Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
SKYLA
T he truth is, I’m not ready for him to leave. I’ve never felt so comfortable talking to a man in my life. Certainly not one I’m attracted to.
Connor and Mik don’t count.
“I’m just going to quickly let Riley outside, then I’ll put the kettle on.”
Beckett smiles in that soft, patient way he does, which immediately puts me at ease. I love how calm and patient he is. And that face of his makes me ache. I so want to run my fingers through his whiskers. “I can put the kettle on,” he says and drags his hand from my shoulder to my hand, sending shivers through me. “Take care of your boy, Irish.”
Irish.
That’s the second time he’s called me that, and I don’t hate it. I’ve had many nicknames over the years, but nothing sounds quite as sexy as Beckett saying that one simple word.
With a nod, I motion for Riley to follow me out the back door, and he knows that it’s time for him to do his business.
Glancing back at the house, I can see Beckett moving about my kitchen. His broad shoulders in that bloody hot gray button-down might be enough to make a girl pregnant.
And don’t even get me started on his arms. The way his biceps fill out those sleeves pushed up, and his forearms flex and move, showing off muscles and veins when he drives or eats or anything. Beckett Blackwell is a large, imposing man, yet I don’t know that I’ve ever felt safer.
Which is daft because I barely know him.
And my instincts have been wrong before.
However, I know his sister very well, and I believe in my heart of hearts that if there was anything to worry about, physically, where this man is concerned, Bee and our friends would have warned me.
Because they’ve come to be as close to me as family, and I trust them.
“That’s a good boy,” I croon to Riley when he’s finished and we go back inside.
Beckett’s leaning against my counter, his ankles crossed, and his arms folded over his chest, showing off more of those arms.
“I have Earl Grey or Irish breakfast tea,” I inform Beckett as the water in the kettle boils. “Do you have a preference?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says, watching me as I prepare our tea. He hasn’t moved from his position at the counter. “Are you nervous?”
Tilting my head to the side as I ponder that question, I pull down the tea bags and put one in each mug, then pour the hot water.
“Perhaps a little, if I’m being honest.”
“Always be honest,” he says and nods when I hold up the honey, wordlessly asking him if he’d like some.
So I doctor his up the same way I do mine, and then we take our mugs into the living room and sit on my overstuffed sofa.
“I’m not nervous in the sense that I’m uncomfortable with you,” I inform him as I set my tea aside to cool. “But I don’t date, so having any man who isn’t my brother or Mik in my house is unsettling.”
“Who’s Mik?” He sips his tea, yet doesn’t seem jealous or angry with the question, which is a good thing. The Arsehole had a creepy fixation on Mik, and I won’t let another man threaten my dearest friend ever again.
“Mikhail was my dance partner. Every major performance I’ve ever danced since I was sixteen has included him as my co-lead.”
“That’s a tight bond,” he replies. “Sometimes those relationships turn into romantic ones.”
Grinning at him over the rim of my cup, I take a sip of my tea, then set it aside and kick my shoes off, but before I can pull my legs up under me, Beckett tugs them into his lap and rests his hand on my shin. I don’t mind the physical contact at all. In fact, his touch is nice, igniting something in me that’s been long dormant.
“Sometimes it does, yes. But not for us. He’s like a brother to me, and his husband might take issue with Mik and I starting something up.”
“Ah.” Beckett nods thoughtfully. “How deep can my questions get here tonight, Irish?”
“You’re in my home, holding on to my legs, drinking tea. I’d say you can ask me pretty much whatever you like.”
Whether or not I answer every question with the full truth remains to be seen. I do feel safe with this man, and I trust him—surprisingly, given we’ve spent so little time together.
Do I want him to know all my secrets? I guess I’ll see how this goes, and if I tell him, I tell him.
“I’d like to know more about Riley and why you need a service dog.”
Nodding, I finish my tea and turn in my seat, facing him more fully. “To answer that, I need to back it up to why I no longer dance, as they’re linked. But I’ll warn you, it’s a long tale.”
“I have all night. Actually, hold that thought.”
Holding up a finger, he digs his phone out of his pocket and, rather than send a text, he taps the screen, sets it on speaker, and someone answers, “Hey, boss.”
“Hi, Brad. I need a favor. I know you took care of everything this evening, and I appreciate it. I need someone to look after things in the morning as well. I might be back in time, but I don’t want to rush.”
“No worries, we’ll handle things. Good night, boss.”
“Thanks.” He hangs up, stuffs his phone back in his pocket, and grins at me. “There. Now I have all night.”
“Did you just blow off your duties for me?”
“I don’t think you realize what I’d be willing to do for you, Skyla. But I think you’ll learn. Talk to me. What happened?”
I haven’t told anyone the entire story except for Connor. Not even Mik knows everything. Certainly no one here in my new town knows what I worry about daily.
