Part 36 (1/2)
”Make sure you take her flowers. The ladies love them some flowers,” Mr. Rodriguez said.
Right. Beck backtracked, buying a bouquet from the florist a few streets over. But when he reached the inn at last, he found no sign of Harlow. He watched TV for an hour...two. He paced their room for an eternity. Finally, he caved and texted Harlow-where are U???-but he never received a reply.
He was just about to hunt her down when a knock sounded at the door. ”Room service,” a woman called, and he nearly came out of his skin when he recognized her voice.
He practically ripped the door from its hinges. Finally he could breathe. She stood with one arm anch.o.r.ed overhead, the other on her hip. Gorgeous girl. She grinned, making everything right in his world.
He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her in for a swift kiss-swift because she walked away from him.
”Thank you for the best greeting ever,” she said.
”I brought you flowers.”
She whirled, her eyes wide. ”Flowers? Again?”
Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez. ”Again.” He lifted the bouquet from the nightstand and pa.s.sed it to her.
As she sniffed the petals, her eyes closed and a smile lifted the corners of her lips. An expression he would kill to see again. Every day. He walked to her, almost in a trance, but she must have sensed his intention to take her in his arms, because she backed away.
”Oh, no, you don't. I'm starved,” she said. ”Order room service while I shower?”
”You don't want to go out on another date?”
”I'm too tired. Besides,” she said with a wink, ”I like having you all to myself.”
He clasped his chest, just over his heart. ”You're killing me, baby. You know that, don't you?”
”Oh! You'll be happy to know I finished a few sketches while I was on my break.” She withdrew a stack of napkins from her pocket.
Grateful for the distraction, he studied each one, utterly blown away by her talent as usual. ”This one looks like Kenna. And this one looks like Brook Lynn.”
”I know. I'm sorry. I can change them, but I just thought-”
”No. They're perfect. You're perfect.”
As she shut herself in the bathroom, their gazes remained locked until the last possible second, the moment charged with heat and grit.
He shook with the force of his need for her, nearly ready to say to h.e.l.l with it, storm the door and take her up against the shower wall.
Her way. Do it her way. Too important to mess up.
He'd calmed by the time the food arrived. But when Harlow emerged from the bathroom on a cloud of fragrant steam, wearing one of his T-s.h.i.+rts and a pair of panties, his greatest temptation and his fiercest torment, he just about creamed his d.a.m.n jeans.
After she ate, they settled on the bed to watch TV. Beck was careful not to touch her, his control simply too fragile.
Hours pa.s.sed, but he wasn't certain which programs played on the screen. Need had him by the throat. Or the b.a.l.l.s. He hated it. He loved it. And when he could take it no more, he made his pallet on the floor and lay down.
”You ready for your next question?”
”I am,” she said, switching off the TV and lamp, shrouding the room in darkness.
”What's your favorite thing about me?”
”I'd have to go with...your mustache. It's practically a recreational vehicle in this town.”
”I hate to be the one to break this devastating news to you, baby, but I don't actually have a mustache.”
”Well, you've got the shadow of one, and there have been a few times I've felt the p.r.i.c.kle of it.” A tremor of need shook her voice. ”I liked it,” she whispered.
Hunger became starvation, and it required all of his considerable strength to remain on the floor. He liked her playful side. He liked her sense of humor. Even celibate-whimper-he was happy as long as he was with her.
”Beck,” she whispered.
”Yes, baby.”
”My favorite thing about you is your heart. It's softer than I ever realized, and I treasure it.”
”WHAT DID YOU want to be when you grew up?” Beck asked. This was their third nightly session, and again, he'd looked forward to it all day, watching the clock, cursing it. Only one thing had distracted him, and only for a short time. The call from West. The guy had gone on a date with his potential relations.h.i.+p from the city, but decided against going further with her for a reason that had nothing to do with Jessie Kay, he'd insisted when Beck pressed the issue.
Please.
From the nightstand, a lamp glowed, allowing him to watch Harlow atop the bed. She rolled toward him, a lock of midnight hair hanging over the side of the bed, teasing him. ”You'll laugh, but...”
”Tell me.” He had to know. Every. Little. Detail.
”I wanted to be a trophy wife. But only because a life of leisure sounded way cooler than the things my friends wanted to be,” she rushed to add. ”Doctor? Blood is gross. Reporter? Hounding family members of someone who just died? Never! And if you say 'what friends,' I'll smother you with one of my pillows. I had a posse back then.”
”A posse, huh? Did you often ride off into the sunset together?”
He hadn't laughed, but she launched one of those pillows anyway, smacking him in the face. ”I had it all figured out. I would paint during the day while my very rich, very good-looking husband worked at his office. He owned the company and even the building, of course, and everyone feared him. Except me, because even though he was a bear, he was putty in my hands.”
”Of course.”
”Our chef would prepare dinner,” she continued, ”and the maids would clean up after us.”
All doable. He would enjoy making her dreams come true. ”And now?” He stuffed the pillow under his head.
”Now I absolutely do not want to be a trophy wife. I told you. I like earning my own way.”
”I bet I could change your mind.”
”You wanting to pamper me, Becky?”
”Desperately. If only you'd let me...”