ARROGANT PLAYBOY (8 page)

“Beg your pardon?” I was about
to ask him the same thing.

“You fucked her, didn’t you?”
Dane’s hands hook on his hips. “Can’t leave you alone with anyone for five
minutes.”

“In my defense, it was before I
knew she was
Sam the PR consultant
. I
picked her up at a bar.” I hate how seedy that sounds out loud. “She said her
name was Odessa. It was only supposed to be one night.”

“You can’t fuck half of
Manhattan and expect to never run into any of them again.”

“Half of Manhattan? Thanks.”

His hand flies up. “I’m sorry. That
was a little harsh. But you don’t get a playboy reputation staying home on Friday
nights.”

“Gotta get laid somehow,” I
declare. “Not the relationship type, and I’m sure as hell not going to find
what I need in some kinky sex club.”

Dane fires a daunting glare my
way. I don’t know much about the Crystal Swan, I simply appreciate that his
urges are distinctly different than mine. Sex for Dane has to be as mentally
stimulating as it is physical, at least that’s what he told me once. I prefer
not to have to think when I’m balls deep in a gorgeous woman. I don’t want her
restrained, quiet, or subservient. I want her riding me, screaming my name, and
digging her nails into my back.

Deliciously uninhibited.

“Are we done here?” I slice
through our silence. “Because I’m fucking starving.”

My brother cracks a rare smile.
I catch a glimpse of it before it fades. “Don’t fuck her again. Not while she’s
working for us.”

“Same to you.” Not that I think
he’d do it.

“She’s not my type, Beckham.
You know that.”

“So you weren’t eye-fucking her
right in front of me for the last two hours?”

“You’re delusional. And it’s
called being hospitable. She’s a company guest. I was treating her as such.”
Dane grabs his silver pen and tucks it into his left breast pocket, a sign that
he’s done with this conversation. He takes a step past me, then another, before
stopping and turning back. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Fuck, no.” I scrunch my face.

“Right.” Dane rakes his hand
along his jaw, seeing right through me.

“Some girls are worth the
chase.” My words are about as accurate as that God-forsaken oil portrait
hanging down the hall. “Believe me, she’s not. There’s nothing special about
her–”

“Ahem.”

Our attention jerks toward the
doorway, where Odessa stands with folded arms and averted eyes.

 
“Maureen said the car’s downstairs.”

ODESSA

“Who’s this foxy lady?” A short
man with crinkled gray eyes and a faded Dodgers baseball cap stretches his arms
my way the second we walk into a hole-in-the-wall diner in Middle of Nowhere,
Utah. I thought the guys were joking when they said the diner was in the Middle
of Nowhere, but I saw a sign on the way in that said
Middle of Nowhere – 8 miles
.

“Uncle Leo.” Beckham cocks his
head and places a firm hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. “This is Odessa.
She works with us.”

Beckham hasn’t said two words to
me since I overheard his blatant declaration that there’s nothing special about
me. His words dangled awkwardly in the air between the three of us the entire
car ride here. I’m sure he thinks my feelings are hurt, but that couldn’t be
further from the truth.

“Good to meet you, Leo.” I meet
his embrace. He hugs me tight, like we’ve known each other for decades.

“We’ve got the best booth in
the joint.” Leo ushers us to a large round booth in the back corner, next to a vintage
jukebox and a display of Saran-wrapped pie slices.

“Uncle Leo used to own this
place,” Dane says. “Beck and I used to bus tables and mop the floors.”

“Some food service outfit out
of Toluca Lake bought it up years ago.” Uncle Leo swats his hand. “It’s not the
same, but at least I know the place is clean. Never had a cockroach in
forty-three years.”

We stand around the table until
Beckham ushers me in first. I slide to the middle, followed by Beckham and
Dane. Uncle Leo takes my other side. A gum-smacking waitress not much older
than nineteen moseys up to us. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail that hangs
down one side of her face.

“Hey, guys.” She leans in, her
palm on the table as she hunches over and flashes a wide smile at everyone but
me, her lashes batting one too many times. “Haven’t seen my favorite customers
in a long time. Where you been hiding?”

