“Look what Miss Lacey brought me!” Summer said, waving the book at him.
Beckett walked up behind the couch and took the book from Summer. He examined the cover, which featured two sword-wielding cats in leather regalia.
“How is it so far?”
“I’m only twenty pages in.” She grabbed the book and resumed reading. One flip of the page and Summer was back in the world of cat warriors—adults forgotten.
Beckett’s gaze met mine, and we exchanged a smile over Summer’s head. My stomach did a few cartwheels at the sight of his dimple winking.
“Hello, Lacey,” he said.
A shiver rolled through me. “Hello, Beckett.”
He walked into the kitchen, and I tried not to drool as he peeled off his suit jacket. He draped the jacket over a stool and loosened his tie. A shadow of beard clung to his jaw, and his eyes looked tired.
I wondered where he’d been the last few days. The house had felt so empty while he’d been gone.
“Where’s your mom?” he asked Summer.
She ignored him, her eyes moving rapidly over the page.
“She’s working late,” I said. “I guess I can go now that you’re here.” Turning down the corner of the page I hadn’t been reading, I set the book aside and reached for my boots.
Beckett came up behind me as I bent over the laces. “What are you reading?” he asked.
His voice sent a thrill down my spine. I turned and saw him looming close. Without waiting for permission, Beckett reached down and picked up my book.
“How is it?” His eyebrow quirked above the rectangular frames of his glasses. “Any good?”
I bent over my boots, letting my hair fall in front of my face to conceal my surprised expression. I’d expected a snide comment about my choice of reading material, or at least a jab at the cover model. Most people had no qualms in expressing their opinions about the inferiority of the romance genre, but Beckett seemed genuinely interested. When I finished lacing my boots, I peeked over my shoulder at him. He’d propped one hip on the back of the sofa and was reading a page from somewhere in the middle.
“It’s not pulling me in like her books usually do,” I confessed. Although I wasn’t sure Miranda Lockhart was at fault. More likely my obsession with the man holding my book was to blame.
Beckett turned the book over to scan the blurb. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
I watched his eyes drop down to the stunning photograph of the author.
“The hero,” I told him.
Beckett’s eyes flashed up at me, and he smiled warily. “The man’s fault, is it? What’s wrong with him?”
I grabbed my bag and hoisted it onto my shoulder. “He’s too cocky.”
Beckett grinned, making both dimples pop. “Powerful boss man with daddy issues who thinks every woman wants to go to bed with him?”
I nodded, heart thumping as our eyes collided. He seemed to know a thing or two about cocky heroes.
“What else?”
“I don’t know,” I said, unsure if he was teasing me.
Beckett pushed his glasses up on his nose and stood from the sofa. “I looked up your reviews on the website,” he said, walking into the kitchen. “I got the impression you have plenty to say.”
My cheeks heated at the thought of Beckett stalking me online. “You honestly care what I think about romance novels?” I asked.
He turned to face me. “I like to talk books,” he said. “It relaxes me.”
His confession had the opposite effect on me. I’d never been more turned on in my life. A hot guy wanted to discuss books? Sign me up for the conversation.
