America’s Geekheart

by Grant, Pippa

  Nearly all sounds of silverware clanking on plates have stopped. Beck’s still watching the screen, but he drapes his arm over my chair and leans in close, smelling like cinnamon and cloves tonight. “You ever seen anything like this before?”

  “I saw a documentary about elephants giving birth once, but not live. And I watched that eagle cam, but birds hatching isn’t quite the same.”

  “She’s just—wow,” he breathes.

  He’s not at all grossed out, or horrified, and his stomach gives a rumble that he doesn’t seem to notice.

  I squeeze his leg and press a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek, because I can’t help myself. He turns a smile to me, not a smolder, not a face for the cameras, but a soft, honest smile that sets the bees buzzing through my belly.

  He scoots closer and instead of keeping his arm casually draped around the back of my chair, he wraps an arm around me, and I lean into him, breathing in his scent, my hand resting on his long, lean, solid thigh while we watch Persephone give birth to a brand-new baby giraffe.

  A gasp goes up through the room when the baby plops to the ground, but within minutes, Persephone has helped the little one to its feet, and I’m not crying, but I’m definitely choked up.

  The curator is weeping.

  And Beck just breathes, “Wow.”

  “One more giraffe in the world,” I whisper.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” someone calls.

  The curator blows his nose and holds up a finger.

  “They won’t know until they can examine it,” I tell her.

  The curator points at me, then at his nose.

  My dad’s still doing the breathing exercises with my mom, his head under the tablecloth.

  Beck seems to remember we’re not alone, and he straightens suddenly with a broad grin. “That was epic.”

  “You have the craziest luck,” Ellie tells him.

  “Right? What are the odds that tweet would’ve brought us Sarah?”

  And there goes more mushy warmth in my chest, because she clearly meant luck with the timing of Persephone giving birth, but instead, he wants to talk about me.

  Dad recovers, and the gradual noises of people eating returns to the banquet hall. People start milling, all while the live video of Persephone tending her newborn calf plays on the projector.

  No owls swoop in.

  My dress doesn’t split.

  Beck keeps a hand on me at all times. On my back. Brushing my hair out of my face. Touching my elbow to turn me to meet someone new.

  No one asks about the tweet, but several people stop at our table and want to talk about Persephone or my blog or one of the projects the Ryders have worked on or how Ellie’s doing after her accident or what Wyatt’s plans are for after the military or how honored they are to have my parents here in Copper Valley.

  They tease Beck about his underwear.

  At least, until I point out it’s the most comfortable underwear on the planet and challenge them to prove they’re not wearing it.

  All with a Mom-approved smile, of course. I am still Sunny Darling’s daughter.

  The live feed on Persephone times out before any of us get a really good look at her calf, and the zoo’s curator tells us updates will be posted online as soon as the zookeepers are able to check over both mama and baby giraffe.

  As the crowd begins to clear out and Charlie gives us the time to go signal, I pause and dig my phone out of my purse and hit the camera function. “How’s the light?” I ask Beck.

  His brows knit together. “The light?”

  “The light. We need to post another video. Since Persephone gave birth.”

  His intense scrutiny slowly turns to a wide smile that makes my heart go skipping over itself. “Yeah?”

  “Yes. And hurry up before Charlie marches us out of here and I lose my nerve.”

  He takes my phone from me and holds it out, his long arms working to our advantage. “Ready?”

  I nod, and he hits the button to record us.

  “Hey, Must Love Bees followers, this is Sarah Dempsey. And this guy I picked up at some fancy dinner tonight. And I’m too excited to wait to get home and change before asking if you all saw that Persephone the giraffe gave birth tonight. If you were watching along with the rest of us, wasn’t she amazing? Such a beautiful creature. And if you haven’t seen it yet, well, don’t do what my dad did and pass out under a table. Maybe just wait for the pictures if you’re squeamish, okay? Hit the comments and tell me what you were doing when Persephone gave birth! I’m heading home for a nice long bubble bath and to wait for news about whether we have a girl or a boy.”

