by Aven Ellis
Hi. Welcome home.
I swipe open my Twitter account to see what’s going on when my phone vibrates in my hand.
My heart leaps. It’s Beckett.
Funny you should say that. I’m in the parking garage.
Happiness zips through me. Yay! He’s home. And I’ll be seeing him in a matter of hours. I’m about to say that when he shoots me another message.
Technically it’s Sunday. Wanna have brunch?
Wait. He wants to see me . . . now?
I text him back.
Right now? I’m in my pajamas! By the way, it would be breakfast not brunch at one-thirty in the morning.
Beckett replies right back.
Who is the smart ass now? Breakfast should happen in pajamas. I’ll pick you up on the way.
I laugh at that and reply.
Fine. But if I’m in pajamas, you need to be in them, too. Warning: I have no makeup on. You might be scared off by my appearance.
Then I wait to see what he says.
If I’m scared off by no makeup, then I’m an asshole. Not gonna happen. Especially with you. Be there in a few minutes.
Oh! My face grows warm from his words. Happiness floods me. With Beckett, he means what he says. I know from that text he wouldn’t care if I was sick or looked tired or anything, he simply wants to be with me. Not the made-up for a date me, but the girl I am at one-thirty in the morning.
And within minutes that is the girl who is going to greet him at the door.
Chapter 18
The Aubrey Rules To Live By, Rule #18: For the first few dates with a new guy, you’re still dressing to impress. Makeup, perfume, and a fashion-forward outfit (suitable for the occasion) is a must. Also, never be too eager to reply to his texts. Guys live for the chase.
**Amendment** I should be mortified that Beckett is about to see me in drawstring thermal bottoms with a T-shirt and wild, unruly red hair that has not seen a flat iron, but I get the impression Beckett wants to see the real me. So this rule is hereby amended to say the above rule is dependent on the date involved.
**Amendment #2** The text rule is stricken from the book. If a guy needs to chase me, he’s not the guy for me.
**Note** I wonder what Beckett wears to bed.
**Note #2** GAH, I AM ABOUT TO FIND OUT WHAT BECKETT WEARS TO BED. IF IT IS BOXER BRIEFS I’M IN BIG TROUBLE.
I throw back the covers and hurry into the luxurious master bathroom. I flip on the lights, squinting as I adjust to the bright light, and then manage to focus on my appearance.
Eeek! My red hair is really unruly right now, the waves all over the place. But there’s no time to tame it. I grab my toothbrush and brush my teeth. Okay. So at least I have minty-fresh breath. I have on a long-sleeved top that says ‘It’s a Messy Bun and Pajama Pants Kind of Day’ paired with gray thermal drawstring pajama bottoms. A pair of thick, cabled gray socks finish my outfit.
I slide open one of the gazillion drawers in this bathroom and grab a black hair band. I wind my hair up in a messy bun—might as well live the motto—and then study my appearance.
My brain is jolted awake and a complete panic hits me. Good Lord, I’m going to meet Beckett looking like this? My hair in a bun? Have I lost my freaking mind? He said no makeup is fine, but I don’t think he expected this when he said it!
I chew on my lower lip for a second. Maybe I should throw a hoodie and jeans on. That would be better. I hurry over to the walk-in closet, which is the size of my old bedroom back in Washington, and rifle through the jeans I have neatly folded into a drawer. I reach for my favorite distressed pair when the doorbell rings.
Shit! There’s no time. Maybe I can stall Beckett at the door.
I hurry through the condo and unlock the door, but only a crack.
But a crack is all I need to see he’s gorgeous in a black wool overcoat, black sharp suit, and crisp white dress shirt. No tie, and the shirt is unbuttoned a few notches.
Oh, he’s beyond hot in that suit.
And his hotness has rendered me speechless.
“Um, hi?” Beckett prods. “Are you back to thinking I’m a serial killer or something? Is that why you’re using the chain lock?”
Then he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I feel my face grow hot. “I’m rethinking you seeing me in my pajamas,” I blurt out.
“What? Seriously?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m a mess. Let me change. Give me fifteen minutes to get ready.”
“Aubrey,” Beckett says, his voice both soft and commanding at the same time, “I don’t care.”
“You say that now.”
“Do you think I’m an asshole?”
“No,” I say.
“Then open the door.”
I furrow my brow and study him. “This might be going too far for a second date, Captain.”
Beckett’s eyes light up. “First, it’s Captain Smart Ass, remember the title. Second, I’ll wear a really stupid T-shirt to make you feel better.”
He flashes me a grin, and that’s all he has to do to reassure me he’s not going to be scared off by lack of lipstick, a flat iron, and my hair in a messy bun.
I unhook the chain lock on the door and open it. And with a full view of him, I notice the cut underneath his left eye, and how it’s starting to turn colors from being punched.
“Your eye,” I say, studying the bruised area.
“I know, it’s ugly,” Beckett says, his tone apologetic.
