Chapter 6
Chapter Six
RIAN
Her voice is so sincere. So full of sorrow.
She’s a shadow of the woman I met in the De Courcy library all those years ago.
I hate that he’s done this to her—stripped her of her joy, her spark, her fire.
Rebekka Remington was never meant to be caged, and yet my best friend managed to clip her wings and lock her behind glass like a trophy.
He doesn’t deserve her.
He never fucking did.
She stands in the glow of my apartment, blonde hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, green eyes dulled with fatigue but still bright enough to burn through me. For one dangerous second, I let myself imagine it—her here, living with me.
Her things on my counters.
Her laugh echoing down the hall.
Her naked body curled into mine at night.
But fantasies are for the weak, and I’ve survived too long by controlling mine.
I shove my hands into my pockets and force a casualness to my voice that I don’t feel in her proximity. ‘You want water? Coffee? Or should I attempt those pancakes?’
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile but can’t quite manage it. She shakes her head. ‘Water would be great.’
I stride into the spacious kitchen and grab a bottle of chilled water from the fridge.
She follows me through. I open a drawer and pull out a packet of hydration tablets.
‘You’ll thank me for this tomorrow.’ I hold it up and wait until she nods before dropping it into the water.
‘Do you want to shower?’ An image of her naked and wet in my bathroom forces itself to the forefront of my mind. My dick twitches in my suit.
Fuck.
Not fucking helpful.
She stares at me from under the thick lashes framing her eyes. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard. ‘That would be nice…’ she looks down at her dress and wrinkles her nose, ‘But I don’t have anything else to put on.’
‘Wear something of mine,’ I blurt.
‘You got something that will fit?’ Her hands flap in front of her as she motions the size difference between us.
‘I have something that will fit you perfectly.’ Fuck. My. Life. Did I actually say that out loud? ‘I have t-shirts.’ I say quickly, rushing the words out to cover the fact that I was in fact imagining sinking myself into her centre, filling her up, wearing her like a goddamn fucking glove.
What I wouldn’t give to have her in my bed.
In my arms.
In my mouth.
‘And sweatpants.’ I rush on. ‘Or I could send one of the staff to pick you something up first thing in the morning? Or we could wash your dress?’
A smile stretches over her lips. She cocks her head to the side like she can see straight through my bullshit.
‘Avery did warn me to watch out for “Baby Beckett”,’ she teases, placing a hand on the womanly curve of her hip.
A low growl rumbles in the back of my throat. ‘So help me, Rebekka, do not give me a legitimate excuse to remove my suit, because if I do, it will only end one way.’
She bites her lower lip. ‘I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it that you’re a big boy.’
I blow out a breath. It takes all of my willpower not to close the distance between us, smash my lips against hers, pull her into my arms, wrap her legs around my waist, carry her to my bedroom—and keep her there forever.
‘If I didn’t need a shower before, I do now,’ she admits breathily.
‘You’re not the only one.’
Her eyes drift to the bulge at my crotch, then widen in surprise. She takes a step back, like my dick might jump at her. ‘Wow. I guess you’re a man of your word,’ she says finally.
‘That I am.’ I stride past her before I do something stupid like kiss her. ‘I’ll get you a towel and some fresh clothes.’
She follows at my heels as I march towards the biggest guest suite. The bathroom has an enormous clawfoot tub and a rainforest shower that you could spend days in. I switch it on and adjust the mood lighting until the room is bathed in soft lilac.
Thank you.’ Rebekka takes it all in her stride.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.’
Those jade eyes linger on mine with the same hint of longing that’s burning up my insides. I swivel and stride out before I do something reckless like strip off and join her.
I pace the penthouse, silently repeating all the reasons why I categorically cannot go near her until finally, the shower shuts off.
A minute later, the bathroom door opens, and she pads out barefoot, steam curling around her like a halo.
Her wet hair hangs loosely around her shoulders.
Her face is scrubbed free from make-up. Her skin is utterly fucking flawless.
I dig my teeth into my lower lip to stop myself from blurting it out.
Just when I think I couldn’t want her more, my eyes fall to her outfit—the t-shirt I left on the bed for her.
My t-shirt. It hangs off her frame, practically a dress, swallowing her curves but simultaneously drawing my attention to them.
Her bare legs peek out beneath the hem, long and toned, pale against the dark fabric.
My mouth goes dry.
Fuck.
She looks better in my clothes than I ever could.
Is she wearing lingerie under there? Lace? Silk? Or absolutely nothing at all? The thought slams into me, uninvited and dangerous. Heat coils low in my stomach. I catch myself, dragging in a breath sharp enough to sting.
Get a fucking grip, Beckett.
I spin towards the kitchen, desperate for distraction.
I yank open the fridge, grab a wheel of brie, a wedge of manchego, and some aged cheddar.