  “She had a girl,” Beck says.

  “You think?” I ask him.

  “Definitely. Did you see how strong she was and how fast she stood up? Totally a girl.”

  “Boy giraffes can also stand up soon after birth.”

  “I guess, but I still think our baby’s a girl.”

  My belly flutters. “Then I guess by default, I’ll have to guess he’s a boy.”

  He grins at me. “Want to put money on it?”

  “Nope, but I’d bet an ice cream sundae.”

  “You’re on, taser lady.”

  I wave at the camera. “Congrats to Persephone and the Copper Valley Zoo on their new addition.”

  Beck shuts the video off, and before I can lose my nerve, I post it to my feed.

  “You’re such a natural, sweetheart,” my mom says with a sniffle.

  “I’m going to throw up.”

  “No, you’re not.” Beck pulls me in for a hug and presses a kiss to my giant hair. “You’re the bravest fucking badass I’ve ever met,” he whispers.

  “You’ve obviously lived a very sheltered celebrity existence.”

  He laughs.

  “Time to go, folks,” Charlie says.

  We filter back out of the planetarium, thanking the staff as we go, and the bride whose wedding was canceled, which I didn’t know until Beck introduced me to her and she thanked us for saving her reception.

  I hug her extra tight on the way out, because I know a thing or a million about awkward.

  When we reach the three limos waiting at the door, Beck grips my hand. “You really going to girls’ night?” he murmurs.

  “Depends. If I go home with you, will I need my clothes?”

  “Nope. I got this amazing teddy bear robe you can borrow.”

  The laugh sneaks out of me, and the next thing I know, I’m waving bye to everyone while we dive into the back of the first limo, and then his lips are capturing mine, his arms wrapping around me, and suddenly the only thing in the entire world that matters is kissing him back.

  Because this isn’t what I’ve been waiting for from the moment he came back to my house to apologize after I tasered him.

  This is what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.

  Thirty-Four

  Beck

  I can’t keep my hands to myself.

  Or my mouth, for that matter.

  And since Sarah’s kissing me back, her hands clutching my shirt, I decide that I’m just going to live right here, in the back of this car, and kiss her—and more—for the rest of my life.

  Thank fuck I live in a time when we can order food to be delivered to the back seat of a car.

  And when I can meet a total stranger who just might be the love of my life thanks to invisible waves floating through the air to computers in our pockets.

  What an awesome world.

  The car jerks to a stop, and I realize we’re back at my building.

  Huh.

  “Do you want to stay here or go upstairs?” I ask her. On a pant. I don’t want to quit kissing her.

  Her nose wrinkles, and I realize she probably wasn’t thinking about living in a car just to make out, but now I want to know what she was thinking about.

  I can’t read her through all that makeup.

  “Upstairs,” I say, and I get distracted by her collarbone, because it’s undoubt
edly the shapeliest collarbone in the history of bones. And collars. And it’s right there on display in this dress that I hate despite how pretty it is as far as dresses go, and how much of her collarbones it shows, because she’s not comfortable in it.

  Dammit.

  I have to get her upstairs and out of this ridiculous getup.

  I move so fast she’s gaping at me as I reach across her and fling the car door open. “C’mon. Upstairs. Go.”

  “Bossy.”

  “I’ll make out with you in the elevator.”

  She laughs, then she winces when there’s a distinct ripping noise.

  But she’s climbing out. I strip out of my coat and fling it around her shoulders so that wherever she’s ripping, nobody has to see, and we’re not exactly alone here, because we’re being dropped at the front of the building, not the back, or in the garage. I hustle her inside and to my private elevator and hit the button for the penthouse, and then I have my hands on her again.

  Her hips. Her ass.

  “Oh, no, here.” She swipes her thumb over my mouth.

  I must be wearing her lipstick. Not that I mind.

  Especially if it means she’s touching me.

