Beckett shoved his glasses into his hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No one knows.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t understand.”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
The skin around his eyes was tight, and he clutched my fingers. I felt the panic pouring off him.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
His shoulders relaxed an inch. “Thank you.” His tight grip on my hand loosened, and he turned to face me. “I thought you’d sleep until morning.”
“You thought you could sneak up here and get some writing done?”
Beckett nodded.
“How do you find the time?”
He checked his watch and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t sleep.”
“I want to know more,” I said. “How many books have you written? Is that a thriller? Can I read it?”
Beckett laughed. “Slow down.”
“I’m dying of curiosity.”
“I can see that.” His eyes dropped to my chest. “Nice sweatshirt.”
“You said make yourself at home.”
“And I meant it.” His eyes grew more serious. “I’m glad you did.” His eyes darted between mine. “Thank you.”
My eyebrows rose. “For what?”
“I was in a funk,” he said. “Unable to write anything at all. My last book was shit. The one before that not much better. But since the moment I saw you standing up on that ladder…” He shook his head, searching for the words.
My throat went dry as I waited for Beckett to finish. His eyes burned into mine, and his hand slid up my arm to my shoulder. The air between us pulsed with energy.
“You inspired me.” His eyes bored into mine. “You’re my muse.”
Goose bumps broke out over my skin. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s the truth.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I blurted.
Beckett’s soft laugh ruffled the air. “It sounds like I’m a disease you caught.”
“Maybe you are.” I smiled up at him.
“Hmm. Maybe we’ve infected each other, because I can’t stop thinking about you either.”
I lifted up on my toes, wanting to feel the soft puff of his breath on my skin. He cupped his hand around my neck, urging me closer.
“Are you ready to admit you want to date me?” His mouth lowered an inch. Closer. So close.
I hadn’t thought it was possible to want Beckett any more than I already did. But finding out he was an author who created stories—whether they were terrible or fucking great—made me want him even more. I craved Beckett like the sequel to my favorite novel. He was better than any book boyfriend I’d ever read about. Too good to be true, but I didn’t care.
I linked my arms around his neck and pressed my mouth to his.
