Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Joey
After breakfast, Beckett ran out to get a few errands taken care of, and I set myself up in the living room to get some work done.
I rarely work on weekends, but the Droplet brand redesign has consumed almost all of my time, so this is the first time this week I’ve had a moment to focus on a few of my other clients.
While I’m typing away, computer in my lap, Barbara saunters over and drops a small, soft object beside me. Panic immediately washes over me. I swear, if this cat brought a dead mouse to me, I’m leaving this house or kicking her and her owner out.
Swallowing down the nerves, I force myself to look at the. . .pair of fuzzy socks.
Air whooshes from my lungs. What?
Hmm. I look down the length of the couch to my slippered feet, which, I’ll admit, are still a bit cold.
“Thanks, Babs.”
She flicks her orange tail from side to side in a smooth motion, focusing on me, like she’s waiting for something. “Ah. I know what you want.” I tentatively reach out and scratch her chin.
Immediately, she nuzzles her furry head into my hand and purrs loudly.
Maybe there’s hope of a friendship between Barbara and me after all. Even if it’s built on a semi-unstable foundation.
As if she could read my mind, she jerks up, her piercing amber eyes locking with mine. Judgmental Barb has returned, I see. Pupils narrowing to slits, she scurries away.
“You are an odd creature, Barbara,” I mutter. “But one day you’ll love me.”
With an exhale, I sink down into the plush couch and check my phone. I have a few hours before I have to get ready for open mic night, meaning I can close my eyes for a little while. I snap my laptop shut, tuck it into the side of the couch, and let my eyelids drift shut.
When I startle awake, my mind reels.
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Hell, who am I?
As I take in my surroundings, my mind clears. I’m in the living room, and apparently I’ve just stumbled out of the kind of sleep that’s so deep I wouldn’t be shocked if I woke up in a different decade.
Considering how quiet it is, it seems like Beckett still isn’t home yet. I check my phone, discovering we have to leave in an hour. I stretch, readying to get up so I can change, and throw the blanket off.
Wait.
A blanket?
I didn’t wrap myself up in a blanket.
And when did I put my laptop on the table?
Who the fu—
“I didn’t wake you coming in, did I?” Beckett murmurs, the words barely breaking through my sleep-induced haze.
I rub my bleary eyes, then focus on him standing near the end of the couch, holding Barbara to his chest.
Fiddling with the blanket, I ask, “Did you—”
“Cover you in a blanket? Yes.” He scratches Barbara’s head, and she purrs in absolute bliss.
I eye the coffee table. “And—”
“Put your laptop on the coffee table? Also yes.”
“Huh.” I nod, confused. “Thanks.”
He flashes me a warm smile. “Anytime.” Bending at the waist, he sets the cat down. Then he rises to his full height again. “I’m going to head upstairs and take a shower. Meet you down here in an hour?”
Shower. Beckett. Instantly my mind is filled with images. Steam rising from every corner, warm water cascading down his muscular, inked chest. Each droplet glistening as it travels over his defined abs, slowly dripping downward to his. . .
“Are you feeling okay? You’re flushed. Have you had enough water today?”
I jolt back to reality. “Hmm? What? Yeah. Showers are great,” I squeak. “I like a good shower.”
His expression is nothing short of pure confusion, and I can’t say I blame the poor guy.
He frowns, but the expression quickly shifts into a devastating smirk as he nods at my nervous rambling.
“All right then. I’ll see you in an hour.” He turns and heads up the stairs.
I crane my neck, watching him as he goes, shamelessly admiring the way his ass looks in his dark jeans.
After sifting through every piece of clothing in my closet, I finally find my only motorcycle appropriate clothes.
I predominantly wear flowy dresses and skirts because they’re the most comfortable.
As a bonus, I’m prepared for my body’s retaliation on the days I decide to add milk to my coffee.
Being bloated in jeans? There’s nothing more insufferable.
I pull the stiff denim over my legs and jump up and down a few times to shimmy them up over my hips.
Not quite satisfied with the basic straight-leg jeans, black T-shirt, and brown boots, I slip on my favorite jacket.
