Chapter 6
Ellery
Standingat the bar, I feel the burn of Beckham’s gaze on the back of my neck. Have felt it ever since I walked away from him and his friend. Somehow, I’ve managed to keep from looking his way.
I have no desire to see his pity.
I do have some pride.
One week. Seven measly days since I came home, and I have already fallen into old patterns. Back when my young, na?ve self believed in true love and happy endings. Back when I pined after someone who never really saw me.
Not as an adult.
Not as his equal.
Not as someone worthy of his time.
And, if tonight is any indication, nothing has changed.
That charged moment between us the other morning was a fluke. Other than tonight’s chance encounter, I have barely seen Beckham. He has been avoiding me. Or, maybe I have been avoiding him.
Doesn’t matter. I will be moving out of Simon’s place in a few days, renting an apartment closer to the McAllister estate with my best friend and business partner. Once I’m living away from the farmhouse, Beckham will go back to being what he has been for years: the unattainable, untouchable friend of my older brother.
My life is a full one. I have Simon. My close circle of friends. I don’t need Beckham James.
Even so, part of me still wants him.
The thought sours my already tepid mood. A mood that sinks further when the bartender working tonight keeps passing over me to serve everyone else. Like I am invisible. Despite the way I keep leaning over the bar, waving my hand in the air like a lunatic.
When yet another random person is given a drink that should have been mine, I bite back a screech of annoyance.
This is stupid.
Iam stupid.
Stupid for feeling hurt that Beckham sees me as nothing more than Simon’s little sister. Stupid for believing he will ever see me as anything more. Stupid for wanting him, despite it all.
He is not worth any more of my time and energy.
If only my heart would get the memo.
With a sigh, I try one last time to get the bartender’s attention, but now he is too busy smirking at a girl to my left. The one currently leaning against the bar so far that her breasts have all but spilled out over her minuscule top. His gaze never wanders from her cleavage. Not once. Yet she still manages to get her order.
At this rate, I am never going to get my drink. Worse, I’m starting to feel trapped and claustrophobic.
“Men are such pigs,” I mutter, pulling away from the thick crowd.
“True. Though I like to think that some of us are a little better behaved.” Beckham’s low voice tickles my ear. With a gasp, I whirl around to face him. He is wearing a smile, but a subdued one. He looks a bit unsure. Apologetic, even, when he says, “Hey, shortcake.”
“Beckham.”
His eyes roam over my face. “Everything okay?”
Oh, sure. Perfect. Just throwing myself a pity party.
Out loud, I say, “Peachy.”
He rubs the back of his neck. Then, after a pregnant pause, he drops his hand and sighs. ”Look. I wanted to apologize for what I said before. You’re so much more than just Simon’s little sister.”
“Gee. So nice of you to finally notice.”
It may be petty, but I’m not ready to let him off the hook. My arms cross over my chest. Beckham’s attention snags on the movement. He glances down for a beat before his eyes darken, and then slowly he raises them back up to meet mine.
“Oh, shortcake,” he admits, his voice low. “I’ve always noticed.”
My breath catches. Then I scowl. “Stop calling me that.”
“What?”
“Shortcake.”
“You used to love that nickname.” His lips curve up. He leans down until his face is level with mine, one eyebrow lifting in a challenge. He tilts his face even closer. “I think you still do. Shortcake.”
My body seems to have a mind of its own whenever he is around, shivering at the molten honey dripping from his voice. I want to argue that he is wrong, but it would be a lie. I do love that nickname—or, I did. So much.
Beckham is the only one who calls me that, now and ever. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.
How much I missed him.
Not that I would ever admit it out loud.
“Cocky as ever,” I scoff.
“No, just confident.”
Confident. Understatement of the year. The man in front of me is downright sinful. Rugged black boots and dark denim jeans hug his toned legs. His charcoal gray shirt has the top couple of buttons undone, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of his tanned chest. Tattoos peek out from under his rolled-up sleeves and, not for the first time, I wonder what he looks like under those clothes.
What his skin would feel like pressed against mine.
Not a good idea, Ellery…
I shouldn’t let my thoughts wander in that direction. Beckham is dangerous enough without knowing how much he affects me. I don’t want to give him any more power.
Not when his proximity already has every inch of my body buzzing. Not when there are a million tiny invisible strings tethering me to him, pulled taut from trying—and failing—to maintain a safe distance.
But as his grin turns predatory, I realize my mistake.
He knows.
Of course, he knows.
And, like a true soldier, he will use my weakness to his advantage.
When he starts to advance, my senses go on high alert. He moves like a hunter trapping his prey, forcing me to step back in self-preservation. One step. Two. I match his movements in a primal dance, retreating until I end up with my back against a wall. There is nowhere for me to escape.