He watches me so patiently, with those beautiful, kind eyes, and his hand is warm on my skin.
“I don’t think you realize what I’d be willing to do for you, Skyla.”
He’s serious. And I know this isn’t just about getting in my pants. He wants to know me. When was the last time I felt so … revered? And that’s when it clicks. If I choose to date this man, which is becoming painfully clear that I want to do, he needs to know this part of my history.
And I want to talk to him.
I don’t want to hold anything back.
If this is too much for him, it’s good to find out now before we invest more time and become attached. Because I could absolutely see myself becoming attached to this sexy, sweet man.
“Almost three years ago, I met a man.”
Beckett’s eyes narrow. “Is this story going to piss me off?”
“Probably. It makes me bloody irate on the daily. But there’s no way of sugarcoating it, so if you’d rather not hear it, I don’t have to tell it.”
He lifts his hand from my leg and links our fingers together.
“Don’t sugarcoat it and tell me everything.”
“Okay then. I met Lewis—and that’s the only time I’ll ever speak his name again—about three years ago. He’d been to a few of my performances, had some strings to pull, and ended up backstage to introduce himself to me. He was charming and handsome, and I agreed to go out with him. We saw each other for roughly a month’s time, Beckett. It was nothing serious, and I never slept with him. I never let him into my flat, and I never went to his. It was only ever dinner or drink dates. We took a walk through Central Park once, but that’s it.”
“Okay, casually dating the dude. Got it.”
“Exactly. Very casual. I was so busy that carving out time to foster any kind of romantic relationship was difficult. But I would have, for the right person. The Arsehole, as I’ll now forever refer to him, was not the right person.”
“All of this sounds pretty normal so far.”
“And that’s where the normalcy ends.” I lean my cheek on the back of the sofa, enjoying the way Becket’s thumb makes circles on the backs of my knuckles. It feels good to be touched, to have this handsome man listen.
Without any judgment in his eyes.
“He would do weird, controlling things when we were out, like not even let me look at a menu but just order for me. He didn’t ask if I had allergies or if I actually wanted something. He simply decided for me. I didn’t like that.”
“So he’s a dick.”
I chuckle and nod in agreement. “He’d make comments about my weight.”
Beckett’s eyes narrow menacingly.
“He’d remind me that I was a tiny dancer , and that I should have a certain diet as if I hadn’t been a professional dancer for most of my life and knew exactly what was required to maintain the physical shape needed. He was condescending and not any fun at all. So on the walk through the park, I told him that I appreciated his time, but that it wasn’t going to work out for me, and I wished him well.”
Beckett shifts on the sofa, still facing me, still holding my hand.
“Let me guess. He didn’t like that.”
“At that moment, he was calm and said he understood and also wished me well. I thought nothing of it when I left and returned to work that afternoon. I was relieved that it went as well as it could, and honestly, I forgot about it. For about two weeks. And that’s when it all went to shite.”
Pulling out of his grasp, I stand and walk to the kitchen, grab two bottles of water, and return, offering him one. When he takes it, I sit where I was before, and Beckett takes my hand again as if he simply has to touch me, and I’m grateful.
I do enjoy his touch.
“He never did anything that was technically against the law or that I could prove was against the law.”
His eyes narrow, his hand tightens on mine, and for the first time in my life, I want to move over and put myself in a man’s lap. “Explain, please.”
“He’d call but not incessantly. He’d send me flowers. Pink roses.” I shiver at that and shake my head. “Ugh, if I never see another pink rose, it’ll be too soon.”
“Noted.”
“He kept inserting himself into my life even though I’d told him to stop. And when I stopped answering him, he got agitated.”
“How long did this go on, Skyla?”
I chew on my bottom lip, doing the math. “Almost two years.”
He pulls his hand away and leans forward, those amber eyes full of anger. “ Two fucking years?”
I nod. “Yes. Remember, I’d call the police, and they’d tell me that he hadn’t done anything wrong. That he wasn’t bothering me to the point of it actually being considered stalking or harassment. And there were times when he’d go months without reaching out to me. And just as I’d start to feel secure, believing that he’d finally moved on, something would happen. It was enough to keep me on edge and in a constant state of worry but not enough to get him into trouble.”
“Fucking asshole.”
“Quite, yes. One night, I woke up in the middle of the night, and I knew I wasn’t alone.”
Beckett stands and starts to pace, so angry that he can’t sit still.
“I’m sorry, I’ll stop telling you. I just have to explain this to get to Riley and?—”
“I want to hear it,” he says, shaking his head. “And I want to kill him, all at the same time.”
But he sits, drags his hand down his face, then holds my hand once more.