“No, not at all. Does it hurt?” I ask, concerned.
“Nah,” he says softly. His eyes flicker over me, and I hold my breath as he does. Then I see it. The crooked smile. And my heart melts in response. “So messy bun and pajama pants, eh?”
“Eh, yes,” I tease, letting him inside and shutting the door behind him.
Beckett steps past me, and despite it being in the early hours of the morning, he smells of spice and pine. He sets his Louis Vuitton duffel bag and garment bag down in the foyer and turns to me, reaching for my hand.
Beckett entwines his fingers with mine and draws me to him, his other arm wrapping around me as I’m enveloped into his strong body. “I like the messy bun and pajama pants.”
My heart flutters as I gaze up into his gorgeous brown eyes. “Technically I’m wearing thermal bottoms.”
Beckett wrinkles his brow. “Thermals?”
“Okay, I shouldn’t tell you these types of things, I’m supposed to be flirty and sexy and have an air of mystery,” I babble nervously. “But it doesn’t feel right. As though I’m pretending to be some girl who lives out of Cosmo magazine. You know, the hard to get girl, the girl who will return two texts out of every five sent to her, the girl who will send you a sexy song on Spotify as a flirting tool, who believes in the random hook-up and I’m no—”
“Aubrey?”
I stop rambling. “Yes?”
“While I do want to hear your theory on hook-ups, I’d really rather kiss you right now.”
Beckett lowers his mouth to mine. His now familiar lips are warm and soft, and my hands find the hair at the nape of his neck and play with it as he deepens our kiss.
And nothing has ever felt so right to me as kissing this man does.
I slide my hands around to his face, feeling the hint of five o’clock shadow against my fingertips. Beckett’s hands dance along my ribcage, and I love the feeling of being in his arms. It’s sexy and warm and secure.
It’s perfect.
Beckett breaks the kiss and smiles at me. “So no hook-ups?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.
Gah.
“Um, aren’t we going to your place so you can get into your pajamas?”
And I need help if he sleeps in boxer briefs. Because then I’ll totally
be into hook-ups.
“I have pajamas in my bag,” Beckett says, playing with my hair. “So hook-ups. Expand.”
Oy, he’s not letting this go.
But something about the way he’s asking tells me this isn’t going to scare him away.
I play with one of the buttons on his white dress shirt. “I know it’s normal. I know there’s nothing wrong with wanting to hook-up,” I say. “But for me, personally, I can’t do it.”
“Moral issue?”
I gaze up at Beckett. “Sex has meaning to me. The first time I had sex I was sixteen, and I was curious. But it didn’t feel like it could be everything I thought it could be. So from that point on, I’ve always taken my time to get to that point.”
Beckett studies me. Shit. This is all wrong, all against the rules. I’m in my pajamas, and I’ve basically told him I’m not going to have sex with him anytime soon.
To a man who is called a life-ruiner on the Internet.
I step away from him. “You know I’ve broken all kinds of rules with you, right? I mean, you’re a hot athlete and girls drop their panties for you all the time, I know that, but I told you I’m not and it’s only our second date and why aren’t you running for the door?”
“I’m the boy who checked yes,” Beckett says simply. “I like you. And this, this rambling, tell the truth, kick-the-wall kind of girl, I check yes to all of this. I accept you. The way you are.”
Accept me. He accepts me. He knows that’s what I need.
I’m so moved I can’t speak. As I’m about to try, Beckett continues.
“And while I’d love to see your panties drop,” he says, grinning wickedly at me, “we’ll see where this goes. Now I’m going to put my pajamas on, and I hope you’ll make me breakfast, because I’m starving. And I assume we can eat here since there’s not a showing in the wee hours of the morning?”
I nod, and with that, he picks up his duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Where’s the restroom?”
I swallow. “Down the hall, third door on the right.”
He pauses as he passes me, taking a moment to drop his lips against my forehead. “Be right back.”
I watch as he moves past me. Most guys would run after that conversation. I way overshared. I told him I’m not having sex with him right away. Jeez, I even said ‘panty drop.’ Who says that to a date?
Well, apparently I do.
And Beckett likes it.
He’s so calm. Beckett listens and lets me ramble and takes it all in, then simply reassures me with his words.
Calm, I think. He makes me feel calm.
But more than that, he cares. He accepts me. I know he does. He’s genuine in his words.
And if my feelings keep growing for him, we’ll be seeing where this goes sooner rather than later.
I head into the kitchen then turn on the lights. I open the fridge and take out the items I bought to make brunch today. I’m going to make Beckett eggs, bacon, and pan-roasted potatoes with fresh rosemary. I snagged some orange-pomegranate juice at a juice bar yesterday and then went to that French market where he got the fries and bought some delicious croissants, too.
But first, coffee. I reach for the silver canister I’ve filled with Starbucks Pike Place blend and undo the latch. I take a moment to inhale it, as freshly ground coffee is one of the best smells ever. It used to be my favorite scent, actually.
