“I don’t want to be your one-night stand.” He drops his forehead to mine. “I want way more. If you can’t do that, you need to tell me.Now. Please, Gracie. You need to…let me go.”
“Never,” I whisper fiercely. “I’mneverfucking letting you go, Oliver Becksworth the Third.” I poke him in the chest with my finger,hard, emphasizing each word. “So man up and take me home.”
His eyebrows lift at that declaration with a flicker of amusement that dies almost instantly. Something else takes its place, solid, resolved, unmistakably male.
His hands slide to my hips, firm this time, holding me there. Not asking. Claiming.
“Fine,” he says, low and steady. He leans in, mouth brushing my ear. “Butyoulisten tome.”
My breath catches.
“If I’m taking you home, you need to understand this,” he says quietly. “When I close that door, you’remine. No regrets. No walking away.” He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. His jaw flexes. “I need to know you won’t leave me in the morning.”
The hallway is impossibly still.
“I won’t,” I say without hesitation. “I choose you. I always have.”
Something in him settles. Locks into place.
“Good,” he says.
Beck holds out his hand—
—and I take it.
Gracie
Present
Beck has the door halfway open when I tug on him. “My purse.” I glance back toward the bar, where the music thumps even louder than it did a minute ago. Down the hall, a conga line snakes through the room, winding in and out of the tables. “I left it back in the booth.”
“It’s fine.” He presses a quick kiss to my forehead. The easy, effortless way he does it, like he’s been doing it for years, unlocks a whole new level of yearning in my chest. “I’ll go grab it. Wait for me, okay?”
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll be outside.”
Smiling, I push open the alley door and step out. Cool air lifts my hair, pulling me back to prom. To our first kiss. But this night is better, because it’s ending the way that one should have.
With us. Together.
A lighter clicks and flares, briefly illuminating a face I recognize. Devon. Leaning against the wall, neon green beads still hanging around his neck, plastic shamrocks tangled in the chain. A cigarette is clenched between his fingers, smoke curling up into the dark.
Strange. Brandon never mentioned he smoked.
“Gracie.” He tips his head in a nod, then takes in a deep drag and blows the smoke out of his nose.
“Careful,” I reply, “that stuff can kill you.”
He leans his head back against the wall, takes another puff. “So judgmental.”
I shrug. “It’s your funeral.” I turn to take a few steps away. I don’t like the smell of cigarettes. Never have.
Footsteps follow.
“If it offends you that much,” Devon says, dropping the cigarette and grinding it beneath his heel, “there. Better now?”
“Whatever.” I tell him, “Don’t do it for my sake. I don’t care.”
I glance back toward the door, wondering what’s taking Beck so long.
