by Scott, Kylie
“You were ready to give the woman a ring, but not a drawer.”
“Telling, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice wry.
I take a sip of my drink. “Question. If Selah already has money and position, why is she working as your stepmother’s PA?”
“Answer. Because she has her own daddy issues. Her old man believes her life goal is to marry well and produce heirs. He won’t let her get a foot in with the family company.”
“Jesus.”
“And since he has a lot of friends, the chances of her finding a job in this town are…not good. Rachel is about the only person who’d stand up to him. But she’s making Selah work her way up. Kind of amazed she kept her on after the shit with me went down.”
“Do you resent that?”
“Are you my therapist now?” he asks with a smile.
“No. Just curious.”
“We all make mistakes. And just because Rachel’s giving her a second chance doesn’t mean I will be.”
“Okay. So that’s why you went wandering?”
“It’s part of it.” He sits back with his beer, the flames from the fire casting shadows across his face. Making the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the cut of his jaw even more prominent. “Thing is, if everything hadn’t gone to hell, I wouldn’t have found you. A woman who almost has a panic attack when I spend money on her. A woman who now owns almost every drawer in the apartment.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“I wouldn’t have walked away from all of this and gotten some perspective.”
“Is that what cleaning tables did for you?” I ask.
“What I discovered is, that it’s not until you get completely away from your family and all of your support systems and have to stand on your own two feet that you find out who you really are. Living without the money and Elliot name, I’d never had that before,” he says, voice thoughtful. “Of course, I could have made a phone call and gotten it all back. Dad would have sent the private jet to fetch me. With a bit of groveling, I’m sure all would have been forgiven.”
I nod, nursing my drink. “But you didn’t.”
“I survived the trials and tribulations of minimum wage.” His tone is heavy on the self-mockery. “Like millions of my fellow citizens.”
“And now you’re back.”
“Yes, I am.”
“With a girl who’s the exact opposite of your ex.”
He raises a brow in question.
“Physical, financial, social status…they’re all very different.”
“Okay,” he says, straightening up and leaning forward. “Time for me to play therapist here for a minute. Let me make this very clear. You are not some juvenile rebellion on my part. I am not trying to lash out at my dead daddy or any other assorted members of my family by being with someone from beyond their circle. I set out to learn about the world outside of the Elliot bubble and wound up finding someone who likes me for me and not my money. Someone who is funny and hot, and who I very much like spending time with. You. Are you hearing me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He sighs. “Furthermore, I am not Paul. I’m neither using you nor embarrassed by you. Nor am I sexually incompetent.”
“But I only have your word for that now, don’t I?”
He tips his chin. “Be precise. Which part of my diatribe are you casting doubt on exactly?”
“The claims of expertise when it comes to fucking.”
“Alice, Alice, Alice.” He clicks his tongue. “If you think I’m putting out now just to prove a point or to meet your dare, you are very much mistaken.”
“We need to discuss this whole waiting thing,” I mumble. “Please give me a full and thorough explanation for why this is necessary again. Especially since we’re now officially sharing a bed and living space.”
“I just think it’s best we wait.” And he says it so casually. Like it’s already decided and that’s that.
“Why?”
“Lots of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Actually, there’s just the one. The solidity of our relationship,” he announces. “Now, this is all very cutting-edge science, I assure you. Try your best to keep up. You see, I’m basing my hypothesis on my own past experiments in this particular field.”
“I’m listening.”
“This may shock you, but in every relationship I’ve had up until now sex tends to enter the equation quite early on. And each and every one of those relationships failed.” He holds out a hand like he’s presenting something. Like he’s a magician as opposed to a sexy moron. “In summation, it is my belief that fucking too soon quite possibly fucks things up long-term.”
I wrinkle my nose. “No.”
“Yes.”
Give me strength. “Or maybe you just weren’t compatible with these other people.”
“Maybe.”
“Or either you or they weren’t ready or looking for a relationship at that particular point in time.”
“Perhaps.”
“Or there could have been trust issues or a hundred other reasons why relationships fail that have nothing to do with sex.”
“Yes. Quite possibly,” he agrees. “Or, I’m right, and we should take it slow.”
I need alcohol. Lots of it. “So none of my very valid points matter because you’ve already made up your mind.”
He says nothing.
“You know, this is probably me overthinking shit. But I’m actually feeling slightly slut shamed for wanting to have sex with you sooner rather than later.”
“What?” He scowls. “No.”
“I thought taking it slow was this fun game we were both playing. But now it feels very much like you’re wearing the pants of judgment.”
His forehead furrows. “Alice, no. Absolutely not. We are going to have sex and lots of it, I promise you. We’re just taking it slow.”
“I officially hate that word.”
“And this is not about me not wanting you. Do not doubt yourself,” he says. “When I masturbate in the shower, you are the undisputed star of the show. Both morning and night.”
I blink. “That was actually kind of hot. Say it again.”
“That this is not about me not wanting you?”
“No. The other bit.”
“Do not doubt yourself or us.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes I want to throw things at you,” I confess. “Not necessarily sharp or even particularly heavy hard-hitting objects. But…you know…things.”
