. That I’m not in a car. That I’m not sinking.”
I see her shift in her seat, and I think, maybe I’m starting to understand her a bit more. “The car accident—is that why you became a surgeon?”
Greer turns, cocking her head and studying me. “Something like that.”
I nod, even though I know it’s just another half-truth, offering her a small smile that she returns before she looks back out the window.
We don’t say anything for the rest of the drive. I’d usually try to fill the silence, to distract her, and if she was someone else who gave her smiles and laughter away more freely, maybe I’d grin at her and try for one of those.
But I don’t think she needs me to, and I think I like being quiet with her.
Her street is empty, fewer houses with lights shining than the last time I dropped her off. But her porch light is on.
The curtain doesn’t move when I park the truck out front, so I can’t imagine her sister is in there. She seems like the type to wait all night, watching with another FaceTime call at the ready.
I think about Greer—nothing under that dress—and if I was a worse person, I think I’d ask if I could come inside.
But even though she says she’s fine, her cheeks are softer than usual, lips parted at the Cupid’s bow I’d love nothing more than to kiss, and all of her tired.
She unbuckles her seat belt, slides her purse back onto the crook of her elbow, and turns to me. “Well, thank you for coming. I’m sorry you spent more time in a closet with me than you did clearing your good name, but Samir stands to make some money if you perform this season.”
I glance down at her mouth. “I’m really not complaining.” She snaps her fingers and gives me a flat look, but she seems amused, a tiny lift at the corner of her lips. I grin at her and shrug. “Thank you, for all your help. Regular season starts next week so I guess this is it, for now.”
Greer studies me for a second before her eyebrows rise. “Call me, if you ever have another business proposal.”
If it was anyone else saying that to me, I’d think it was an invitation to ask her out. But she’s not anyone else. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. “Hey, it’s a long season. I’m sure I’ll miss something important at some point and come crawling back to you, tail between my legs.”
She tilts her head, lips tugging to the side as she shrugs, turning and opening the door. One hand grabs her dress as she hops down from the bed of the truck. She turns back to me. “Maybe. But I doubt it. You don’t strike me as the type to miss more than once. Good night, Beckett.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond, shutting the door. I don’t think I have anything to say, so I watch her walk away, but I notice the plaque still on the floor in front of the passenger seat.
Rolling down the window, I lean forward and call after her. “You forgot your award.”
Greer looks over her shoulder, sharp features appraising before she wrinkles her nose. “Keep it. You deserve it after your performance. Great legs, great tongue. Who knew?”
She smiles softly, raising a hand before gathering her dress again and starting down the walkway towards her apartment.
I watch, waging an internal war and seriously considering sprinting after her, pinning her to a nearby tree and fucking her brains out. I shift in my seat, pulling at the thigh of my suit pants. They’ve been too tight ever since we left the closet, my cock permanently hard all night because of her.
My hand reaches for my seat belt, like it’s got a mind of its own, but she pauses right before the bottom stair, turning back around. She tips her head, ponytail dancing over her shoulder, and she blinks those eyes at me before she says, “Peanut.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Cashew and Peanut.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Our nicknames as kids. My dad called me Peanut.”
“Huh.” I nod, the corner of my lip kicking up. It might not seem like much, but I know she just gave me something, cracked open the door of hers she keeps closed and shared a secret with me. Whispered it to me like a child might.
I tuck it in my back pocket with her smile and her laugh.
Greer raises her hand again and she goes to turn, but I lean forward so I’m closer to the open window. I want her to hear me, and I hope she knows I mean it. “You’ve listened to me for the last few weeks. If you ever want to talk to someone, I’d be happy to listen to you.”
Her smile turns rueful, and her hand stays up in farewell this time. “Good night, Beckett.”
“Night, Dr. Roberts.”
I wait until she’s inside, and when the door shuts, I see the curtain pull to the side. A flash of auburn hair and the shadow of someone hopping off the couch and sprinting across the room.
I kind of wish it was me in there with her, but I’m glad she’s not alone.