Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (32 page)

Parked in her normal spot under the canopy of the jacaranda, she pocketed her keys and trudged up the steps. A glowing light from the living room lamp filtered through the shutters, beaming onto the porch in thin strips. It cast his face in flattering light, as if he needed the help.

His lips lifted in distaste and he nodded toward her chest, before drinking from his ever present bottle of water. “Now you’re just being mean.”

He was right. She’d spent ten minutes rifling through a bag of clothes piled in the trunk of her car, searching until her hands touched the wrinkled gray t-shirt. Washed a hundred times over in the decade since Ash had given it to her, she’d worn the comfortable shirt knowing it would make Mr. Man Candy go a little mad.

Sporting an Army logo in large white letters, she modeled her shirt for him. “Just a little payback for withholding valuable information.”

Propping herself against the railing opposite him, she slid her sore feet out of her flip flops and stacked them on top of each other. It wouldn’t take many more double shifts in those sadistic high-heeled shoes and Hope would have the callused feet of a Native American fire walker. A recent pedicure had left her with pretty, coral painted toenails and soft soles, but she’d had to tip the poor woman tasked with scraping her feet an extra five bucks.

Beck slid down to sit with his legs outstretched and motioned for her to do the same, grabbing her bare foot in his big hands. Thumbs running firmly along her arch, he massaged her pressure points with a skill she didn’t know he possessed. Proficient at foreplay and foot rubs? Was there anything this man did badly? Besides communicate, that was, because he sort of sucked at that.

Moaning her pleasure when he dug deeply into a tender muscle, she sighed and decided his reluctance to verbalize could be overlooked.

“Remember the first time we sat on this porch?” he asked. “That foggy morning a few months ago when I realized you were who you are?” Lips twisting wryly at the odd sounding words, he remained focused on her feet.

An affirmative moan was Hope’s only response.

“What if I’d told you then, that I knew Ash? That I knew him, that I worked for him, and that I considered him a friend.” Pausing, his fingers tugged each of her toes slowly. “What would you have done?”

She answered honestly and without hesitation. “I would’ve left.”

“Right,” he said quietly, switching feet. “And if I had told you that information the night you molested a chocolate chip cannoli in front of me, you would’ve left then, too.”

She frowned at his recollection of events that night, in relation to pastry molestation, but she didn’t dispute his assumption. He knew her better than she thought.

He finally looked up from her feet. “And I didn’t want you to leave.”

It was the only explanation he offered and when he summed it up like that, she could see his point. Confident that her brother had no part in her termination at the Vistancia and knowing that she and Beck’s connection that night had been pure serendipity helped. Maybe it was simply his fantastic foot rub talking, but for Hope, his explanation was good enough.

“Beck,” she whispered, waiting until he looked at her. “Why?”

Why didn’t you want me to leave? As innocent as it seemed, it took gumption for her to ask him that loaded, one word question. Because the answer had somehow, over the course of a shortened southern California summer, become
that
important.

His brow wrinkled and he shook his head. “You could put a gun to my head, princess, and I still couldn’t answer that question. Other than to say... I just didn’t.”

It was then that Hope realized he hadn’t been sitting outside so he could tell her to leave. He’d been waiting for her to come home. And it didn’t matter that this historic old house on Lark Street didn’t belong to her, or that she didn’t really live here. Or that the man that actually lived here, didn’t think he lived here, either.

It was home, for the both of them together and individually, all the same.

“Are you okay after everything that went down today?” His gaze was back on her feet. “It’s been a rough one for you.”

She nodded, more than okay. Hunky dory, in fact. That seemed to happen a lot when she was in Beck’s company. But she was done talking. “Wanna make out?”

He laughed. “Fuck, yeah.” Then he glanced at her boobs with a frown. “Not while you’re wearing that shirt, though.”

“No?” She ran her hands over the soft cotton covering her breasts. It stretched tightly across her chest, since she’d gone through the best part of puberty after Ash had given it to her. “But I’m not wearing a bra. And my sensitive nipples are rubbing up against this very manly Army logo. I’m told they’re the best, you know. All the guys have real... big... guns.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Laughing, she pulled her foot free and stood, holding out a hand to help him up. “I’m trying to turn you on.”

