Afterward, we’re nothing but two wet noodles in a heap in the center of his bed. Breath sawing in and out. Sweat cooling.
This is almost my favorite part. Forest goes so still beside me. He’s stroking my hand absently. His hip touches mine.
“You undo me,” he whispers, and my heart skips a beat. It’s so close to perfect.
I don’t say it back, because I have to be careful. Always. I just squeeze his hand instead.
“Gotta deal with this condom,” he says sleepily.
My sex-addled brain says, “Why’d you bother, anyway?” He’s gone without before. Well, once. But we don’t need condoms to be safe.
I can tell I’ve fucked up when his forehead creases. “It’s respectful.”
“You know I’m not sleeping around.” In for a penny, etcetera.
“But you could be,” he says quietly. “I got no right to assume otherwise.”
For once, I’m glad he gets up and goes into the bathroom, because I don’t know if I can control my expression.
I’m the idiot who brought it up, after all. I have no right to feel hurt by this. Not tonight of all nights.
Be cool, James. Everything is fine. Everything is great.
Five minutes later he brings me a warm, damp cloth to clean up, and we arrange ourselves in his bed to sleep.
“Beck,” he whispers softly, a hand on my hip. “Congrats on your big night.”
“Thanks,” I say, moving my feet to tangle with his.
For some stupid reason, my eyes are stinging.
Thirty-Five
A Cry for Help
Forest
March
“I got this,” Davie, my newest employee, says. “Seriously. I know how to make a French 75.”
“Okay, cool. Sorry.” I back away, and he reaches for the gin while simultaneously shimmying his hips to the music.
It’s a damp Wednesday in early March, and there’s an engagement party in full swing at the game-room end of the bar. Two of our regulars decided to get hitched, and they’re celebrating here. The cocktail orders are rolling in.
Luckily, we’re fully staffed for the first time in forever. I should be ecstatic, but after months of unlucky breaks, I’m conditioned to believe the next crisis will pop up any minute.
“Maybe go home?” Scully says, nodding toward the hockey game on the screen above the bar. “You’ve worked more shifts than the Cougars’ captain during the run-up to the playoffs.”
“Home?” I echo. That’s a dramatic idea. Especially when there’s a box of tax documents in our office that’s yelling my name.
“Yeah, remember that place? Where your bed is?” He winks. “Maybe call your guy and see if he’s free.”
I pat my pocket absently, where my phone lives. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from Beck in a couple of days. Have I? My heart does a weird little flop, and I duck under the bar and wander toward the office, where I pull out my phone.
I find my text thread with Beck and plop down in the shoddy office chair that’s held together with duct tape. The last message is from three whole days ago.
What is happening?