His body crowds against mine. The intricate designs of his tattoos shift and move when he braces a forearm above my head. He is so close that I feel the warmth radiating off of him, so close that every inhale carries the crisp scent of his cologne.
I have no way of masking my body’s reaction to Beckham, and it would be pointless to try. He has always been able to read me like a book. My breathing starts to pick up. He bites his lips, hypnotized by the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
A moment later, his gaze flits back up to mine. “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”
My voice comes out in a whisper. “W-why do you want to know?”
“Call me curious.”
“You know what they say about curiosity.”
He ignores my jab. “Come on. Tell me what has your heart racing so fast.”
You.
“N-nothing.”
“Hmm.” He reaches up with one finger and lightly traces the bridge of my nose. “Did you know that your nose crinkles when you tell a lie? Your cheeks turn this adorable shade of red, too.”
Nope, I didn’t know that. The knowledge raises my hackles, and I bite back. “Did you know that you’re a stubborn ass?”
My words startle Beckham. He throws his head back in a throaty laugh. The sound vibrates deep in my chest, causing a pleasant shiver to race down my spine.
“So I’ve been told.”
Bit by bit, his amused expression falls away to reveal the genuine desire he has to know my thoughts. Damn him. Whatever game he is playing, I already know I’m going to lose. My resolve has started to waver and is moments from breaking completely.
“Do you really want to know?” I ask. The question is no more than a whisper.
He hears me, anyway. “Yes. I really want to know. Will you tell me?”
“I was—am—thinking of you.” My eyes flutter closed as embarrassment floods my face. “Thinking about how much I wanted you to kiss me that day in Simon’s kitchen.”
His surprise at my words is so thick, it’s almost tangible. My gaze flits to his lips, parted in surprise, and then down to the floor. But Beckham is having none of that. He lightly grips my chin with his fingers, lifting. I have no way to hide what I’m feeling. He can see it on my face, and behind my eyes.
Somehow, knowing that gives me just enough courage to continue. “Thinking about how much I want you to kiss me here, now.”
“Dammit.” He hangs his head. His hand drifts from my chin down to the curve of my neck. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not? You asked.” I shrug helplessly. “And it’s the truth, even if you don’t feel the same.”
“Don’t feel…” He chuckles. When he lifts his head again, his eyes have darkened with want. His voice turns husky when he says, “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“What do I do to you?” There is a slight hitch in my voice. He makes no move to answer, so I lift my hands to his open collar, using it to tug his head down to my level. “Show me.”
He shakes his head at my demand.
“Why not?”
“Because, once I start, I may not be able to stop.”
Despite his words, his body moves in even closer, causing a delicious pressure everywhere we touch. He runs his nose along the curve of my jaw. One hand tightens behind my neck just before he tilts my head for better access. I close my eyes and lean in. His breath skirts over my parted mouth. Then, just as our lips are about to touch, he pulls away like I burned him.
His retreat is so fast that it takes several seconds for my brain to catch on, and for the world to crash back into focus around me.
Music.
Lively chatter.
Stifling air.
Hurt and confusion fight for dominance in my chest. Hurt wins. I cross my arms over my chest like a shield. Beckham is standing several steps back, breathing heavily and more than a little disheveled. I glare up at him. He at least has the good sense to look sheepish.
Not that it does anything to lessen the sting of his rejection.
“What do you want from me, Beckham?” I ask. “Because, honestly, I’m not a fan of being jerked around.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” His expression is filled with regret, but his next words are a warning. “You know me, Elle, better than most. I don’t do relationships. Never have.”
“Christ, Beck, it’s just a kiss,” I argue. “No one said anything about a relationship.”
“You’re wrong. It could never be ‘just a kiss’ with you.” The surprise that flits across his face tells me Beckham revealed more than he meant to.
We stand there for another few breaths, waiting for the other to make a move. Finally, Beckham sighs and breaks the spell. He gets the bartender’s attention—far more easily than I did—with a hand in the air. I’m not all that thirsty anymore, more tired than anything. Still, his actions are an apology, of sorts, so it would be cruel to turn it down. Even if that hurt, embarrassed part of me wants to.
Once the drink is in my hands, Beckham tucks a stray curl back behind my ear. Even in such a small way, some invisible force is pulling us toward each other. His hand lingers, fingers caressing my hair for a moment. Then he lets the limb fall uselessly back to his side.
His face is an unreadable mask. Behind it, I can practically see the walls I weakened being reinforced. He is putting distance between us, both mentally and physically, and I can do nothing but watch it happen.
“See you around, shortcake.” The way he says it, with such finality, I know that won’t be happening.
Not if he can help it.