However, a certain Canadian’s sexy cologne now has that top spot.
“Coffee?”
I turn around and nearly drop the canister. Beckett is coming into the kitchen, and as he is, he’s tugging a T-shirt over his head.
Oh, wow. He’s wearing sweatpants that dip around his hips. I catch a glimpse of his chiseled abs, the ones that taper into that sexy V-shape, and Beckett is completely ripped. Each muscle is cut and defined and heat tears through me the second I see them.
He pulls the heather gray fabric down, covering up the most incredible abs I’ve ever seen with a ‘Chicago Buffaloes Hockey’ T-shirt.
I’ve never seen an athlete’s body up close. I can’t get the image out of my head. Beckett is so damn hot and to know that’s underneath his clothing—
“Aubrey?”
I blink and stare up at him. He’s smiling at me.
“Huh?”
“Coffee?”
Oh shit. Yes. Coffee not abs. I need to focus.
“Yes but it’s Starbucks not Timmy’s,” I say, smiling at him. “And your shirt isn’t stupid.”
Beckett laughs. “Sorry, had to go with what was in my luggage. I’ll wear a stupid shirt next time. And I’ll forgive you not having Timmy’s this time.”
Beckett moves next to me, and now I’m noticing his arms in short sleeves. Oh, man, he’s huge. Even his forearms are powerful and muscular.
I shift my eyes back to the coffee before he catches me checking him out again.
“Yep, this is a Starbucks household,” I announce.
Beckett folds his arms across his massive chest. “Oh, is that right?”
“Indeed,” I say, measuring the coffee into the filter. “So would you like to know what is on the menu this morning?”
“I think you’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not,” he teases.
I pretend to glare at him. “Okay, for that comment I shouldn’t make you anything but toast.”
He laughs. “Sorry. Go ahead. And here, give me the coffeepot. I’ll get the water for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, handing it to him. “Fill to the six cup mark, please.”
“Okay,” Beckett says, taking the pot and going to the refrigerator to use the water dispenser.
“So,” I say, watching him, “we’re going to have eggs. What way do you want them?”
“Soft scramble,” he says.
“What is that?”
“You know, not totally cooked. I hate hard scrambled eggs.”
“What are you even talking about?” I ask, confused.
Beckett returns with the coffeepot and dumps the water into the machine. “I’ll show you.”
I laugh. “Are you a picky eater?”
“No,” Beckett says, putting the coffeepot underneath the machine. “But little scrambled egg balls are gross.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re so weird.”
With one swift move, he picks me up and I shriek with laughter.
“Beckett! What are you doing?” I cry as he hoists me over his shoulder.
Beckett sits me on the kitchen island countertop, and nudges my legs apart so he can stand between them.
“You checked yes,” he says sexily, his dark-brown eyes locking on mine. “Do you want to take that back?”
“No,” I whisper as heat rages in me.
“Good,” he whispers in return. Then he closes his mouth over mine.
His hands are in my hair, his tongue is exploring mine in a super sexy kiss. I can’t take it. I have to feel his skin. I dare to snake my hands underneath his T-shirt, locating his abs. I instinctively moan against his mouth the second I feel the cut muscles underneath my fingertips.
Beckett responds by kissing me harder. His hands skim over my breasts, then to my neck, to my hair, his kisses becoming more desperate as he does.
I’m no longer operating by my rules. I push his shirt up higher, and Beckett pauses to rip it off. Now his skin is free for me to explore with my hands. I wrap my legs around him and draw his face toward mine for another kiss.
“Wait,” Beckett says, pushing back from me. “To be sure, this—what we’re doing—I don’t expect this to go any further. No pressure. Just so you know.”
I search his eyes. All I see is concern and respect for me shining back in them.
My heart swells. The fact that Beckett is making my feelings a priority tells me everything I need to know about him.
He’s a good man.
One who is respectful.
One who is patient.
One I’m already falling in love with.
“You’re amazing,” I say truthfully, putting my hands on his face.
Then I see it. The embarrassment that passes over his gorgeous face.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re even cuter when you blush,” I tease.
“Stop it,” Beckett says, grinning.
“You know, we could keep doing what we’re doing,” I say, sliding my hand to the back of his head, so I can play with his dark-chocolate locks. “Because I liked what you were doing to me, Captain Sexy Ass.”
Beckett’s face goes blood red. “What?”
I burst out laughing. “You heard me.”
“That’s not my name,” he says, laughing.
“Oh, Beckett, you really have no idea how hot you are, do you?”
“If you bring up what girls say on social media I’ll go home.”
I grin at him. “No, I won’t. But you know what? I don’t want breakfast anymore.”
Beckett’s eyes grow intense, and a shiver shoots down my spine in response. “Oh?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Beckett’s lips find the side of my neck, and he talks to me between kisses.
“You haven’t . . . given me . . . a tour,” he murmurs against my skin.
He lifts his head and sweeps me up into his arms. I laugh again, and he does, too.
