I’d forgotten there was a question. All I could think about was feeling the sandpaper scruff of his beard on my cheeks and the hard muscles flexing under my touch.
Yes. The answer was yes.
I would not say no to more of this man. To more of his mouth, his tongue, his hands, his words…
The thought of reading Beckett’s words had me tossing away my excuses like cargo off a sinking ship. The bricks I’d so carefully laid to protect myself crumbled. I watched them fall as if from very far away. It wasn’t safe here in Beckett’s arms. I’d get crushed. But all I wanted was to get closer.
Beckett gripped my shoulders. “Saturday night? Are you free?”
My brows knitted. “What day is it?”
“Sunday.”
“I have to walk the rescue dogs on Sunday.”
His smile curved. “It’s four in the morning.” He backed up, pulling me with him until my feet rested on the ground. “Will you go out with me or not?”
I tilted my head back to look up at him. In my bare feet, he towered over me. “I’ll think about it.”
“Lacey.” His voice was a frustrated growl. “Why won’t you take a chance on me? It’s been obvious since the moment we saw each other, there’s something between us.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t even remember me when we first met.”
“If I had seen you, I guarantee I wouldn’t have forgotten you.”
I swallowed hard, unable to look away from Beckett’s intense gaze. I still felt woozy, and my head hurt like hell.
He pushed his glasses up onto his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know my timing sucks,” he said. “Forgive me for pushing.”
I imagined him bent over his laptop, churning out stories, and my pulse raced. “I’ll go out with you,” I said. “On one condition.”
He replaced his glasses and peered down at me. “Name it.”
“I want to read your book.”
Beckett blew out a long breath. His hands dropped to my shoulders. “I don’t think you understand. My writing is private. I don’t talk about it. With anyone.”
I stepped away from him, feeling hurt. I’d gone from being his muse to being “just anyone.”
His hand snaked around my arm, and he tugged me gently until I turned to face him. “It’s not like you think.” He shook his head. “Being an author isn’t glamorous. It isn’t romantic.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“I don’t know.” He weaved our fingers together. “It started out as something I did between classes and studying for the bar.”
“You’ve been writing since law school?”
He nodded. “My first novel got published because of a dare. One of my friends thought I wouldn’t have the balls to submit it, but I did.” He shrugged. “It ended up being a bestseller.”
My jaw dropped. “A bestseller?”
Beckett’s mouth thinned into a line. “It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. After I hit all the lists, the shitstorm began. There was pressure from the publishing house, my agent, my editor.” Beckett ticked off his complaints. “I got caught up in this life I’d never intended for myself. I never meant to be a writer. I meant to work for my family, do what everyone expected of me. But these stories… they wouldn’t stop. They begged to get out, and I burned myself up trying to tell them.”
I shivered as if the window was still open. I could hear the passion in Beckett’s voice, the rawness of his need.
“And then everything dried up. The stories in my head stopped.”
“Maybe you just needed a break.” I squeezed his fingers. “You can’t keep working around the clock without paying a price somewhere in your life.”
