“Your accounts will be frozen before you reach the airport,” his father warned.
“That’s fine.”
“You’ll be off the board at the University.”
“I assumed,” he said.
“I’ll bankrupt that waiter of yours.”
Rhys huffed an exasperated sound. “I’d like to see you try.”
Beckett, at present, had more money than Rhys did, but his father had no claim to it. Rhys had made sure of that. His father knew people, but Rhys knew more. If anything, the week he’d spent in Mallardsville had shown him exactly that. His father was no longer the towering specter he remembered from early adulthood. Marcus was getting old and frail, and his smoking would be the death of him, if Rhys didn’t get to him first.
“You think I don’t know about that secret account of yours, Rhys?” His father laughed like he was a step ahead. “I’m not kidding. I’ll take all of it from you if you don’t turn that car around.”
“I don’t have any secret accounts, father. But if you find one, it’s yours.”
He ended the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket. His hand was shaking, sweaty, and Rhys realized for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what happened next. He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t have a plan of how to get there. It was a little terrifying, but it was exhilarating. He straightened his posture and watched Mallardsville fly by as the car whipped through the city, and when the airfield came into view, he let himself breathe.
He thanked the driver, tipped him generously, and made his way to the private hangar. It wasn’t the one he normally used because this wasn’t the family plane. He knew his father would have grounded it before he even called Rhys to complain. That was the favor he’d asked of Brent—a chartered flight back to Myers Bluff, ready and waiting for whenever he’d had the chance to get away.
His chance was now.
Rhys boarded the plane and settled comfortably into the plush, cream leather seat. He accepted a glass of champagne, which wasn’t top label, but was still a thousand times better than the wash at La Creperie. He thought to call Beckett, but he decided to surprise him. He only hoped Beckett would be at the condo, not his apartment. Not that anything was wrong with Beckett’s apartment. Rhys honestly found it very on brand for the younger man, but he was almost jumping out of his skin with the need to touch Beckett and two stops was one too many.
The flight was far shorter than the drive, and Rhys’s head was floaty with the two glasses of champagne and the high altitude. On the ground, he turned his phone back on, finding a slew of missed calls and angry emails from his father. He grabbed a ride to the condo and let himself in, finding the whole place dark. Beckett was there, though. His shoes were in a heap in the entryway and there was a half drank bottle of vodka sitting on the kitchen counter.
Rhys stripped down as he made his way to the bedroom, shrugging out of his jacket and working loose his tie. He toed off his shoes and shoved off his pants, then quietly he climbed into bed. Beckett startled as the mattress dipped, his eyes widening with fear, shock, and then disbelief. Beckett reached up in the dark and pressed his fingertips against Rhys’s cheeks, and Rhys closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax down into Beckett’s waiting arms.
“What are you doing here?” Beckett asked, his voice rough with sleep.
“Coming home,” he whispered. “As soon as I can. Just like you told me to.”
Beckett danced his fingers down Rhys’s face and traced the shape of his lips, tugging the bottom one down so his mouth fell open. “Stop talking and kiss me.”
Rhys closed the space between them and crashed their mouths together. His mouth was already open for Beckett’s tongue, and the time apart had him feeling needy for more kisses. He moaned, a bit wanton, and Beckett rolled on top of him. Beckett’s weight landed against his chest before he had a chance to right himself, but Rhys wrapped his arms around Beckett’s back and held him down. He needed the pressure. He needed to be physically reminded that he was home and Beckett was there. Rhys arched off the bed, searching out every point of contact he could find, all the while Beckett reacquainted himself with the topography of Rhys’s mouth.
“I missed you,” Rhys whispered when Beckett broke for air.
“Me too.”
“I want you to have the best of everything in the world.” Rhys cradled Beckett’s face in his hands, thumbs dragging over his cheekbones.
“I just want you.” Beckett angled a kiss toward the side of Rhys’s hand.
“You could do better.”
“I could do worse.” Beckett smirked and Rhys rolled his eyes.
“Are you happy with me? Could you…behappy with me?” he asked. “Long term?”
“How long?” Beneath his hands, Beckett’s cheeks warmed.
“A very long time.”
Beckett nodded and kissed him back into silence.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
