Beckett #2
“And yet, somehow, you’re still standing.”
That earned her a smirk. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
She shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she turned back to her clipboard. But I caught the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
And damn it, that same flicker hit again—stronger this time.
I didn’t know what to call it, but it felt a lot like trouble.
I heard the crash before I saw it—one of the tables near the gym wall shuddered under the weight of a stack of promotional boxes, all teetering on the edge.
Before anyone could react, instinct kicked in. I crossed the floor, caught the pile mid-slide, and hauled the whole thing back upright.
Cardboard scraped against my palms, one of the corners catching my sleeve, but I managed to stack them neatly again.
Ellery turned at the sound, eyes wide. “Oh! Thanks. You didn’t have to—”
“You’re welcome,” I said, already brushing off my hands.
Her mouth opened like she wanted to argue, but I didn’t give her the chance.
I moved down the line, adjusting a banner that was hanging crooked, untangling a cable some intern nearly tripped over, shifting a table two inches to the left so it actually lined up with the backdrop. Someone had taped a sponsor logo upside down, so I fixed that too.
Half the crew froze, watching me like I’d sprouted another head.
“Hey,” one of the volunteers finally said, grinning, “you’ve done this before?”
“No,” I said, tugging another banner straight. “Just not an idiot.”
That got a few laughs, the tension breaking a little. Someone even handed me a roll of tape like I’d been promoted to team lead.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Ellery watching me. Clipboard in hand, lips parted in something halfway between confusion and amusement.
“I thought you hated PR work,” she said finally, crossing her arms.
“I do.”
She tilted her head. “Then why—”
“Optics,” I cut in. “Don’t get used to it.”
For a second, her expression stayed unreadable—then the faintest smile curved at the corner of her mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I turned back to the banner, pretending I didn’t notice, but the way she said it lingered longer than it should’ve.
The next few minutes fell into a strange rhythm.
She called out instructions, and I followed—not because I had to, but because it made things move faster.
I helped a volunteer lift one of the photo backdrops into place, adjusted lighting stands, even handed out bottled water when someone complained they were dying of thirst.
Every time I caught her looking, I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
But it did.
Not in the usual way—not the flirty, easy kind of thing I was used to. This felt… steadier. Heavier. The kind of look someone gives when they’re trying to figure out what had changed and couldn’t quite name it.
I wasn’t sure what the hell was changing either.
All I knew was that it felt good to do something. To move, fix, lift. No cameras, no noise—just hands-on work that made the chaos shrink for a minute.
When the last banner finally hung straight, I stepped back, rolling my shoulders. “There. Your circus looks less like a disaster now.”
Ellery’s laugh slipped out—quiet but real. “You’re a natural.”
“Don’t say that too loud,” I muttered. “Cam’ll start putting me on payroll.”
Her smile widened, soft but sharp. “Maybe you’re not as allergic to teamwork as you think.”
“Don’t push it.”
She just shook her head and turned away, hiding the grin I wasn’t supposed to see.
And for reasons I didn’t want to unpack, that almost made the whole circus worth it.
We fell into an easy rhythm before I realized it.
The chaos that had swallowed the gym earlier started to quiet—still busy, still loud, but no longer frantic. People moved with purpose now instead of panic. I’d like to think I had something to do with that, though I wasn’t about to say it out loud.
Ellery worked beside me, flipping through checklists, calling out directions to volunteers, typing notes on her phone between sentences. She did three things at once without breaking stride. The kind of focus that could probably rebuild Rome if you handed her a clipboard and a roll of duct tape.
I caught myself watching her more than once—the way she bit her lip while reading, the little furrow between her brows when something didn’t line up the way she wanted.
Every time she checked something off her list, her whole body seemed to relax for half a second before she jumped right into the next task.
Efficient. Determined. Stubborn as hell.
And maybe—just maybe—a little too easy to like.
I was mid-thought when one of the PR interns approached her, voice sharp with that fake confidence people get when they think they’re in charge. “Ms. James, the lighting crew said your setup’s off-brand for the Storm—”
Before she could answer, I turned. “Then they can fix it. Not her.”
