Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (25 page)

If she let out the smallest of melancholy sobs at the precious sight of that light, then she could blame exhaustion for it. Or the ache in her feet. Or the rumble in her stomach.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, a dark shadow whispered a rough, “Hey, honey.”

She barely held back a shriek. “Jesus! Stop doing that!” she said heatedly.

He grinned from his spot on a barstool, arms spread out on the kitchen island. “You don’t have to be quiet. I’m not asleep.”

“Clearly,” she said sarcastically. “You’re like a vampire hanging out in dark places every night, waiting to scare the bejeezus out of innocent people.” And then she smelled it. Peanut butter.

A paper plate sat on the counter next to him, saltine crackers with neatly spread peanut butter covering each square. It was the only food in the house. Hope knew because she’d brought the groceries home herself.

He gestured toward the plate.

“You made those? For me?” she asked, hopefully. He didn’t say one way or the other, but she knew. Beck had made her dinner. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she moaned, around a mouthful of glorious peanut butter. “I take back the vampire comment. You’re the most wonderful man ever born. I should call your mother right now and thank her profusely.”

“Christ, you really need to up your standards.” He downplayed the thoughtful gesture, as if he’d done it a hundred times, and walked to the refrigerator. By the time he grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to her, she’d inhaled the entire plate. “Better?” When she nodded, he took her hand and headed up the stairs. “There’s more.”

Her stomach dipped at the thought and she followed him, staring at the threadbare denim pockets covering his fine ass, wanting to slip into his arms and then his bed. His pants, for sure. But when he bypassed the bed and guided her into the bathroom, the sob she’d barely swallowed back upon seeing his welcoming house threatened to escape again.

His antique tub, with silver claw feet and tall, curving back to rest your head, was filled with steaming, sweetly scented water, iridescent bubbles floating along the surface, popping randomly in the lilac scented air. He didn’t say anything and Hope didn’t either, a lump of grateful emotion lodged in her throat. She stood there speechless, staring at the water as he gently undressed her, then helped her into the tub. Her tense muscles melted in relief as she sank her tired body into the stinging hot water, stopping when the bubbles brushed her chin.

Beck sat on the tiled floor across from her, leaning back against the wall. “Good?”

She nodded, tasting the bubbles on her lips, but for the life of her, she couldn’t speak. She could only stare at him as he rested his head back, propping a hand loosely on his raised knee. In nothing but a white t-shirt, worn jeans, and tight skin, he looked like walking sin itself.

Closing his eyes, he let out a deep breath. “Me, too.”

Those were the last words spoken while she soaked and he dozed, up against a bathroom wall of all places. Crickets chirped outside the open window as the gentle splash of hot water and fizzing bubbles engulfed her. When the water grew cold and her skin was sufficiently wrinkled, she stood to reach for the plush, white towel on the vanity and he was there, drying her off and tucking her tightly to him as they crawled into his warm bed. Face to face in the shadowed light, he kissed her slowly, deeply. Again and again, before placing his warm lips against her forehead and pulling her into his strong embrace.

“Sleep, honey. We can play later.” And if she hadn’t seen it with her own tired eyes, she never would’ve believed it. Like the snuffing of a candle, he was asleep in seconds. Burning red hot one moment, a ghost of dissipating smoke the next.

Hope inventoried his unguarded face, softer and so much younger in sleep, his enviably long lashes hiding the ever present jadedness. Fatigue pulled at her and she fought it, forcing her eyes open when they drifted shut.

“I’m not gonna fall in love with you, Beck. I’m gonna leave you in August.”

She whispered the vow to a man in deep sleep. To a room cast in shadow. To a house steeped in tradition. To a woman mired in denial.

Sleep took her quickly, quicker than she wanted, and with it came the mocking sound of her surely spoken promise, echoing in her dreams like a school yard taunt.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Five and a half weeks.