“Are you okay?” My question is a whisper, and instead of answering, he simply tugs me into his lap, wraps his arms around me, and buries his face in my neck. I’ve never felt anything better in my life. My stomach quivers, my lady bits come fully awake, and it’s clear to me, right here and now, that being in Beckett’s arms is my favorite place to be. If I’m wrong about this man, it will devastate me because every molecule in my body screams that I can trust him.
And gods, how I want to trust him.
“This is better,” he murmurs, dragging one hand down my spine. “Are you okay with this?”
“Yes.” Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I slide my fingers into his hair and hold on. I am so much more than okay with this. “Yes, this is lovely.”
“We need a minute.” He presses his lips to my skin, where my neck meets my shoulder, and I take a deep breath, soaking in this moment.
This is what it must feel like to be treasured.
And he hasn’t even kissed me.
“Okay.” He pulls back and loosens his hold on me but keeps me in his lap. “Go on.”
I’ve wanted to touch his beard since the first moment I saw this man. If he can tug me onto his lap, I can do this.
My hand drifts down his face, into those whiskers, and I was right. They’re soft and feel amazing against my palm. And when I use my nails to scratch his cheek, he groans.
“Keep doing that, Irish, and we won’t make it through this conversation, and I think we need to finish this.”
“You’re right, but I’ve wanted to touch you like this since I saw you at that pub.”
His eyebrows climb. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Your beard is sexy.”
“Then I’ll keep the beard.” He pulls my hand away and kisses my palm. “Now, keep talking, sweetheart.”
I lick my lips and frown, trying to remember where I left off.
“Middle of the night. You’re not alone,” he reminds me.
“Ah yes. I didn’t have Riley yet, but I also lived in a building with great security. I might have been considered a starving dancer, but my family certainly wasn’t starving, so my parents bought me an amazing flat in a safe building.”
“I understand.” He dances his fingers down my face, and I take a deep breath.
“If I can’t touch, you can’t touch. Those are the rules.”
His lips twitch as he drops his hand, and instead of touching my face, he grips my hip.
“I panicked.” My heart leaps with the memory, and Beckett’s hold on me tightens.
“You’re okay, Irish.”
I lick my lips. “My phone wasn’t by the bed. It had been moved. And from what I’ve pieced together, when I woke up, it scared The Arsehole because I heard my front door shut. I flew out of bed and fell, spraining my ankle something fierce. I didn’t know for sure if he’d left. But I knew who it was. I knew.”
“Of course, you knew.”
“I crawled?—”
He growls at that. Actually growls.
“Into the living room and found my phone on the coffee table. It had been unlocked, and he’d been going through it. Not that he would have found anything, but still, it was an invasion of privacy. Connor was out of the country at a property in Milan, so I called Mik, and he and Benji rushed right over. They took me to an emergency clinic, where I was told that I sprained my ankle so badly that it would have been better if it had broken. It would have been easier because torn ligaments take longer to repair.”
“Shit.” He’s touching me again, running his hands up and down my back, soothing me. “I’m so sorry, Skyla.”
“I couldn’t dance, of course. And when I saw my regular physician, he didn’t mince words. I likely wouldn’t be able to dance professionally anymore. But I waited in New York for three months. I went to physical therapy and got a second, then third opinion. I did everything I could to salvage my career, but they told me it was unlikely.
“Then I got an email from The Arsehole, letting me know that he’d have to leave the country for a little while but not to worry because he’d be home soon, and we’d resume our romance.”
That email has been burned into my retinas. I can’t unsee it.
“He’s a delusional fuckface,” Beckett says, scowling.
“Absolutely, yes. But more than that, his calm exterior terrified me. He was unpredictable, and I’d become scared of living on my own. I ended up staying with Connor after that night. I was afraid of everything , and I hated it so much. So I decided to move.” His eyebrows climb in surprise.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. He took away everything I had sacrificed my life for. Dancing was the very essence of me, Beckett. Every element of my life was wrapped up in that world and those routines. I loved it. And he took it away. I couldn’t…I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t live so close to what I used to have and what I’d never have again. He’d won. But I refused to give him that victory. How could I stay if he could still find me?”
“Oh, Irish. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” And the pain in his voice is evident. This man is one of the good ones.
“Don’t be. This town has been a balm for me. I’m healing. Growing confident again.”
“What made you decide to move here?”
“I’d been here a few years prior with some friends for a winter getaway. We couldn’t ski because it was in our contracts that we couldn’t do anything that might break bones, but we came out to enjoy the snow, and I loved it here. It stayed with me. And when I realized I had to leave New York, Bitterroot Valley immediately came to mind.
“Connor wanted me to go back to Ireland, and Mik is still in denial and thinks I’ll be back in New York any day now to resume my place as prima ballerina, but they’re both wrong. This is where I want to be.”