It’s hand embroidered with dozens of colorful flowers, each one beautifully unique.
I touch up my makeup with a swipe of lip gloss and coat of mascara, then comb my fingers through my hair.
As I open my door and shuffle toward the living room, my pulse picks up and nerves skitter through me. With a thick swallow and a deep breath, I peer around the corner.
Beckett is already out here, sitting on the couch, his handsome face lit up as he scrolls on his phone.
When he notices me, he does a double take, then stands slowly.
At his full height, he examines me more closely, starting from my worn leather boots and working his way up my legs.
As he takes in the snug denim molded to my body, he draws in a sharp breath, the muscle along his strong jaw popping.
I clear my throat, tempted to make a witty comment.
But I refrain, not wanting to ruin this moment.
With his attention on me like this, I feel powerful.
Unstoppable. There’s something so satisfying about knowing I can pull this type of reaction from him.
“Ready to go?” I ask sweetly, pretending I didn’t notice the way he checked me out.
Beckett swallows hard. “Uh, yes. Yep.”
I flatten my lips to hold back a smile. “Lead the way,” I say, stepping to the side and motioning to the door.
As he strides past me, I catch a whiff of his scent, and he smells heavenly. Like leather and spice, with a hint of vanilla.
I’m convinced that men become a hundred times more alluring when they smell good.
I trail behind him and lock the door swiftly. When I turn around, he’s standing by his motorcycle, holding two helmets, the sleek chrome of the machine glinting under the rays of the setting sun.
Feeling bold, I let my hips sway as I saunter toward him. And I’m rewarded as he watches me the whole way.
When we’re toe to toe, he sets one helmet on the seat of his bike and twirls a finger, signaling for me to turn around. Then he carefully gathers my hair, the backs of his fingers brushing against the nape of my neck. “Is this okay? Braiding your hair will protect it from the wind.”
Breathless, I nod, my pulse quickening beneath his callused hands.
Warmth radiates from him, seeping into me, his leather and vanilla scent clinging to my nostrils, holding me close and rendering me speechless.
With tenderness, he separates my long waves into three sections, and as he brings one section over another, his warm breath fans across my neck. My eyes flutter closed at the sensation and my stomach whooshes. When his cool fingertips brush up my heated skin, goose bumps explode all over my body.
As he braids my hair, he runs through safety measures. “On turns, be sure to lean with the bike. And always keep your feet steady on the footrests.”
Once he’s finished braiding my hair, he steps around me and picks up a helmet.
Now facing me, he places it snugly on my head and when he adjusts the straps beneath my chin, his touch is both tender and deliberate.
For a moment, I swear he lets his fingers linger there, as if savoring this intimate moment.
The air around us has grown thicker, warmer, making it harder to breathe. Or maybe that’s just me.
With a hum, he takes a step back and puts his own helmet on. Then he straddles the bike with the utmost confidence.
Why is that so hot?
I’m far more hesitant as I swing one leg over the back of his bike, trying—and failing—to balance myself on this seat.
“Use me for leverage,” he says over his shoulder.
I can think about ten ways I could use you for leverage right now, Mr. Hart. Don’t tempt me with a good time.
With that thought top of mind, I place my hands on his shoulders and get settled.
“Arms around my waist.” The sudden quiet dominance in his tone makes my stomach clench.
Yes, sir.
I circle his waist and clasp my hands gently in front of him, fearing I’ll clutch him too hard.
“Harder, Josephine. I need you squeezing me harder.”
Heat pools in my belly at the command.
Dear. Fucking. God. Does he know what he’s saying?
I tighten my hold, but when that still isn’t good enough, he grasps my forearms and gently tugs me forward, only stopping when my arms are snug around his torso.
Our bodies are pressed so tightly together, the front of mine melding to the back of his, that we might as well be a single person.
He slides one hand under the sleeve of my jacket, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious since I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, though I have no doubt that I’m in excellent hands with Beckett.
“Are you still okay with this? If not, we can take my SUV. I’ll just need to unhook the motorcycle trailer.” His thumb is still moving in reassuring circles on my forearm, sending waves of comfort through me.
