Chapter 4
Ellery
Therewas a time when I could talk to Beckham about almost everything. The three of us—Simon, Beckham, and I—were thick as thieves as children. As we got older, the age differences caused rifts in our relationships. Being the same age, and attending the same classes, Simon and Beckham continued to be as close as brothers. But I was six years their junior. More often than not I got left behind.
By the time I graduated high school, Beckham was a full-fledged Navy Seal, off traveling the world. He didn’t have time for me after that.
Now here he is, larger than life, standing in Simon’s kitchen. Watching me with that quiet, searching gaze of his while I fumble for something to fill the awkward silence.
Our conversation plays like a film reel in my mind, replaying each word. Each interaction. Then—finally—my mind snags on something he said.
“You’re building a house?” I ask. “Impressive.”
“Thanks.” Beckham runs a hand along the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically bashful. “It was past time to put down some roots. And I like creating something out of nothing.”
His flustered expression is rather endearing. When he lifts his mug to his lips, I smile, unable to resist messing with him a bit. “Well, I’m not surprised. You always were good with your hands.”
Beckham chokes and sputters.
“Cute,” he says. “Real cute.”
“Don’t you forget it.”
“Like you would ever let me.”
His voice is gruff, but he is smiling. When he turns away to clean his empty mug in the sink, I hop up onto the counter. My gaze is drawn to him like a magnet so I take the opportunity to look him over. He stands even taller than I remember. He is broader, too. His dark hair is shorter than when we were kids—courtesy of his time in the Navy, no doubt—but with thick waves that are slightly longer on top.
Time has been good to Beckham. He is still, hands down, the most devastatingly gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on. Growing up, he used to have this boyish charm about him. There is nothing boyish about the man I am staring at now. Not a bit. He is all hard lines, rugged manliness, and raw sex appeal.
An artist’s dream subject.
For this artist, at least…
My fingers itch to sketch him. Capture in paint the way his biceps shift with each motion, or how his black t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, or the tight curve of his ass molded by faded denim.
Maybe, if I ask nicely, he would strip down and model for me sometime.
Beckham shuts off the faucet and jolts me out of my daydream. No way he missed me blatantly ogling him. His eyebrow is raised in question, his lips quirked at the corners.
Then he surprises me by doing the same. Slowly. Eyes tracing me head to toe and back again. My skin burns everywhere his gaze touches.
“You look good, shortcake,” he says.
“I, uh—you, too. Look like that. Good, I mean.”
Real eloquent, Ellery.
Beckham does not attempt to hide his amusement—or the surprise on his face when his attention snags on what I am wearing. The well-worn football jersey should be a familiar one. He and Simon both played in high school. But his eyes trace the faded lettering as though he has never seen it before.
“Ellery…” His voice is low. Teasing. “Are you wearing my old jersey?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Of all the shirts to grab, it had to be that one. I had forgotten all about it. My gaze snaps back down to the gigantic number emblazoned across my chest and torso and I want to groan in frustration.
His number.
Not Simon’s.
When I look back up, Beckham has a smirk on his face—a masculine, satisfied, knowing little smirk that has me crossing my arms and glaring in return.
“It was the one you lost,” I argue, my tone defensive. I try to retreat to a safe distance but am halted when my back bumps against the center island. “Remember, your senior year? I found it after you had already gotten a replacement and, well, figured you didn’t need two…”
My admission only makes him grin wider.
“Sure you didn’t steal it?”
“What?” I gasp. “No!”
“Hmm. Not sure I believe you.”
His tone is light and flippant, but his expression—hooded eyes, hungry gaze—threatens to melt my insides with its heat. He takes a step closer. Then another. Soon, he is near enough that I feel the warmth radiating from his body. His scent is intoxicating, like a fresh sea breeze that mixes with the salty, spicy warmth of his skin.
“Have to admit,” he murmurs, “I kind of like seeing you in my clothes.”
My breath catches at his words.
Years. For so many years I have dreamed of Beckham James looking at me in exactly this way—like our pasts have been stripped away.
Like he finally sees me.
I have no idea what to do with that realization.
Beckham stands several inches higher than me, so his mustard yellow jersey dwarfs my small frame. His fingers reach out, lightly sweeping a path from the collar—where it slipped down to bare my left shoulder—down the middle of my chest. My pulse quickens at the touch. He stares at the fabric and tracks the way it catches along my curves. I lick my lips. The motion draws his gaze up to my mouth.
And then I see it.
Attraction. Want. His eyes burn with it, liquid fire that threatens to set me ablaze. I am heady with the knowledge that this pull I feel is no longer one-sided. It gives me a sudden burst of courage. Reaching up, I give in to the temptation to run my fingers through his hair.
His eyes close while I smooth some loose locks back from his forehead. But the rest of his body is still. Too still. I start to worry that my impulsive decision crossed a line.
Have I misread things?
It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Or the last.
I awkwardly start to pull my hand away. His eyes snap open. He grabs it with his own. His grip on me is gentle but firm, keeping me locked in place. His thumb absently starts to trace little patterns on the sensitive skin of my wrist. I release a shaky breath of relief.
We are locked in place as time grinds to a halt. Trapped in some sort of magnetic field that pulls us closer and closer together until our lips are almost touching.
I can see my name form on his tongue.
Smell the coffee on his breath.
Feel his heartbeat against my chest.
Hear the front door slam open.
“I’m home!”
We both jump back at the sound of Simon’s booming voice. It carries through the house, quickly followed by his heavy footsteps. They grow louder as he nears the kitchen.
“Ellery?”
Spell broken, Beckham steps back several paces. He clears his throat before turning toward the kitchen entrance. I take a beat longer to come back into myself. When I do, I slide back to the floor in a daze just as Simon appears, wearing his police uniform.
“Oh. Morning, Beck.” He claps his best friend on the back.
“Morning,” Beckham replies. “Stuck working the night shift?”
“Yep. Lucky me.”
Quickly turning away from both men, I start to fiddle with some dishes drying on the rack. I pick up one or two, running a towel over them just to have something to do with my hands. My heart is racing. It takes several deep, quiet breaths for it to calm. The whole time I am listening to Simon and Beckham chat in the background while waiting for the tell-tale flush on my skin to recede.
“I see you two are getting reacquainted,” Simon says. The refrigerator door opens and closes. “Soon it will be just like old times. The Three Musketeers. Back in action. Right, Elle?”
There is a beat of silence. Then two.
Wake up, brain! Answer him.
“Er, yeah. Just like old times…” I carefully set down the knife I am holding. Then, plastering a smile on my face, I turn around and look at both men.
Beckham watches me, utterly unfazed.
Simon, holding a plate of food, wears a blissfully ignorant grin on his face.
And I am left tangled up in knots. Trying to decide if Beckham would have kissed me. Wondering if he will try again.
Part of me wants him to.
Part of me wants him to stay far, far away.
Because I’m weak where Beckham James is concerned, and I’ve been hurt by him before.