He grabbed her hand, but stood on his own, tugging her close. “There’s no trying, honey. You’re breathing. That seems to do the trick.” His mouth was hot against hers, muffling any comeback with a slow, wet kiss.

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt to keep her balance when his tongue slid languidly along hers, his palms grazing her cheeks as he threaded his fingers through her hair. The deep and thorough kiss, culminating the end of an emotional day, spoke a cherished language of love that neither was willing to address.

“So any breathing female would do?” she asked, when they finally broke apart, her mouth resting against his, breathing in his breath.

He might have smiled. He might not have. Mile wide shoulders blocked the light coming from the house and he didn’t respond other than to pull her behind him, dragging her into the house and up the stairs. Stopping repeatedly to deliver more devastating kisses, he took pieces of their clothing off as he went, starting with the despised Army t-shirt. There was a trail in their wake and they were both naked when he tossed her squarely onto the mattress. Giggling, her body was still bouncing from his firm push when he leaned over top of her, his biceps bulging nicely when he finally answered.

“Not any female, Hope. Only you.” Grabbing her hips, he flipped her onto her stomach like she weighed next to nothing, her yelp of delighted glee morphing into a needy moan when she felt his aroused body against her back. Licking the sensitive lobe of her ear, his hot whisper sent a tingle down her spine. “Scared to fucking death it’ll never be anybody but you.”

The sound of ripping foil and the feel of him against her wet heat silenced any reply.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Hope said breathlessly, “I’ve got a confession to make.” Rolling to her side, she propped her head up, her body blissfully numb in the afterglow of hard and fast sex. Another thing he was good at. “I was going to punish you for withholding information by withholding sex.” Running her eyes down his naked body, a thin sheen of sweat covering the hard muscle, she sighed dreamily. “My plan failed miserably.”

Eyes closed, a corner of his mouth curved up and he grunted, an arm thrown over his head. Apparently he thought the unintelligible sound conveyed his thoughts accurately, because no actual words left his mouth.

“I think you’re absolutely adorable, Beck. But your pillow talk has no game.”

He scowled, cracking one eye open. “I am not adorable.”

The fact that he was so opposed to being adorable, made him even more adorable. “Totally adorbs,” she confirmed, her voice brooking no argument.

Laughing at his pained look, she flopped to her back and stared at the ceiling. It was pitch black outside, the lamp casting a shadowy glow over the bedroom, and she had the ridiculous thought that he must own stock in a light bulb company. That lamp was rarely turned off. The windows were open, cream linen curtains slapping against the wall as the breeze whistled through metal screens. It cooled her damp skin, but she didn’t move to cover herself, too lazy to reach for the sheet bunched at the foot of the bed.

Nearly asleep, Hope’s eyes popped open in surprise when she felt him take her hand, squeezing it within his own. She smiled but didn’t speak, her heart contracting as she squeezed back. With their hands threaded tightly together, the connection between them was as strong in this moment as it was minutes earlier, when his body had been deep inside her.

His gesture might only be physical, but there was an undeniable message in his tight grip. Beck’s endearing attempt at pillow talk.

Hope absorbed their moment of closeness, letting his quiet brand of love fill the emptiness within her. The hollowed cavities in her chest she hadn’t realized were there before meeting him. The tiny corners of her heart she could never fill herself, no matter how strong her sense of worth and purpose. Only love, the intimate kind between two halves of a whole, could seal those small gaps within her. It didn’t seem to matter that love wasn’t a part of this. That it wasn’t on the table. She felt it from him, nonetheless. Not because he wanted to fight her battles. That admirable quality was in his DNA, no matter who’s fight it was. And not because he’d invited her into his home. Sure, it was her equivalent to the Barbie Dream House, but she’d buy her own bungalow one day.

It was a random text message from him, reminding her to wear her seatbelt. A furtive glance when he thought she was asleep, too long to be casual, too searching to be sexual. A new bottle of bubble bath sitting next to freshly laundered, but poorly folded towels, the smell of his fabric softener clinging to them. A glass bowl with blue rocks and two goldfish, who went by the names Cat and Dog. A paper plate of saltines spread with peanut butter, made at one in the morning.