There’s laughter in his eyes now. “You want me to repeat the bit about masturbating while thinking about you, huh? Would you like to know specific fantasies or do you just enjoy me talking dirty to you in general?”
I’m not panting. That’s someone else. “You can’t tell me you’ve masturbated thinking about me and then ask me to wait to have sex. It’s unreasonable.”
“And yet I’m doing it.” He collects the used plates and utensils to take back inside, returning with another couple of beers in hand. “Now, the next question is, why are you trying to rush things between us?”
“Perhaps I’m just interested in what’s in your pants.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier? I’d be delighted to send you a dick pic.” He passes me a beer with a grin. “Dad always said to ensure our digital footprint was as light and legal as possible. But what with me having missed your last twenty-two birthdays, a nicely lit shot of my junk is the least I can do. I’ll even pick out an arty filter for you.”
I snort/laugh. So ladylike. “I’ll be sure to use it as the wallpaper on my cell.”
“I would hope so.” He settles back in his seat opposite me. For all of the beauty of the stars and the city lights, nothing beats just staring at him. “What are you thinking about?”
“You know you use humor as a kind of defense system, right? As a way to keep people at a distance.”
His brows rise. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Hmm.”
“I wonder if we have a bit of that in common, hiding behind wit and sarcasm.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can’t entirely discount his words. Not when deep down I know there’s an element of truth to them. So instead, I say, “Maybe.”
“My first instinct is to say something clever here, so I guess that proves your point. But I’m going to resist the urge and just give you the truth.” For a long moment, he stares at me. “I want this to work, Alice. I need it to work.”
“But you’d be okay without me.”
“I’d be alone without you. And you’d be alone without me. Is that what you really want?”
“Sometimes alone is safer.”
“Sure,” he says, tipping his chin. “I can say I’m not going to hurt you and mean every word. But things happen. Life happens. Us being together, trying to make this work, is a risk. I happen to think it’s a worthwhile one and I’m hoping you do too.”
And then it hits me. “You’re afraid of being alone.”
“No, I’m used to being alone. I’ve spent most of my life alone. And I’ll take alone over being used or lied to any day of the week.” He swallows. “But I’m betting that you’re not out to do either of those things. I’m betting that you’re the sweet funny woman I met in a shitty bar in LA whose smile made me a little crazy. Who laughed at my stupid jokes, invited me to her favorite diner, and held my hand when we walked on the beach.”
“Beck…”
“I lay awake for hours thinking about you. Couldn’t get you out of my head.” His smile is pure. There’s no other word for it. “I hadn’t planned on hanging around in LA. But I had to go back for more.”
“I was so scared you’d leave. I’d only just met you, but…” And I don’t mean to say it, however, my idiot mouth just blurts it out. “This is all moving so fast. Apart from the sex, I mean.”
Nothing from him. The expression in his eyes, however, is one of worry. It makes my heart hurt to see him this way. I rise and head over to his couch, curling up next to him. He slides an arm around my shoulders, drawing me close. Together is definitely better, he’s right about that.
“You’re not alone.” I cover his hand with mine. “I’m here, Beck, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay,” he says, voice low. “Thank you.”
“Selah is an idiot. You’re already the dream guy without the money or the name. You’re officially too good to be true.”
“Officially, huh?”
“Yep.” I rest my head against his shoulder and watch the flames. We’ve both had enough real, angst, and honest for the time being. “Doesn’t mean I’m agreeing with your whole philosophy of abstinence making the heart grow fonder or the relationship grow stronger, however.”
“Just because you disagree doesn’t mean I’m giving you the d.” He taps his bottle against mine before downing some beer. “I think spirited discourse and an occasional disagreement is healthy in a relationship. Yay, us.”
“Yay,” I say drolly.
Beck kisses the top of my head before resting his cheek there. Everything is going to be okay. I’m like fifty-seven percent sure of it.
CHAPTER SIX
Beck avoids my going to bed and waking up attempts at enticing him into sex by simply being absent. He stays up late working in the office then is gone by the time I wake. When I text him, he says he’s at the gym then heading straight to work. But I will not be deterred. Just because other relationships he’s been in hit the wall doesn’t mean we necessarily will. And he can’t avoid me on the mattress forever. It might be big, but it’s not that big.
Emotions-wise, we feel more stable after the discussion the night before. Which doesn’t mean it’s still not all a terrifying risk, but here we are. Everything is scary if you look at it the wrong way. But I want to keep looking at him and listening to him and lying next to him for a good long time.
It turned out, Selah had found my clothes and they’re in the walk-in closet along with all of the new stuff. Thank fuck for that. I’ll have to remember to thank her. Though it kind of irks me to acknowledge any of her good deeds, after Beck’s story last night and her part in the father’s machinations. She hurt my boyfriend. Not something I’ll forget anytime soon.
