I take a shaky breath, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze. “Good. Because I'm obsessed too.”
Instead, he picks up his fork and takes another bite of steak, breaking the spell. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”
I roll my eyes but comply, spearing a piece of asparagus. “Yes, sir.”
His eyes flash when I say “sir,” the muscle in his jaw working overtime. I can't help but smirk, knowing exactly what buttons I'm pushing.
Part of me wants to climb across the table and into his lap right here in the restaurant.
“Dessert?” The waiter appears, startling both of us.
Beckham glances at me, eyebrow raised in question.
“I'm stuffed,” I admit, pushing my empty plate away. “But I wouldn't mind a walk to digest.”
“Just the check,” Beckham tells the waiter, who nods and disappears.
After he pays the bill—refusing my offer to split it with a look that could melt steel—we step outside into the cool night air. The restaurant sits near a small park that runs along the river, lights twinkling along the walking path.
A cool breeze blows off the water, and I can't help the little shiver that runs through me. My dress might be sexy as hell, but it's not exactly made for nighttime strolls in early winter.
“Cold?” Beckham asks, his eyes sharp and observant as always.
“No, I'm fine,” I lie, even as another shiver betrays me.
He gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me for a second. “Wait here,” he says, his voice brooking no argument.
Before I can protest, he's jogging back toward the parking lot where his truck is parked. I watch him go, admiring the way his jeans hug his ass as he moves.
He returns a minute later with a dark blue hoodie in his hands. “Arms up,” he commands.
“I told you I'm not cold,” I argue, even as my body betrays me with another shiver.
“Arms. Up.” His voice drops into that coach tone that makes my knees weak.
I roll my eyes but comply, lifting my arms so he can slidethe hoodie over my head. It's huge on me, the sleeves falling past my fingertips; the hem hitting mid-thigh. It smells just like him.
“This looks ridiculous with my dress,” I complain, though I'm already snuggling into the warmth of it.
“You look perfect,” he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with surprising gentleness.
I hook my arm through his, leaning into his warmth as we continue our walk. “You're not getting this back, by the way. It's mine now.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I don’t want it back.”
“Good, because this one's officially been claimed.” I nestle closer to his side, feeling oddly content despite how weird I must look—designer dress, fuck-me heels, and a men's athletic hoodie.
For once in my life, I don't care how I look. I just care how I feel. And right now, with Beckham's arm and hoodie wrapped around me, I feel pretty damn perfect.
Chapter 20
Beckham
I'm still tasting her on my lips when I wake up, hard as a fucking rock and alone in my bed.
The memory of last night plays on repeat in my head—Hennessy curled against me in the passenger seat of my truck, her breathing soft and even as she slept. I watched her for longer than I should have, memorizing the way her lashes fanned across her cheeks, the slight part of her lips, the complete vulnerability of her face in sleep.
I didn't have the heart to wake her when we reached her apartment complex. Instead, I'd gathered her into my arms, her small body fitting against my chest like she was made to be there. She'd stirred slightly, nuzzling her face into my neck as I carried her up three flights of stairs because her shitty building doesn't have a working elevator.
