Chapter 27 – Rosie
ROSIE
Mr. Stone feeds us a simple but yummy dinner of rice with chicken, broccoli, and an herb dressing and is nice enough to offer me his bedroom.
He says he’ll share the pull-out sofa with Beck in the living room.
But I tell him that’s not happening. First, I’m not about to kick a grown man out of his own bed.
And second, I’m not going to sleep in a random man’s bed.
Besides, he’s a bachelor; who knows when the last time was that he washed his sheets.
We change into dry clothes. I hate that Beck doesn’t look bad dressed in his dad’s gray sweats and T-shirt while I feel like I’m drowning for the second time today, wearing an oversized shirt and plaid boxer shorts I’ve had to fold over a few times so they don’t fall off.
Beck’s dad tells us good night and slips into his bedroom, leaving Beck and me alone.
“Forget the pull-out, we can each just take a sofa,” I suggest, pointing at the two that are placed in an L-shape in Mr. Stone’s living room.
“You’re joking, right?” Beck deadpans.
“Well, I’m sure as hell not sharing the pull-out with you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I wasn’t suggesting it, but it makes more sense than the two of us scrunched up on the sofas. I mean, you might be fine, but not all of us are five foot nothing,” he grumbles. “I’ve got long legs.”
As if I need a reminder about how long his legs are.
Like I don’t have memories of those very legs wrapped around me like a human pretzel after hours of making love in the bed we shared.
Those memories practically haunt me every time I close my eyes and allow my mind to wander back to the years we were happily married.
I start grabbing the throw pillows and tossing them onto the coffee table. “I’m five five. How do you not remember that?” I mutter.
“That’s what you want to argue about here. Not the fact that we’re two grown adults who should be mature enough to sleep in the same bed, but instead we’re going to sleep on these cramped sofas?”
“Oh, I’m mature enough. But the question is, are you?”
“Do you not trust me? Is that it?”
“Can I?” I raise my brows at him.
“You don’t think I can possibly keep my hands off you? Gah, you’re so full of yourself.” He chucks a pillow at me, and it hits me in the chest. “The way you get under my skin and piss me off, you have nothing to worry about. But I don’t think that is what you’re worried about.”
I throw the pillow back at him, but it hits the floor instead with an unsatisfying thud. “What are you talking about?” I shove my hands on my hips.
He grabs one of the back cushions of the sofa and takes a step closer. I suck in a breath. “I think you’re worried that I won’t touch you,” he challenges, his eyes not wavering.
My chin wobbles. “What? Why would I want you to touch me?”
“Because. I think you remember just how good it felt. And you’re craving it again.”
I wave him off despite the humming between my thighs. “You’re delusional.”
“Guess what, honey?”
I glare harder and step closer to him. “What?”
“I think you’ve forgotten, I know you. I know what you’re thinking. I know what you’re feeling.” He closes the gap between us and I swallow, my gaze running over his face and paying close attention to the dark, animalistic look in his eyes. “You’re my wife.”
With that, my shoulders give in, and I lose the fight in me. He’s right. He knows everything about me. Despite how much I think I’ve changed during the years we’ve been apart, I’m still me.
But I can’t give in. Not to him. And not to the yearning that’s stirring in my depths.
Because we will always be Rosie and Beck. Incompatible.
“I’m tired.” I avert my gaze and move to the stack of blankets and pillows Mr. Stone left on the coffee table and snatch one of each, dragging them with me to the smaller sofa.
“Yeah? I’m tired too,” he grits out, tossing a pillow onto the longer sofa and flopping himself onto it.
As I curl into a ball and try to get comfortable, fluffing the pillow and pulling the blanket up to my neck despite not being cold, Beck stretches out on the other sofa. Without covering himself with a blanket, he interlocks his fingers behind his head and crosses his ankles.
I wait several long minutes before I even move, keeping my eyelids pinched tight.
The sound of his breathing is loud and raspy, like he’s not calm at all.
And I feel the same way. Besides the warmth in the room and the emotions from the day, the tension buzzes in the space between us, keeping me wide awake.
It’s too bright in the small apartment. The bar’s parking lot lights shine through the sheer curtains. And it’s loud. The booming from the bar still full of life below us reverberates off the floor. It’s tempting to sneak down there for a drink in hopes it will calm me enough to be able to sleep.
I can’t help but watch him from the corner of my eye.
The way he lies there, so nonchalant like he doesn’t have a care in the world, grates underneath my skin.