“Absolutely. Let’s go before we’re late.” I give him a playful squeeze.
His chuckle reverberates through me, and I’ve never felt as safe and secure as I do in this moment.
The next thing I know, the engine roars to life, the kickstand goes up, and the forest blurs around us.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up in front of Finn’s coffee shop.
When the engine goes silent, I use Beckett’s broad shoulders to support myself and dismount rather ungracefully. Once my boots hit the pavement, I begrudgingly remove my hands from him and undo my helmet.
On the way here, I realized that the end of this night can’t come soon enough. I’ve never been more excited to head home, knowing I’ll be pressed up against Beckett’s body for another twenty minutes.
Still sitting on the bike, he removes his helmet and rakes his fingers through his blond hair. Somehow, it looks even sexier when it’s all mussed and effortless like this.
The thought brings with it another. What about my own hair? Self-consciously, I touch the top of my head.
Beckett’s eyes soften. “Your hair looks beautiful, Joey. But if you want to let it loose, I don’t mind braiding it again before we leave. It won’t be too much.”
If it were possible, I’d melt into a puddle on this sidewalk. My limbs are weak, my skin tingles, and my heart pounds hard in my chest.
It won’t be too much.
Those words cause a swell of emotion to build in my throat.
Could it be? The too much girl suddenly isn’t too much for someone?
“Damn. This dude’s way cooler than me,” a man says behind me.
“Would you be quiet?” Charlie whisper-shouts to her boyfriend.
Turning around, I hold my arms out. My sister hates hugs more than anything. Sadly for her, I love giving them. So I pull Charlie into a tight embrace, squeezing her with a little dramatic flair.
She lets out a disapproving, pained groan. “I hate this. Stop it,” she says, her words muffled by my jacket.
“One day you’ll miss this.” I sigh as I release her. Both Beckett and Finn chuckle just as I let her go and take a step back.
Finn holds out a hand to Beckett. “Hey, man, good to see you again.”
With a surprisingly easy smile, Beckett accepts the gesture, shaking his hand. “Thanks for having me.”
“Let’s go inside and get this over with,” my sister groans. “The lineup tonight is not great.”
Inside Dark Side Brews, twinkle lights adorn wooden beams and tea light candles flicker on the tables, making the place feel cozy. Near the back of the shop, they’ve set up a small stage for the evening.
“Being a bit dramatic, aren’t we?” I joke.
Charlie shoves an open notebook into my hands, the page on top filled with a sample of tonight’s participants.
Guitar solo. Seen it before.
Poetry. Not surprising.
Stand-up comedy. Obvious.
Magic trick. Classic.
I continue scanning down the long list, though near the end, I have to tamp down the need to gasp.
Erotic short-story reading. What the actual fuck?
Eyes practically bulging out of my head, I turn to Finn and wave the notebook in the air between us. “Dude. Really?”
“Now you know why I need you here,” Charlie mutters.
“I don’t blame you one bit,” I murmur back out of the corner of my mouth.
Finn winces. “It’s a favor for Aunt Donna.”
“Hold on. What’s so bad?” Beckett asks.
Without looking at him, I shove the notebook in his direction.
“This isn’t that bad—what? Erotic short story?” Beckett eyes Charlie, then Finn.
I cover my mouth, trying to hold back my laugh but failing miserably.
“Finn, you know you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. Right?” Beckett quips.
Charlie snort laughs while Finn nods, clearly accepting his fate.
Did Beckett just make a joke?
My heart soars. If he can joke like this, then maybe he won’t be uncomfortable tonight. Social anxiety can be debilitating, so this feels like a great achievement.
Vera and Frank approach, paws skittering on the wooden floor, the two of them plowing into Beckett’s kneecaps.
His eyes light up with insurmountable joy as both dogs wiggle around his legs. Crouching, he scratches the overly friendly dogs who are squeaking with happiness at the attention.
Beckett would be the kind of guy who hangs out with the dogs at a social gathering. The quality is undeniably charming. The dogs clearly sense what I already know. This man has a kind, gentle soul.