While I don’t mind being tidied up a little, I am not down with having the original version of me erased. They actually did a great job on the clothes and stuff. Most of it seems to be in the colors I like and not so far afield of my own style that I don’t recognize myself anymore. Of course, there’s a few things I’d rather remove a limb than wear. But all in all the personal shoppers know how to do their jobs. As you’d expect from anyone who worked for Rachel—she clearly knows how to take control of a situation.
Beck left me a note that he’d be busy until late afternoon, so it’s time to play tourist. After I call my mom to let her know I’m both still alive and still with Beck. I also give her the full explanation about his money and his family. She’s a little astounded, to say the least. And fair enough. I’m not even sure I’ve gotten my head around it all yet.
I walk over to Larimer Square to look around. Lots of cool boutiques and an Italian restaurant with awesome pizza and a Cucumber Lavender Rickey to die for. Got to love old-fashioned cocktails gone hipster. This is when my cell chimes, alerting me to a text.
Natasha: Hey.
Me: Hi! How you doing?
Natasha: Work, life, blah blah blah. What about you?
Me: Met someone, quit my job, and maybe moved to Denver.
Natasha: Maybe or did move to Denver? This is not an in-between kind of statement. Unless you’re stuck halfway in Utah.
Me: Did. I guess. Guy I met comes from here.
And that’s when my cell rings.
“I can’t wait for you to text me,” says Natasha, by way of greeting. “I need answers now. So you finally told Rob to shove it, huh?”
We used to work together at the bar before she ran off to New York. She knows the pain that is Rob firsthand. “I did,” I say. “It was glorious. Called him rude words and everything.”
“And now you’re in Denver?”
“Yes. A guy came to work at the bar—let’s call him hot busboy for the sake of this story—and we started flirting and stuff happened.”
“Okay.”
“Then it turned out he was rich and came from Denver and had to go back to Denver so eventually I went there too and that brings us up to now.”
“Wait,” she says. “He’s rich? How rich?”
“Very. Think big wealthy dysfunctional family with lots of mansions and businesses and I do not fit in.”
“But he wants you there.”
I smile. “He does. Anyway, how are things with you?”
“I work, I date, I drink coffee. The usual.” She sighs. “Tell me more about rich busboy. That’s far more interesting. Nice catch, by the way.”
“Please don’t say that.” I sigh. “I didn’t set out to catch a rich dude or something. It just kind of happened.”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“He’s the greatest. I really like him.”
“You’re using middle school speak. Give me specifics. How does he treat you? What’s he like in bed?” she rapid fires questions. “What’s his name?”
“Great. None of your business. And Beck Olson.”
“Putting you on speaker so I can look him up.”
“Okay.” I wait. “What have you found?”
“You haven’t looked him up yourself?” she asks. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start answering that question.” I stir my drink with a paper straw. “His stepmother gave me a makeover yesterday. Clothes, hair, makeup…the whole shebang.”
“Why don’t you sound happy? Normal people love makeovers. Especially when someone else is paying.” She makes a humming noise. “Ex-fiancée is pretty. I hate her already.”
“She’s actually not t
hat bad. At least she’s been sort of nice to me.”
“Fuck me, his mother is a supermodel.”
“Crazy, right?”
“This is wild,” says Natasha. “Oh, he is a very good-looking specimen. That jawline, that dark floppy hair. I think I’m in love.”
“Don’t make me hang up on you.”
“Hey, there’s a photo of you two together.”
“There is? Where?”
“Denver Days. Looks like a lifestyle slash gossip site,” she says. “If it makes you feel any better, the makeover you got worked a treat. You look very shiny. Lots of speculation about new mystery girlfriend and his return in the wake of his father’s death. Not much else.”
I put her on speaker, look up the site, and cringe. Photos of me in general are the worst. Though the outfit and hair are pretty great. It’s from when we were standing outside the Heritage yesterday. I hadn’t even realized there was a photographer around at that stage. “Hmm.”
“I’ve never had a famous friend.”
“You still don’t. He’s got the name and money, not me,” I say. “I’ve never had random people digging into my private life before. This is so strange. Let alone living this lifestyle, having these things, which I’ve done nothing to deserve.”
“Try to put the guilt aside and see it as weird fun as opposed to weird horrible.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re telling yourself shitty things inside your head, aren’t you?” she says, voice stern. “You need to cut that out. It’s bullying. You’re cute and cool and he’s lucky to have you.”
“Nat…”
“What would you say to me if I was being all self-doubty and whiny?” she asks.
“Pull your head of your ass, you beautiful goddess?”
“Exactly. Now go find a mirror and say it to yourself.”
“Will do.” I take a deep breath. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Stand tall, shoulders back, and tits out,” I say.
“That’s the way.” She laughs. “You’ve got this.”
By the time I get back to the Heritage in the early afternoon, it’s coffee time. Except the coffee shop is still handling a roaring lunchtime crowd and there’s nary a seat to be found. So I head inside for the cocktail bar where it’s not quite so crowded. Still, the bartender/mixologist is working her ass off and the waiter on duty is all but running back and forth from the kitchen to serve meals to many groups of people seated around the low tables. Seems like the Heritage is very popular.