  “I hate this stuff,” she mutters, and yeah, I hate it too. Not because I’m wearing it, but because all that mascara is obstructing my view of her eyes.

  “I want to kiss you until I can’t remember how to breathe.”

  Those gorgeous chocolate pools lift to meet my gaze, and I feel like I’ve taken another ten thousand volts to the chest.

  So fucking gorgeous.

  So fucking perfect.

  “It’s the dress,” she says.

  “Sarah.” I blow out an impatient breath. “I don’t care what you’re wearing. It’s you.”

  Her brows furrow, but she’s wearing a smile as she continues to wipe at my lips. I capture her hand and press kisses to her fingers.

  “You make me feel pretty all the time,” she whispers.

  “You’re so much more than just pretty.”

  We get to the top floor, and I lock the elevator, because hell if I’m letting anyone else in right now. And then I pull Sarah to the kitchen.

  “What—” she starts.

  Her eyes go round when I pull a pair of scissors out of the island drawer.

  “How much do you like this dress?” I ask.

  “Zipper!” she shrieks, and there’s one more distinct sound of a seam ripping.

  “Hold on, baby, I’ll have you breathing free again in just a minute.” Sure enough, there’s a zipper on the back of her dress. I yank the tab down, and she sucks in a giant breath as the fabric opens.

  “Oh my god, that feels so good.”

  Her legs are still shrink-wrapped in the dress. “You honestly like this thing?”

  “Don’t start, fashion police. I like gold lace, okay? It brings out my eyes.”

  “I love your eyes. Especially when they’re not surrounded by insect legs. I’d like your dress better if it wasn’t strangling you.”

  She’s laughing as she turns, giving me another look at those shoulder blades, and fuck if I’m not hard in an instant.

  Her shoulder blades are just as sexy as her collarbones.

  Maybe more so.

  So shouldery. And bladey. And covered in soft Sarah skin. And leading down to the curviest ass that I want to stroke and knead all fucking night long.

  “The zipper goes lower,” she tells me over her shoulder. “If you can get it…down…”

  I stop her before she spins in a circle trying to reach it herself, and I stand behind her and tug her zipper lower, below her mid-back, to her waist, and lower, over the curve of her ass, my hand shaky, my dick aching.

  I can’t see her skin lower than her shoulder blades, because it’s all still held in by a nude bodysuit. She casts a furtive glance at the solid wall of windows looking out over the twinkling city lights.

  “Mabel, dim the windows,” I say.

  “Dimming windows,” my digital assistant says, and the blinds automatically lower from their case in the ceiling.

  “Oh my god, that was so hot,” she whispers. “But Mabel’s not spying on us, is she?”

  “Mabel, go to sleep.”

  “Behave yourself and use a condom,” she replies in her electronic voice. “Night-EE. Night.”

  “Fucking Hank,” I mutter.

  But Sarah’s laughing, and then wheezing. “Oh my god, get me out of this thing.”

  Who am I to deny a lady in need?

  I try to wedge a finger under the undergarment, and my digit starts to go numb in seconds. “I forbid you to ever wear a piece of shit like this ever again,” I inform her.

  “You forbid me?”

  “Don’t use that don’t go all macho man voice on me. This is your circulation we’re talking about. I can’t give you a double orgasm if you can’t feel your pussy.”

  She stops talking.

  She also sucks in a deep breath, which makes the industrial-strength rubber band she’s wrapped in pinch my finger tighter, and fuck, I hope I don’t cut either one of us, but it’s not like I’m calling in reinforcements to get her naked.

  And I don’t even care about getting her naked.

  I mean, I do, but I’m really more concerned about making sure she can breathe.

  “If I cut my finger off, I want you to carry on without me,” I tell her while I angle my finger deeper beneath the death Lycra. “You need to breathe more than I need the tip of my finger.”

  She laughs again, but I manage to use my superhuman strength to stretch the mutant rubber band away from her skin far enough to snip the edge of it, and then I drop the scissors and pull.

