Good thing everyone’s wrong about me being in a “delicate condition”.
The room was silent, but when I hear a drawer close and glance over my shoulder—I freeze.
Beckett is wearing a towel. Only a towel.
Which, considering he took so long, is totally unacceptable. He ought to be fully dressed, shaved even.
I narrow my eyes, mostly to pretend I’m not staring.
“I saved some salad for you,” I say.
He pauses, looking up from his suitcase, and just arches a brow. Beckett has this uncanny ability to look calm under all circumstances, something that’s infuriating and comforting at the same time.
The man could be naked in a hurricane and still look composed.
Unfair.
A quiet ache starts to bloom, one I remember far too well.
And I could blame that ache on the wine, but I know that’s not why I feel so drawn to him.
It’s because this is the Beckett I fell in love with. My very sexy best friend, husband, and lover.
The one that makes me forget all the reasons I’m sodamnmad at him.
I can’t help but sigh. Because, yeah…so unfair.
His skin’s still damp, bronzed from the sun, and that towel is riding low… dangerously low.
Still, there is no evidence of any tattoo.
And then—just like that—he lets the towel fall.
No warning. No pause. No apology.
A flash of silver. Just a glint, where I was once so intimately familiar.
I should look away. Really, I should look away.
I don’t.
Because this… is new.
I think it winks at me and my brain blanks completely.
There is no protocol for this.
A low ache clenches inside me, and my mouth goes dry.
And God help me, it’s… stupidly beautiful.
When Beckett glances up, meets my eyes, I don’t even try to pretend I wasn’t staring.
“So,” I manage, “not a tattoo.”
He stands up, the towel dangling from his hand, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “No,” he says. And,oh my God.
I.