“These guys.” Uncle Leo bats
his liver-spotted hand. “You know how they are. Busy building their empires one
windmill at a time.”

“How’s your father liking his
solar heated pool?” Dane asks.

“I don’t know about him, but
I’m loving it.” She widens her stance, cocking her head and smiling dreamily.
“You guys are all welcome to come by sometime for a swim.”

That’d be a sight to see.

“You’re kind to offer, Becca,”
Dane says. “Anyway, what’s the special tonight?”

She rattles off a memorized
list of soups, hot dishes, and pies before taking our drink order and
scampering off.

“Feels like forever ago that
you two wandered in here.” Leo smiles, blinking away the speck of nostalgia
caught in his eye. “A couple of hungry, scraggly-haired boys with dirt on their
chins and sunken eyes.”

“Is it necessary to re-live
that moment for the hundredth time?” Beckham sits back, adjusting his posture
and gazing around the diner. The space feels tighter as he fidgets.

Try as I might, I can’t picture
Beckham as some mangy-haired little boy. He’s clean-cut. Overly confident.
Unapologetically prosperous.

Leo’s thick-knuckled,
liver-spotted fist pounds the table. “Yes, Beckham. Damn right we do. The worst
thing you can ever do is forget where you came from.”

Dane and Beckham exchange looks.
I get the impression Leo likes to lecture them. They probably need it.

“We could never forget.” Dane’s
voice is low, his jaw set.

I’m regretting my decision to
join them for dinner tonight, only because the awkwardness from earlier is
quickly compounding with the awkwardness from the present. I’d have gladly made
myself a peanut butter sandwich and curled up with a book in that elaborate
guest suite at the top of the winding stairs.

I peruse my menu for the tenth
time, settling on a chicken club with a side of greasy diner fries. It’s nice
to order what I want for a change. Jeremiah used to scoff if I ordered
something that wasn’t worthy of a picture on Instagram.

Becca returns with our drinks. By
the time she finishes scribbling our orders, I mutter an excuse about washing
my hands and slip off to the ladies’ room for some space. The diner’s dead for
dinnertime on a Wednesday night. I wash up and then loiter outside the
bathroom, out of sight from the guys. Slinking up against the wall, I take my
phone from my bag and fire off a day-late text to Carly, letting her know I’m
in Utah, and I’ll be back this weekend.

Buying more time, I pull up
some old messages from Jeremiah, seeking validation that we were happy together
once upon a time and that it wasn’t all in my head. My eyes mist as I peruse
the over abundance of sweet texts that to anyone else wouldn’t mean much.

Fingers tingling, I fight the urge
to send him something. We had a great Friday night together. After cooking me
dinner, he stayed over. I fell asleep in his arms, and he kissed my forehead
the next morning before slipping out the door.

I hadn’t slept that well in
weeks.

But Jeremiah asked for space,
so space is what I’ll give him, even if my heart is pulled in seven different
directions every time I’m reminded of him. Mom said it’ll do him some good to
see what life’s like without me. She gave me the whole ‘grass is never greener
on the other side’ speech and assured me my cousin Melissa’s husband got cold
feet just before their wedding too. Now they’re happily married with four kids.

Some nights, I lie in bed for
hours and replay the last month or so, frame by excruciatingly detailed frame,
searching for a hint or a clue that he was having second thoughts. But I always
come up with nothing.

And then I imagine my life
alone. Without him. And it’s actually not that bad.

“Oh, there you are.” I yank my
phone down and find Beckham straight ahead, head cocked like he’s trying to get
a read on me. “Food’s here.”

“That was quick.”

“What were you doing?”

“Washing up.” I slip my phone
into my pocket and shrug.

“With what? Travel brochures
and gumballs?” His hands hook his narrow hips. “You wanted to get away.”

“The conversation was getting a
little…personal.”

“That’s how Uncle Leo is. You
earn the right to be brash when you’ve lived as long and hard as he has.” His
face tightens. “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I take
a step but he doesn’t budge.

His rigid stance blocks me in. “I
owe you an apology. From earlier.”