  And grunt.

  And yank.

  Shit.

  And then I have to pick the scissors up again and snip-snip-snip my way down the bodysuit.

  While she shakes with silent laughter.

  I’d make a fool of myself all night long to hear her laugh.

  When I have it split down to the base of her spine, I put the scissors down—again—and this time, I wrap my arms around her belly and press a kiss to her shoulder. “The entertainment part of the evening is now complete,” I tell her.

  She shivers, and goosebumps erupt all over her smooth skin.

  “You want some sweatpants?” I ask, my lips still on her delicious skin.

  Honey.

  She always tastes like honey.

  “No,” she whispers.

  “Dammit, don’t tell me you want more rubber bands. We’ll have to go down to the office. If you’re into bondage, we can do it in ways where you’ll still be able to breathe. I think. I’ll have to google that too.”

  “Beck.”

  “You have the sexiest voice.”

  She twists in my arms so she’s facing me, and her fingers go to my bow tie. “I have a confession,” she whispers.

  “I’m a vault of silence. Please don’t ever stop touching me.”

  God, that smile.

  But it’s wrong. It’s not the right color.

  “I have a thing for guys who wear real bow ties.” She expertly unties me and leaves it hanging loose around my neck, then starts on my buttons.

  “I have a thing for ladies who have things for guys who wear real bow ties.”

  Her fingers still while she studies me. “Then why the frown? You never frown.”

  Because I can’t see her eyes clearly through all the goop on her lashes, and her lips are the wrong color, and this isn’t Sarah.

  It’s the Hollywood Fake Sarah.

  I don’t like it.

  She squeals when I swing her up in my arms. “Beck? What—”

  “I miss you,” I tell her.

  And I’m fucking going to find her.

  Thirty-Five

  Sarah

  My dress is dangling on my top half and still clinging to my lower half when Beck carries me down the hallway and turns into a bedroom.

  A large, airy, silver-and
-black bedroom with a marble fireplace and two huge armchairs, a bookshelf full of comic books, and a king-size bed with rumpled sheets and a black comforter tossed half-off. The room opens onto a patio that I can’t see well through the glass, but there are definitely fairy lights out there, among other lights. He turns another corner, and then we’re in a bathroom the size of my bedroom with a massive soaking tub and a glass-walled shower with a rainspout and wall nozzles. He sets me gently on the marble counter, riffles through a drawer in the vanity beneath the sink, and comes up with a makeup remover cloth and two clean black washcloths.

  I suck in a breath.

  Of course he has makeup remover.

  “Close your eyes,” he says gruffly, and because he’s so very serious, I do as asked.

  He warms the water, and a moment later, he’s wiping a warm washcloth over my face, removing the makeup, then rubbing soft, slow circles over my skin, massaging my face.

  And not talking.

  Beck.

  Not talking.

  I start to pry open one eyelid, but he whispers, “Closed, Sarah.”

  And then he’s softly wiping my eyes too.

  So gentle.

  So very gentle.

  Like I’m delicate and he doesn’t want to break me.

  I suck in a shuddery breath while my heart swells, because in my entire life, no one has ever treated me as though I’m delicate.

  My feelings, yes—my parents walked on eggshells for a few years after prom. Before it too, if I’m being honest, because my teen years were ugly for all the reasons.

  But physically—not like this.

  He uses the warm washcloth to massage my forehead. My cheeks. Around my eyes. My jaw and chin. So very gently over my lips. Down my neck.

  All with one hand holding the back of my head, his fingers carefully massaging the base of my skull, his scent filling my senses, mingling with the scent of my arousal, his touch setting my skin on fire.

  “There you are,” he says softly, and I blink open my eyes to find him studying my face with a mixture of awe and reverence. My cheeks tingle with relief at being in fresh air again, and there’s an awkward lump clogging my throat, because I swear, he’s thinking I’m gorgeous without any makeup at all.