Staring at the beamed ceiling and the blades of the spinning fan, Hope thought about those small things that added up to something bigger, and held his hand tightly. She thought about what tomorrow, and the tomorrows after that, would bring. The calendar had become her enemy as the deadline for Denver neared, her final day at work only a scant two weeks away. Rosa liked to say that true friends were scarcer than hen’s teeth and Hope was feeling the truth of her words today. Val had gone MIA, no doubt waiting for all the hoopla and Beck’s blood pressure to die down, and she was okay with that. Their friendship might survive his lapse in judgment, but the wound was too fresh. The club had become her family, the people there her friends. What would she do without Bridget’s bubbly voice or her green apple body wash? Without Kiki bitching about her preferential treatment and overuse of the coveted volumizer? Without Bubba’s affectionate voice ordering her to keep her crotch covered—unnecessarily, but still. She’d miss it.

Stripper stereotypes and pompous judgment aside, the girls at Club Kitten were happy, healthy women. Bubba’s brash interviewing skills and Marcia’s dental inspections weeded out the diseased and drug addled. Many of the girls were PhD students, real estate agents, or hairstylists. Or in Bridget’s case, event planners. The woman had orchestrated a stripper themed potluck for Bubba’s birthday tomorrow with the methodical precision of a four star general. She’d labored over the details, including the obligatory boob cake. Hope had no idea that strip clubs held employee potlucks or that potlucks were even a thing anymore. Helen would be aghast by it all, but the sentiment was there. Under her tanned, vanilla scented skin and pearl G-string, Bridget had a heart of gold.

All the girls did. And they also had three things in common. A day job, a savings plan, and an exit strategy. Technically, Hope didn’t have a day job, but in three weeks, she’d be back in school full time and her life would be back on track.

So why did her looming final day leave her feeling bereft when she’d so carefully planned for this very thing? She’d gone from dry heaving on her first night to dreading her last day. And that wasn’t the only troubling thing that had happened while she wasn’t looking. Denver was only days away, yet somehow, the luster had worn off her shiny new adventure.

She could no longer deny it. The writing was on the wall. She didn’t want to go.

“When I bought this house, those beams were covered in ten layers of paint.” His rough voice interrupted her disturbing thoughts.

Barely moving her head, Hope saw him staring at the ceiling, as well. Jesus, the man never slept. Not even after a good twenty minutes of headbanging cardio. “What kind of person paints over original wood beams?”

“The kind that should be shot. I spent hours stripping and sanding. And cursing.”

“I’m sure the F-bombs could be heard throughout the neighborhood. Small children are scarred for life.”

“I’m fucking scarred from those fucking beams,” he said, his lips twitching. “Fucking oil-based motherfucking paint.”

She laughed, amazed by his carpentry skills. She didn’t have the artistic talent to finger paint with chocolate pudding, much less restore a home. Soil was her canvas. “How many houses have you remodeled?”

“Seven. Counting this one.” He stared at the ceiling like it held the answer to world peace.

Soon, he’d move on to number eight, selling this masterpiece to some jackass who’d probably paint his beams. “With your buddy, right? Your teammate? Did he help you with this one, too?”

He shook his head once. “Josh isn’t around anymore.”

“Is he still in the Navy?” Nobody with
J
as their first initial was listed on Ash’s website.

“No.”

She rolled toward him, not letting go of his hand or the subject. “Where is he, still in Virginia Beach?” Her fingers traced across his rigid abs, covered in downy soft hair. “Maybe we could visit him? I’ve never seen the Atlantic Ocean.”

“No.” The answer applied to both questions. “He’s—” His gaze darted to the racquetball on the nightstand, but he didn’t grab it, clenching her hand tighter instead. An odd, purely involuntary reaction. “He’s in Arlington.”

“Well, it’s too bad he doesn’t live nearby. I’d love to see you guys in action. I’m imagining all sorts of nailing and hammering, and sweaty, naked chests.” Nuzzling his neck, she inhaled his warm, musky scent. “What’s in Arlington? His family?”