I don’t want to have this
conversation here, at this greasy spoon. I didn’t want to have it at all; I
wanted to forget it happened.

“I shouldn’t have said you
weren’t special. I didn’t mean it.” He slicks his hand through his hair,
grabbing a fistful of dark strands and tugging on them before exhaling. “And
that just came out wrong.”

“Beckham, please…”

“I don’t know how much you
heard, but if I hurt your feelings…” He shakes his head, our eyes catching.

This is Beckham.

This is Beckham being nice.

Genuinely nice.

For a second, I stop breathing,
and I’m not sure why. Intimacy filters into this exchange, and I’m not sure how
it got there.

“You didn’t hurt my feelings.”
It’s the truth. His words didn’t hurt because they were a lie. He lied to his
brother. He
absolutely
thinks I’m
special and worth chasing. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have accused Dane of
eye-fucking me from across the table. A man who doesn’t find a woman
interesting wouldn’t have been upset over the prospect of losing her to someone
else. He staked his claim with one pointed accusation whether he realizes it or
not.

Beckham King likes me…

Which is absurd because he doesn’t
know me.

He’s intrigued by me, enthralled
by the chase.

“Food’s probably getting cold.”
I point toward the end of the narrow passage, but he still won’t move. My gaze
traces along the bottom of Beckham’s lip, the memory of the way he tasted two
weekends ago floods my mouth.

His stare heats me in this
tight space, raw energy zipping up my center, swirling in my chest, and
radiating through my fingertips.

I squeeze past him and weave
through pulled out chairs and oddly placed tables, mentally conjuring an image
of Jeremiah for experimental reasons.

My body stays tepid. Not a
single thunderous pound hits the inside of my chest. No melancholy ache in my
heart.

I try to remember what Jeremiah
smells like, tastes like, but every sensory memory is replaced with ones of
Beckham. Every inhalation brings a flood of Beckham’s clean aftershave, like
I’ve memorized it without even trying. I feel the weight of his stare from
behind, watching as I lead us back to the table. Leo and Dane stand when I
return, and I scoot back into my spot between them all.

My appetite vanishes when
Beckham’s hand slides over mine under the table. I glance down and it’s gone.

BECKHAM

“Odessa.” I catch her seconds
before she disappears into her suite for the night.

She pauses, her hand flush
against the wooden door. “Yes?”

We haven’t spoken since my
apology in the diner, where she proceeded to keep her attention focused on
Uncle Leo and Dane the rest of the evening and pretended to rest her eyes on
the car ride back.

“You sure we’re okay?” I invade
her space like I own it. Spending the rest of the week with my tail tucked
doesn’t appeal to me. Plus tipping the power balance back to my favor requires
a small dose of chivalry.

Her head falls back, sleek auburn
strands spilling down her back as she groans.

“Beckham, why are you doing
this?”

“Doing what?”

“Making this into a
thing
. It’s unnecessary.” Her spine zips
straight as she spins on her heels to face me. “You said what you said. I told
you my feelings aren’t hurt. Let it go. I can’t move past this unless you do.”

Odessa shrugs, her mouth
holding straight. There’s something off about the way her gaze holds mine.
Can’t put my finger on it.

“I’m tired.” Her hand rests on
the doorknob.

It’s all I can do not to bang my
head against the wall behind me. I’m getting nowhere with this one.

I’m not a man built of remorse
and difficult choices, but fuck if I don’t regret every decision I’ve made in
the last five days beginning with that kiss in the elevator. Had I known it
would catapult me into unchartered territory, I’d have never considered it. I’d
have sent her off, crawled back in bed, and rested my ego.

I loved my old life. Relying on
no one. Seeking my happiness the best way I knew how. Free and untied, my mind hedonistically
unconsumed.

“Goodnight, Beckham.” Odessa
disappears behind her door. The click of the lock is mildly insulting.

Challenge accepted.

***

Mathilde meets us by the
porte-cochere with brown-bagged breakfasts still warm from the kitchen.

“
Bonjour
,” she says, placing the bags in our hands. “Monsieur
Townsend had our chef prepare your breakfasts. He went into the office earlier,
but he wanted to ensure you were fed before you left.”