The intern blinked, thrown off. “I—uh—I was just relaying—”
“Relay faster,” I said, and jerked my chin toward the lighting rig.
He stammered something that might’ve been an apology and disappeared.
Ellery looked at me, eyes wide. “That was—unnecessary.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, picking up a stray stack of sponsor cards.
She just stared at me for a beat, then let out this small laugh—half exasperation, half disbelief. “You’re impossible.”
I smirked. “You say that like it’s new information.”
Her smile lingered longer than she probably meant it to. “You really don’t have an off switch, do you?”
“Not one anyone’s found yet.”
She shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she scribbled another note. I pretended not to notice how her cheeks had gone a shade pinker than usual.
For the next stretch, we kept working—side by side but quiet. It wasn’t awkward silence, just… steady. Comfortable, even. Every now and then, our hands brushed when we reached for the same roll of tape or shifted the same box, and each time, the air around us felt a little tighter.
She didn’t flinch away. Neither did I.
Somewhere between aligning banners and corralling volunteers, I realized I was standing guard without meaning to—scanning the room every time someone came too close, ready to step in if another intern tried to bark orders at her.
Ridiculous. I didn’t even like being here.
But watching her work—watching her handle people without ever losing her patience—made it harder to pretend I didn’t care.
By the time the last banner hung straight and the floor stopped looking like a disaster zone, I was still finding excuses to stay near her. Passing her tools. Moving boxes she could’ve moved herself.
I told myself it was efficiency.
But when she looked up at me, still smiling faintly, clipboard hugged to her chest, it felt like something else entirely.
“Mason, stand with Ellery for a quick photo!” someone shouted from across the gym.
I groaned before I could stop myself. Of course. PR never slept.
Ellery was mid-conversation with one of the volunteers, but when she heard my name, she turned—eyes flicking toward me, an unreadable mix of surprise and mild amusement on her face.
I muttered something about being done with cameras for the day, but my feet still carried me over. Habit, I guess. Or maybe it was the way she looked standing under those lights—hair catching the faint gold tint of the Storm banner behind her.
The photographer was already setting up, lens pointed like a weapon. “Closer together,” he said. “You’re supposed to look like you actually work well together.”
I arched a brow but stepped in anyway. Shoulder to shoulder. Closer than comfortable. The faint brush of her arm against mine sent a small jolt through me—like static, or nerves, or both.
The guy behind the camera held up a hand. “Smile.”
“I am,” I muttered.
Ellery snorted softly beside me, trying to bite back a grin. That sound—quiet, involuntary—hit harder than I wanted it to.
I looked down at her, ready to make some smart remark, but she was already glancing up at me.
And for half a heartbeat, everything around us—the chatter, the flash, the chaos—just faded.
Her eyes met mine, bright and steady, and suddenly it wasn’t about the photo or the gala or PR damage control. It wasn’t even about what either of us was supposed to represent.
It was just… her.
And me.
Too close. Too aware.
The flash went off before I could look away.
The photographer lowered his camera, grinning like he’d just caught lightning in a bottle. “Perfect.”
Ellery blinked, stepping back quickly, smoothing her shirt like she needed something to do with her hands. I cleared my throat and rubbed the back of my neck, pretending to study the nearest banner.
We might as well have had guilty stamped on our foreheads.
“Thanks, you two,” the photographer said, checking the screen. “That one’s going front and center.”
“Great,” I said flatly. “Can’t wait.”
Ellery shot me a look—half warning, half amusement. “Try not to sound too enthusiastic.”
“I’ll work on it,” I muttered.
But as she walked off to check something on her clipboard, I found myself glancing toward the photographer’s screen.
The picture was still up—me and Ellery standing side by side, her mouth curved in that half-smile, my head tilted just slightly toward her.
Not posed. Not polished.
Just… real.
And damn if that didn’t feel more dangerous than any headline they could write.