“And Riley?”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot. Well, after the middle-of-the-night incident, Connor wanted to get me one of those attack dogs that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, that aren’t to be pets, but only fierce guard dogs, like for presidents and such.”
“I might have had the same reaction,” he admits with a grin.
“I didn’t want that. If I have an animal living in my home, I want them to also be my friend, and I want to be able to trust them with children and other animals. So we compromised. Riley is a Bouvier. He’s been highly trained as an alert dog, so if someone approaches me from behind like you did after the pub that night, he’ll alert me. He’s always on the lookout. I don’t typically let people pet him because he has to be aware that most people aren’t to be trusted. I work on his training every day. But in return, he’s sweet and good company for me, and we trust each other. I got him just before I moved out of New York.”
“I’m glad you have him, Irish. That was a good decision. Since you’ve been here, has The Asshole reached out to you?” he asks.
“No. But I changed my email address, my phone number, everything. I didn’t leave a forwarding address with the ballet company or with my building. Mik or Connor would see to having anything sent to me, and it’s been long enough that nothing really comes to me through New York anymore. I’m not hiding here. I haven’t changed my name or anything, but I didn’t make it easy for someone to find me, either. Who would think to look for me in Montana? No one.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” He brushes my hair behind my ear, and his fingertips drift down my jawline to my neck. “And now I know why you didn’t want to give me your number. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable when I didn’t take no for an answer, and if you want me to go, I will.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Trust me, if I’d been angry or put off, I would have told you to go feck yourself without thinking twice about it. I’m not shy in that regard, not anymore.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and those two words might have just made my ovaries explode.
I glance over at where Riley’s lying on his bed. He’s sleeping soundly, which is unusual for him when anyone other than the two of us is in the house. Dogs see more than humans, so if Riley trusts this man, that’s almost all the reassurance I need.
“Looks like he’s off duty,” Beckett says.
“He’s always on duty. If I have a nightmare, he knows to turn the lights on for me. It’s one of the things he was trained to do.”
He takes my chin in his fingers and turns me to look at him. His eyes are narrowed and intense, and I swallow hard.
“It’s probably not sexy to be afraid of the dark, is it?”
“Every single thing about you is sexy, Irish.”
“Should I get out of your lap?”
“Not on my account.” His mouth tips up in a half smile. “But if you don’t want me to kiss you, you might want to move.”
Oh, I want him to kiss me. I’ve dreamed about him kissing me for a while now.
When I don’t move, his eyes dip to my mouth, and I lick my lips. He cups my neck and jaw, his thumb brushes over my cheek, and he closes the gap between us and takes my mouth with his.
It’s so much more than I imagined.
His whiskers rasp against my skin, and he licks my bottom lip, making my stomach quiver. When my mouth opens to him, he sinks in.
This man kisses me like he was born for it, and it’s everything I never knew I needed.
But it’s over too quickly, and when he pulls away, we’re both breathing hard and fast.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“There are two things I’m not going to do tonight,” he tells me and swallows hard.
“Okay, what are they, then?”
“One, I’m not going to fuck you. Even though I want to with every goddamn fiber of my body, I’m not going to take it any further tonight.”
Well, that’s a shame.
“And the second?”
“I’m also not going home. I’m going to stay here, and we’re going to talk, and I’m going to hold you until we fall asleep. Unless you kick me out because you’re the boss, Irish.”
“I’m not for kicking you out, Beckett.”
He presses his lips to mine again, but this kiss is softer. Gentler. And then he pulls back and settles me against him so my head rests on his chest, under his chin, and he’s holding me close.
This feels so right.
He could have run away, thinking that I came with too much baggage. Yet he kissed me and promised me a night of comfort and friendship. And even though I’m feeling a little raw from speaking about him , I also feel content. At peace somehow.
I know some things about the Blackwell family because of Bee and Dani, but I want to know more from Beck’s perspective. Now feels like the time to ask him.
“Where are your parents?”
“Florida,” he replies and kisses the top of my head. “They moved down there when they retired, but they come up often. They don’t want to miss too much of Birdie’s life. They just hate the snow.”
“I love the snow.” I also love the sound of Beckett’s heartbeat against my ear. “Are you the eldest sibling?”
“No, that’s Brooks.”
“That’s right, he told me that when I met you all at the pub. Where do you fall in line?”
“I’m actually the second youngest, just before Billie. But there’s a bit of a gap between us. She’s twenty-seven, and I’m thirty-one. Billie was a happy surprise.”
“I like that. A happy surprise. Connor is almost forty, and I’m nearly twenty-eight. I was also a surprise. Ma and Da didn’t think they could have more children.”
“You are absolutely a happy surprise, sweetheart.” He kisses the top of my head, and I melt further into him.
So are you, Beckett Blackwell. So are you .