“Traitor.”
Beckett didn’t turn around. I guessed he had the volume turned all the way up on the headphones. He couldn’t hear me over the noise.
A gust of cold air blew through the room, and I was glad I’d found a sweatshirt. A window was open somewhere, and the blast of air rustled papers and blew wrappers across the floor. The smell of cigar smoke permeated the air.
Beckett paused in his steady typing to take a few puffs of his cigar and blow smoke above his head. His fingers tapped his leg in time to the beat of the song and then returned to the keyboard.
As I watched him type at a pace a notch below frantic, I remembered Pressly’s warning. She’d told me to steer clear of her brother while he was working. He was intense. He was a genius.
I did not understand what Beckett did for his family’s company, but whatever role he played, it was a vital one.
I could sense the tension radiating off his hunched shoulders from the doorway. I crept into the room, watching him with fascination. His body vibrated with tension. His fingers flew over the keyboard. His passion filled the air, pulsing all the way across the room.
Was he firing someone in a different time zone? Orchestrating a takeover of a rival company? I was dying to know what he was doing. I stepped closer, not stopping until I stood directly behind Beckett. I didn’t mean to read the words on his computer screen, but after scanning the first sentence, I couldn’t stop.
She sank the knife into his chest. The hilt stopped at the barrier of his skin. Blood gushed over her hand, warm and tingling. His essence…
My heart beat faster with each word I read. This was no business correspondence; this was prose. Beckett wasn’t writing a letter or an email. He was writing…
The screen slammed shut, the sharp noise echoing through the silent room. Beckett ripped off his headphones. The driving bass of rock music poured out of them.
A blast of wind ripped through the room, and I shivered. Beckett burst from the chair, stalked to the wall of windows, and slammed one shut. His profile was rigid, the blade of his nose unforgiving. “Your hair is soaked. You’ll catch a cold.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. “What were you typing?”
“Nothing.” Beckett’s eyes dropped over me. “You look better. How do you feel?”
I darted a glance at the laptop on his desk. “What are you writing?”
Beckett winced. “It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing. It looked like a story. Or a novel.”
“Lacey.” He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Really. Forget about it.”
I scanned the room, noting the piles of papers, the stacks of reference books, and the pictures pinned to the cork boards on the walls. My jaw dropped. This was a writer’s office. “Is that what you’ve been doing up here?” I glanced toward the gym. “I thought you were just working out.”
Beckett turned to look out the window. A flush spread over his neck, and his shoulders tensed. The sound of his shallow breathing filled the air.
I crossed the room to stand next to him. Beckett stared out at the magnificent view of the Blue Ridge Mountains bathed in moonlight. But I don’t think he saw a thing. I reached for his hand. He let me weave our fingers together. I squeezed his hand, and his eyes flashed to mine.
“You’re writing a novel.”
Beckett’s shoulders slumped as he let out a breath. “Yes.”
My heart leaped. “That’s wonderful. What’s it about?”
Beckett’s mouth tightened. His fingers squeezed mine. “You don’t understand.” He sounded like he’d swallowed a cup of tacks.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m sure you’re worried that it isn’t any good. I’ll bet every author thinks the same thing.”
“I’m not worried it isn’t good. It’s good. It’s fucking great. Dark and gritty, which is different. But great. I’ve written shitty novels before, and this isn’t one of them.”
My jaw dropped. “You’ve written shitty novels before?”
His lip twitched. “I’ve written some good ones too.”
“But…” I glanced around at the office, more curious than ever. “Where are your books? Why didn’t I know?”