Crackers. Grapes. Honey. Fig jam. I arrange them on a board as though I’m plating for a Michelin-starred guest, instead of trying not to lose my mind over my best friend’s wife in my shirt.
When I finally turn back, she’s perched on one of the barstools, damp hair tumbling around her shoulders, watching me with those steady green eyes.
I set the cheeseboard down between us, and pour two glasses of wine. She might have had enough to drink tonight, but I sure as hell haven’t had nearly enough for this.
I clear my throat. ‘So, Anthony’s in Paris, huh?’ I slide onto the stool opposite her and lift my wine glass to my lips.
If she knows he’s doing the dirty on her, why the fuck is she putting up with it?
Why doesn’t she leave him?
Find someone who actually appreciates her?
I’m aware their union was an arrangement between two wealthy, prestigious families as part of a deal brokered to invest in Remington Publishing, but Rebekka has turned the business around.
Expanded it. Conquered the Irish market—and the British market too.
She’s successful in her own right. Surely now the business risk is removed, she should be able to file for an amicable divorce?
Then it hits me like a punch to the gut.
Maybe she doesn’t want a divorce.
Maybe she loves the cheating prick.
He does have some redeeming qualities, or we wouldn’t have been friends all these years.
Rebekka reaches slowly for a chunk of cheese. Silence stretches between us, and for a minute, I wonder if she’s planning on answering me at all.
‘Yes, my husband is in Paris—with his new PA who just so happens to be young and beautiful.’ She arches her eyebrows, forcing a breezy, careless tone, but I don’t miss the hurt that flickers through her eyes.
‘I’ve seen her. She’s nowhere near as beautiful as you.’ I hiss out a breath. ‘I’ve known Anthony for a long time. For as long as I can remember. But I never knew he was capable of such stupidity.’
‘You’re kind,’ she says, patting the back of my hand, then jerking back like she’s been burned. My skin tingles across the spot she touched, fire dancing up my arm.
‘Trust me, I’m not,’ I growl. There is nothing kind about what I want to do to the woman in front of me. About the way I want to take her to my bed, make her scream my name as I make her come on my hands, my mouth and my cock, before holding her tightly against my body and never letting her leave.
‘You are,’ she argues. ‘You’re kind to me anyway.’ She motions to the t-shirt she’s wearing. To the food in front of us.
‘I’m selfish.’ I admit. ‘Bringing you here was selfish.’
She pauses. ‘Why was it selfish?’ she whispers.
‘You know why, Rebekka.’ I eye her pointedly. She holds my gaze. Heat vibrates between us. Lust wars with logic in my chest. ‘I like you. I’ve always liked you. Which is why it enrages me that he treats you this way.’
She rolls her lips, but she doesn’t break eye contact.
‘Why do you tolerate his behaviour? Do you think he’d tolerate it if the shoe were on the other foot?’ I know for a fact he wouldn’t. Even when we were kids, he didn’t like anyone playing with his toys. And he plays with Rebekka’s feelings like she’s exactly that–a toy.
She thinks quietly for a long beat, while I mentally will her not to say it’s because she loves him.
‘I don’t have much choice. You know our marriage wasn’t one born of love. It was part of a deal brokered by our families.’ She exhales a heavy breath. ‘I was played like a pawn, and warned not to complain, because I got everything I wanted—my own division of the business, my own slice of the pie.’
‘So broker a new deal now your company is in a better position.’ If Anthony had any idea I was trying to talk his wife into leaving him, he would legitimately rip my head off and shove it down my neck.
It’s for her sake, not for mine, because even if she left Anthony, she could never be mine.
Anthony would never stand for it. But at least she might have some chance of happiness.
‘It’s not that simple.’ She shakes her head.
‘There were stipulations in the contract if we were to ever consider divorce. If I file against him, everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve built with his family’s investment would be his.
And I know he would take pleasure in burning everything I’ve built to the ground—while I’m in the building. ’
She’s right. My friend is ruthless in business, ruthless when it comes to acquisitions, and ruthless when it comes to personal affronts. And if she tried to divorce him, he would take it very personally. He has one hell of a temper.
‘If he doesn’t publicly humiliate me, I don’t actually care.’ She shrugs, and I know it’s not entirely true. Maybe a part of her does care for him? Something stabs my sternum at the mere idea. He doesn’t deserve her love.
‘It’s no way to live.’ I shake my head.
‘It’s the only way I can live,’ she says sadly. ‘But just so you know, I… I like you too.’
My glass stills, halfway to my lips. Her admission detonates a bomb of emotions inside of me—heat, hope, longing. My greedy gaze eats her up, lust lances my stomach. She likes me. She fucking likes me. To hear her say it out loud sets my world spinning on its axis.
Until the cold crash of reality hits.
No matter how we feel about each other, we can never act on it.
And it fucking kills me.