Hope had been living in the Lark Street house—and sleeping in Beckett’s bed—for five and a half weeks, and it was the best thirty-some days of her life. Happiness, and an inner contentment she refused to put a name to, had come into her life much like Beck had, all at once and without warning. The doubts that once swirled in her head had calmed considerably. The direction of her life was clear and she felt renewed with purpose. Denver was calling, the next step in her journey to become a successful person who’s last name didn’t influence the people around her. After all, she wasn’t asking for much out of life. An education, yes. A job that paid enough so she could live in something other than a Toyota, for sure. If a handsome man who didn’t talk much, but made a hell of a peanut butter cracker and knew his way around her lady parts happened to show up somewhere in there, too? Well, then you could color Hope a happy woman. Now she had two more weeks on the calendar to save another chunk of money before she hit the open road, heading east over the snowcapped Rockies toward her future. Thanks to a hard earned nightly jackpot of tips, her savings totaled a hefty sum, aided by Beck’s refusal of any rent money. She’d considered tossing a rose scented envelope filled with cash on the bed, liking the flair of the dramatic gesture and the female empowerment that would follow. There was a perverse satisfaction in leaving him to wonder if she was paying for room and board, or for room and sex, but it seemed a little too trashy. Ultimately, she’d decided to do the smart thing—let the free rent ride and keep her money.

That wasn’t to say she’d been all that proper and ladylike recently, though. In fact, she’d done some pretty dirty things to him in the last few weeks. And she’d let him do some dirty things to her, in return. Improper fun was had by all.

And judging by the clock on the microwave, she calculated it wouldn’t be more than another half hour before they’d be having loads of fun again. Beck was due back from a six day work trip any minute, his first overnight travel since she’d done the burlesque show. Hope had woken up early one morning last week, unpleasantly surprised to find him packing. When he’d zipped up his duffel, throwing the strap over his shoulder and distractedly kissing her goodbye, she’d asked him where he was going. Thinking he might name some innocuous city like Boise or Wichita, she wasn’t prepared for another place entirely.

“Where everything is beige,” he’d replied, absently. “Including the camels.” And out the door he’d gone.

Hope had taken tonight off to welcome him home. Trying not to think about her lost wages or the dangerous country he’d been in, probably ka-booming and pow-powing his way through it, she’d made Rosa’s famous enchiladas from memory, not an easy feat given she was in a kitchen meant only for looks and not actual use. But, after raiding her trunk for a skillet and some dishes, dinner was bubbling onto the clean bottom of a new oven and his house smelled incredible.

Cooking a meal was the least she could do, considering he was taking such good care of her. It was always after midnight before her shift would end, leaving her exhausted but too amped up to sleep. Smelling like beer and vanilla body glitter, she’d hobble quietly into the house to find him waiting, either sitting at the kitchen island in near darkness or reclined back in bed, throwing a racquetball against the wall with the precision of a middle reliever. His strong arms would engulf her, then he would feed her. Sometimes they’d head for bed immediately, not letting a single minute pass before the clothes came off. Sometimes they’d talk for hours instead, always about her or about nothing much at all. But rarely about him. Sure, she knew the basics. Gifted with the relentless pressure tactics of a used car salesman, she’d pushed and he’d had no choice but to fill in a few of the blanks.

He had a mother. He had no father. He had a brother. Who, much to Hope’s dirty minded delight, looked like a carbon copy of Beck, only according to Beck himself, was an eighth of an inch shorter. Said mother lived in a retirement community in Boca Raton, where the humidity was high and sexually transmitted diseases ran amuck, since they were all banging each other with wild abandon. Apparently, once death was on the horizon, hard-on drugs were downed like chewable vitamin C tablets and protection went out the window with menopause and monogamy. Said brother lived in no place in particular, but last Beck knew, it was Bolivia. A recent email was tracked through an IP address in Mexico, though. Apparently Grant Smith thought it was great fun to hang out in infamous drug cartels, hiding in plain sight until he could bust them with the help of his employer, the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. It was no wonder the mother of these thrill seeking, death wishing brothers spent her days mindlessly humping senior citizens. Hope also knew that Beck went to work each day in an executive office building downtown, but with a bunch of uncivilized guys who had similar backgrounds. He only mentioned one by name and that was Nolan, whom she’d never met.

It was a wellspring of information considering the source, but truthfully, he could be going to the racetrack or a competing strip club everyday, for all she really knew about him.

