“That was for my dinner,” Rhys corrected.
“That’s a technicality.”
“The picnic is paid for. It can either go to waste or go to you.” Rhys shrugged, like he was helpless, when Beckett knew he was anything but. “I’ll be in the car. Take as long as you need to close, and then let me know where you want to go.”
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
RHYS GETS FUCKED
Rhys was nervous. His heart beat a little too fast, and his breaths came a little too loud. His palms were sweaty, which…he’d never. And for as much as he liked Beckett, he hated the ways Beckett made him feel.
He leaned around the driver’s seat and checked the contents of the picnic basket. Thankfully, Sebastian had recommended he get ice packs, and they’d managed to keep everything cool, if not cold. It hadn’t taken him long to fill the basket with a hundred dollars’ worth of food anyway, but he hoped it would all taste good by the time they got to eat it. Rhys wasn’t even hungry. He’d picked through the dinner he ordered from Beckett, but the alcohol sat heavier in his stomach than the meal.
Because he was nervous.
But also…hopeful?
Rhys didn’t do anything in half measures, and he never went into a situation where he didn’t know what the outcome would be. Well…now, at least. It was the only way he had to control his exposure and protect his emotions. Everything with Beckett felt like uncharted territory. He swiveled back to face the windshield and closed his eyes.
He must have fallen asleep because he startled when the passenger door opened. He blinked Beckett’s weary face into focus, a sense of relief washing over him.
“You waited,” Beckett said as he climbed into the passenger seat.
“I said I would.” He pushed the ignition button. “Where do you want to go, then?”
Beckett leaned against the door pillar, his body angled toward the center console. “I want to see where you live.”
Rhys chuckled. “You’ll hate it.”
“Why’s that?”
“I just have a feeling.” He backed out of the parking spot and started the drive toward Sebastian’s condo. It had been months since he’d moved to Myers Bluff and he still didn’t think of Sebastian’s condo as his place. He could easily afford to get a condo or house—or mansion—of his own, but the move had always felt like a temporary thing to him. Like, he was all the things his father had accused him of. That he would get the need to rebel out of his system and this life crisis would run its course, and he would go home to Mallardsville. But for as much as Sebastian’s condo didn’t feel like home to him, neither did Mallardsville and the expansive grounds of the St. George estate.He continued to lean toward the idea of cutting the cord.
When he pulled into the parking garage, he tried to gauge Beckett’s reaction from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t get a read. Beckett followed him into the building quietly, toeing off his sneakers when they stepped through the front door.
“You know this place is ridiculous, right?” Beckett murmured, a hint of playfulness in his voice.
“It’s my brother’s.”
“Is he less rich than you?”
“Actually…” Rhys straightened his shoulders, shifting the blanket and picnic basket into one hand. “Yes.”
“And you’re proud of that?”
He licked his lips and, with his free hand, dropped his money clip, phone, and keys onto the side table by the door. He kicked out of his shoes and used his feet to arrange them neatly with the toes just pressed against the baseboard.
“I won’t apologize for the things I’ve earned, Beckett,” he said, not sure why he felt the need to defend his money. “The living room is through there, but the couch isn’t comfortable.”
“Good thing you have a blanket.” Beckett reached and pulled the folded blanket out from beneath Rhys’s arm; then he set off through the condo in the direction of the living room. Rhys followed after him with his damn palms sweaty again.
Beckett fanned the blanket out across the middle of the living room floor and gracefully folded himself into a cross-legged position. Rhys set down the basket and joined him.
“Is this really what you were going to wear on our picnic?” Beckett asked.
Rhys looked down at himself. He’d dressed casually. What did Beckett want from him? “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“It’s so fancy.”