“
Merci beaucoup
,” Odessa says, pressing the warm bag against her
chest.

Bronson pulls the car up, and
we shuffle outside.

“You sleep well?” I ask once
we’re settled in the back.

“Yes. You?” She pulls a
container of steaming oatmeal from her bag followed by a banana. Her fingers
grip the girth of the ridiculously oversized fruit, and I fight the twitch in
my lips when a thought originates in the filthiest corners of my mind.

“Like a baby.” I tossed and
turned all night before cranking one out. Forcing myself to stare at the
assortment of topless picture messages stored in my phone didn’t do it for me
either.

It had to be her.

“Think we’ll have time to go
over the website today? Devin would like to wrap the project up by Friday. He’s
got another lined up for next week.” She stirs her oatmeal with a plastic spoon
and takes a bite. A small blob falls on her chin, and without thinking I drag
my thumb across to catch it before it lands on her freshly pressed pencil skirt.
Odessa jerks away.

I
smirk. “You’re welcome.”
         

“Anyway, the website?”

I see what she’s doing. She’s
keeping the conversation safe.

“I’ll carve out some time to
discuss the website, yes.” I watch her politely consume her breakfast from the
corner of my eye, her pink tongue gliding along the bottom of the spoon in slow
motion. She’s trying not to drip. Her phone chimes, and judging by the speed at
which she drops her oatmeal and pulls the phone from her pocket, I’d think she
was expecting a call from the President of the United States.

With shameless curiosity, I
check out the screen, eyeing a message from someone named Jeremiah asking what
she’s doing in Utah.

She fires a message back and
stares at the screen, waiting for a response.

“That your ex?” I ask.

Odessa pulls the phone flat
across her chest and leans away. “Were you reading over my shoulder?”

“You’re sitting a foot away
from me,” I say. “It’s not hard. Besides, I wanted to see who could make you
move that fast. I’ve never seen you move like that.”

Her phone chimes again.

“How’d he know you were in
Utah?” I ask.

She sighs, typing another
reply.

“Does he still keep tabs on
you?” I ask. “Even though you’re not together?”

Odessa jerks her head once.
“Carly must’ve told him.”

“Who’s Carly?” Funny how she’s
letting me into her personal life, one thin layer at a time. She’s so consumed
with texting that ass that she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it.

“My best friend,” she mutters.
“She’s his best friend too. We all went to Purdue together.”

“Tricky.”

“What’s tricky?”

“Your friend. She’s a double
agent. Don’t you question her loyalty?”

Odessa rests her phone in her
lap, staring ahead. “I don’t think that way.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Solid advice, which I will
kindly decline.” Her tone is preoccupied, fading. She picks her phone up, her
nails clicking feverishly against the glass. It’s angled now, reflecting in the
passenger window though I still can’t read it.

“You should make him wait
longer than five seconds.” My fingers rap against the armrest in the door.
“Huge turn off when you know she’s waiting on the other end.”

“He’s not like that.”

“All men are like that,” I
huff.

“Dating you would be a
nightmare then,” she mutters.

“Which is why I don’t date. I’m
the first to admit I’d be a shitty boyfriend.”

She turns to me. “You never get
lonely?”

“Never.”

Leaning across the middle seat,
she places her hand across my heart. “Yep. Just like I thought. You’re dead inside.”

I pound my fist into my chest.
“Alive and beating, sweetheart. I’ve yet to meet a girl who can go toe to toe
with me. Live life at my pace. Make me sing a different tune.”

It almost happened. In my
post-Sophie stupor, I met an Argentinian bombshell with legs for days and a
sexual appetite that only rivaled mine.

We did the fuck buddy thing for
a handful of months. It was the closest thing I’ve had to an actual
relationship since my failed engagement.

Things with her were amazing
until they weren’t…

“You’re going to meet your
match one of these days, Beckham.” Odessa’s head falls back as she lets out a
haughty chuckle. She tucks her hair behind her ear, slipping her phone into her
purse and retrieving her cold oatmeal. “She’s going to knock you sideways.
You’ll go insane and love every minute of it too. God, I’d pay money for a
front row seat to that.”