Trust, but verify. Words her brother lived by and the firm instruction he’d preached to her regarding the entire male gender since the day her boobs came in. She trusted Beck wholly, but she hadn’t verified a damn thing.

She did know he drank water by the gallon, had an odd affinity for citrus fruit, hated to shave but did so when her skin showed the slightest sign of razor burn, and could do a hundred push ups without breaking a sweat or breathing heavy. The guy kind, with only his toes and palms touching the floor. She’d lost a twenty dollar bet to him on that one, but the gun show he’d put on had been well worth the money. The man could make a kings ransom on ladies night, a once a month occurrence when Club Kitten showcased an all male review from nine to midnight. Three beefcake filled hours when the place was better known as Club Catnip. Bubba hated the concept, but loved the revenue. It was the only night he’d leave Marcia in charge, sitting out what he crudely referred to as, Sausage Fest.

Beck’s
just the facts, ma’am
routine had been in full force during their text conversation late last night, Hope digging for more dirt in an attempt to break the surface.

Tell me something about yourself.

He’d replied right away, thank the good Lord and the ground underneath her. It meant he wasn’t busy assembling a bomb. Or worse, disassembling one.
Like what?

She should’ve known he wouldn’t make this easy.
Lucky Charms or Fruity Pebbles?

Pebbles. All day.

A man after her own heart.
Beach or pool?

Can’t surf in a pool.

He liked to surf. A silly detail, but she’d take it.
Burger King or McDonald’s?

Neither. I don’t eat fast food. Shit’s bad on the body.

What? He didn’t eat fast food? Those were fightin’ words.
Well, that’s troublesome. And not normal, either. Cake or pie?

His answer didn’t come for forty-two minutes. And for forty-two minutes, Hope imagined him dead in a remote desert wasteland, covered in camel cud and surrounded by beige, the last words he’d ever read telling him he was abnormal.

Finally, her phone chimed.
Pie. Yours.

She rolled her eyes at the typical male response, but let the comment slide, relieved he was still alive.
Toilet paper. Over or under? Tread carefully. It could be a deal breaker.

This time an hour passed before his reply, during which she’d graphically imagined his gory demise at least a dozen different ways.
Over? No, under. I think. Wait, should I go with over?

Damn, he was good. God had broken the mold after he made this guy.
You should go with over. Best childhood memory?

Expecting something flippant, his answer cut her to the quick.
Over it is, then. And eating cotton candy on the Ferris wheel with Grant, the day before our dad left.

A visual of Beck as a little boy formed in her mind, one half of two-of-a-kind, eating blue spun sugar from a stick while rocking the open cab of a rickety carnival ride. A turning point in his life, he would be a different man today if the following day’s events hadn’t occurred. What exactly those events were, she had no earthly idea, but she did know Beck wouldn’t tell her. That was information she may never be privy to, given his tight lips. And as a child who grew up short one parent, she cringed in shame at her spontaneous gratefulness that his life had played out the way it had, bringing him to her.

And when he walked into his aroma filled kitchen, jarring her from the pensive thoughts, it was with the swagger of a fully grown man who knew he was getting laid in rapid order.

Lord love a duck, the man was smoking hot. His tan had deepened, like he’d just spent six days on a beach in Bali rather than a harsh desert climate, and his tousled hair was finger combed, somehow still looking stylish. When he saw her, the corners of his mouth lifted, erasing the exhaustion from his face. Then he smiled in that toe tingling way of his. The one that said he had a little something extra. Something special. Hope couldn’t describe it using words if you put a gun to her head.

He was just so...
so.
And he was holding a fish.

Two fish actually, vivid orange and each in their own clear, water filled baggie. He could’ve walked in with the dead body of a celebrity hoisted over his shoulder and she wouldn’t have been more surprised. “Are we having sushi for dinner?”

“Shh.” He flashed her a cocky grin. “Don’t mention that word around cat and dog. You’ll give ‘em a complex.” Setting the bags down on the counter with careful ease, along with a clear glass fishbowl and a box of blue rocks, he stalked toward her, then stopped suddenly. “What’s that smell?”