Authors like Beckett wrote beautiful stories about love, but they were just that—stories.
I heard the toilet flush and the faucet turn on and off, and I propped myself on my side in anticipation of his return. I pulled the quilt up to my chin and curled my knees to my chest, waiting for the door to open. Selfishly, I hoped Beckett couldn’t locate a towel. I wanted to see him—all of him—again.
Beckett stepped out of the bathroom, fully naked. My heart flip-flopped as I took him in. His body was perfect. Sinuous torso, narrow hips, powerful thighs. He strode toward me, unaffected by my curious gaze.
Ducking under the rafter just in time, he narrowly missed hitting his head. He leaned over me, his warmth already invading my space.
“Is it okay if I crash here tonight?” he asked. “I don’t think I can stay awake long enough to drive home.”
My eyes flashed up from his rock-hard abs to his face. His hair was adorably disheveled. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were bloodshot. Dark circles had taken up residence under his eyes, and his skin was pale. I remembered that the last time Beckett had lain his head down was hundreds of miles away. Knowing what I knew about his demanding schedule, it was possible that he hadn’t slept since London. He might look just like a sexy Clark Kent, but he wasn’t Superman. Beckett needed sleep.
But there was a problem. I didn’t do sleepovers. I’d lived in Mossy Oak for almost a year, and I’d never even had a man—besides Thatcher, who didn’t count—in my apartment. But Beckett was different. He wasn’t just any man. He was also Miranda. And he was exhausted.
My heart softened, and I scooted over. Beckett lifted the quilt and nestled in beside me.
The bed, a white-spindled Jenny Lind that squeaked just enough to make me glad my downstairs neighbor was a Chevy Impala, wasn’t built for a man like Beckett. I laughed when his feet hung over the mattress. He solved the problem by curling onto his side and pulling me against him. I stiffened at the feel of his hard chest behind me. My naked back against his heated skin was fuel for fantasies. The curve of my ass flush against his groin made me want round two. His big hand spread over my ribcage and then cupped my breast possessively. I felt the heat of his palm branding me just as his tongue had done earlier.
I scooted back against him, seeking more of his warmth. He stiffened, flexing his hand over my breast. “If you don’t stop wiggling that sexy ass, neither one of us is going to get any sleep.”
Now, I was wide awake, mind whirling with possibilities. I shifted toward him for a hot, slow kiss. “Sorry, I know you need sleep.”
“S’okay.” Beckett sank deeper into the pillow we shared.
His weight made a dent in the center of the mattress that I fell right into. Beckett’s front was all smooth skin and hard muscle. I didn’t want to move, not even if my apartment was on fire.
My body melted into his, but my mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Beckett’s words, both those he’d said and those he’d written, crowded my thoughts.
When I could tell he was asleep by the sound of his breathing, I whispered, “You don’t know me well enough to love me.”
Beckett stirred and pressed a kiss between my shoulder blades. “You love dogs and books,” he said. “What else matters?”
“Beckett…”
“Can we talk about this in the morning?” he asked, sounding very drowsy.
“Okay.”
We fell silent. Beckett kissed the crease of my neck and whispered, “Love you.”
The words had barely dropped from his lips before he fell asleep.
It wasn’t so easy for me. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the rain drum on the roof and Beckett’s peaceful breathing. It should have been enough to lull me into Dreamland, but there was an odd tightness in my chest that made it hard to breathe and impossible to sleep.
Chapter 33
I woke up at the crack of dawn to an empty apartment. I rolled over in my bed, instantly noting the absence of the hard male body that had been wrapped around me all night long.
A tremor shook my body. Not again.
I got up and went into the bathroom where the evidence of Beckett was right there on the floor. His feet had left wet impressions on the fluffy pink bathmat. Size thirteen from the looks of them. Beckett must have used my shower before leaving. My eyes were on the footprints, but my mind was back in Milwaukee on the morning of my eighteenth birthday.
I’d shown up at our spot on Lake Michigan. I’d waited for hours until the sun was high in the sky and my skin turned pink. Julian never came.
He was supposed to come straight from the train station to meet me, and my mind instantly went on tragedy alert. What if the train derailed? What if he’d been in an accident on his way to meet me?
With thoughts of fiery passenger cars and flashing emergency lights in my head, I’d rushed to Julian’s house. His mom had answered the door. After assuring me that Julian wasn’t dead or dying in a hospital bed, she’d told me he wasn’t coming home as planned. She had taken pleasure in delivering the news that Julian had gotten a girl pregnant. He was going to marry her, and he was breaking up with me. She’d told me all this on the front porch of her house. She hadn’t even bothered to invite me in and deliver the news over a beverage. Mrs. Ambrose had never liked me.
Ever since that day, Julian was gone from my life.
