“Stay for a glass of wine and some book talk?” he asked.
It was the most appealing invitation I’d had in years, and I didn’t even like wine. “Okay.”
Beckett carried my book with him to the kitchen and set it down on the counter. “Red or white?”
“Either.” I didn’t care for wine, so both choices were equally unappetizing.
I took a seat at the counter while Beckett went into the pantry. I only had a moment to get my reaction to him under control, and I feared it wasn’t nearly enough time. A year might not be enough time, and no one’s pantry was that big.
I hadn’t been this attracted to a man in ages. Maybe never. I’d thought my longing for him was purely physical, but now I wasn’t so sure. My attraction to him was magnetic. Mind, body, and soul. My heartbreak over Julian was a long time ago and absolutely forgotten when Beckett was around.
When he sauntered back into the kitchen looking sexier than Clark Kent and Heathcliff rolled into one, my heart skipped more than a beat. He was so gorgeous, there was no way I could ignore my physical reaction to him. My chest tightened, my skin felt taut, and every nerve stood on end.
Beckett poured, standing close enough for me to get a whiff of Old Spice and everything nice. When he sat down next to me, his pants inched up at the hem to show navy-blue socks printed with tiny Union Jack flags.
I smothered a laugh. “What’s up with the socks?”
Beckett reached for his glass. “What about them?”
“Is that how you express yourself? Zany socks?”
“It’s one of the ways.” His voice was low, flirtatiously promising more. “To romance,” he said, lifting his glass.
I frowned and tapped my glass to his. “To books."
Beckett’s lips tipped up in a half smile before they opened and closed around the rim of the glass. There was something wicked in that little smile, and my temperature spiked in response. Was everything this man did sexy? Heat filled my cheeks as I brought the glass to my lips, fully expecting to find the wine horrible. To my surprise, the cool, crisp liquid slid over my tongue like liquid gold with a hint of vanilla.
“This is good.”
Beckett nodded. “It’s one of my favorite vintages.”
I took another sip and savored the pop of flavor on my tongue. “I don’t even like wine.”
Beckett put his glass down and started to get up. “I’ll get you something else.”
I put my hand on his sleeve, right above the silver watch on his wrist that probably cost more than my car. Touching him made my heart beat wildly. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “It’s okay.”
Beckett slid back onto the stool beside me. Capturing my hand in his, he slid his thumb along the inside of my wrist where swirling lines of ink gathered. Fire blazed through me at his touch. My heart banged in my chest, warning me.
“I thought we were going to talk books,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, sweeping his thumb over my erratic pulse. “What do you want to talk about?”
I tugged my hand from his grasp, unable to think when he was touching me. Reaching for the book, I pretended to study the description while my heart recovered from Beckett’s touch.
“This book almost seems like she’s going through the motions,” I said.
Beckett slid forward on his stool, moving closer to me to look at the book. “You think the author has given up?”
Mesmerized by the fullness of his lower lip, I watched his mouth move as he spoke. His words weren’t heavily accented, but their pace was undeniably Southern. Everything moved slower in the South, including Beckett’s drawl.
“Maybe,” I said. “This book just isn’t grabbing me.” Our eyes met, and I hoped he couldn’t guess the real reason I couldn’t escape into the book: him.
“Give it a little more time,” he suggested. “I’m sure they will be forced into spending a month in Europe together any page now. With a little wining and dining they will be right on track for a happy ending.”
I tensed and then realized he was teasing me about the predictability of romance novels. “I thought you were a romantic,” I said.
“I am.” He reached for his wine and sipped slowly. “I could show you,” he suggested. “Go on a date with me.”