His eyes are closed, so I give myself the freedom to catalog his features.
His facial hair is shorter than when I was here last week.
My thoughts take a detour, imagining how incredible the roughness would feel against my skin. Between my thighs.
The brown Willie Nelson concert T-shirt he borrowed from his dad stretches across the muscles of his chest as it rises and falls.
My mouth waters as I remember back to his shimmering wet pecs and abs while he sat shirtless in his truck earlier today.
As I lower my gaze to the gray sweatpants, the bulge in the front sends a hum tightening in my core.
“Get a good look?” His voice echoes out into the space between us.
My eyes snap up to his. “Wh-what?”
His lips curl with amusement and indignation rises in my stomach. “I’ve never minded you looking.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter as I roll onto my back, my heartbeat picking up speed.
The chuckle he releases is cocky and laced with satisfaction. “I actually loved it when your eyes were on me.”
“Just stop.” Flames lick at my cheeks.
“You’re still cute when you’re all flustered and turned on.”
“What?” My head flies up and I prop it in my hand. “I’m not turned on.”
He mimics my posture, his eyes darkening from across the room. “It’s okay, honey, your secret is safe with me.”
“I’m annoyed, that’s what I am.” I glare at him.
“Annoyed…and horny.”
“Uggggh.” A groan drags out of me and I fling my head back down on the pillow.
He cackles again and the sound pulses through me, waking up parts of me I pushed away so long ago. Places only Beck could reach. And satisfy. Dampness pools between my thighs and my breathing becomes shallow.
It’s quiet again between us. The time ticks by in my head slowly. The heat surrounding the room dissipates. But I still can’t sleep. No matter how long I lie here with my eyes closed.
After what feels like forever, the rumbling in the floor settles.
“I could really go for a drink,” I whisper, not even sure if Beck is still awake.
“You’re in luck,” he replies quietly. “It just so happens there’s a fully stocked bar downstairs.”
“There’s no way I’m going to a bar dressed in your dad’s underwear and an old Wranglers T-shirt.”
He breathes out a light laugh. “They should be closed by now. There’s a noise restriction law on the island. All bars have to shut by one a.m.”
“I remember that.”
There’s rustling across the room, and I turn to glance his way. He’s already sitting up with his feet on the floor. “C’mon, let’s go get that drink.” He stands and gestures with his chin for me to follow.
I hop up and pad after him, trying to be light on my feet so as not to wake Mr. Stone. Though I’d be surprised if our arguing hasn’t already woken him up.
“This doesn’t mean things between us are good,” I warn.
“Yeah, yeah. I guess we can call a truce while we get that drink. Deal?” he says over his shoulder, a fiery look in his eyes and a mischievous grin on his lips as he leads the way down the stairs.
“Fine. Deal.” But deep down, I know this is a very bad idea.
Beck closes the door at the bottom of the stairs behind us, and I follow him down a hall. There’s restrooms and a storage room off the hallway before opening into the restaurant. Beck flips on a few lights.
The bar is much as you’d expect it to be in a small island town in California.
Wood-paneled walls with posters and a neon sign.
Pool tables, dart boards, and tables pushed to one side with chairs flipped upside down and resting on them.
An L-shaped bar fills an entire corner and practically one side of the restaurant.
Behind it, a variety of alcohol bottles line the shelves. Beck rounds the bar and reaches for two glasses, setting them on the countertop. He takes a few ice cubes from the machine and drops them into the glasses with a clink.
I prop my elbows on the countertop, watching him with interest. As he turns around to peruse the bottles, my gaze betrays me as it glides across his wide back and down to his backside in the grey sweats.
He spins around and I’m too slow to tear my eyes away from the view of the peak in the crotch of his sweats. Caught again. Damn. He snorts a laugh, but I don’t let him get the upper hand. I can’t.
“Were you gonna ask me what I wanted to drink or is this another thing you just assume about me?”
“Whiskey,” he says as he holds up a bottle.
He might’ve known me at one point. But he doesn’t now
I hold my chin up higher. “I don’t drink whiskey. Not anymore.”
“Oh, c’mon, you’re kidding.”
“Nope. I don’t drink much at all.”
“Not even whiskey? You used to love it. Especially Jack.” He twists the bottle open with a little quirk in one brow.
“Yeah, well, I have a kid to take care of. Clients. A fiancé.”
“Besides the kid, I don’t see how the other things are relevant.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” I mutter.