Pretty Little Mistake

I have a love-hate relationship with New York City. I love the constant flow of movement, the vibrancy that exists all around you, but I absolutely hate the rudeness of some people.

Like the taxi driver who nearly hit me but has the audacity to honk at me like I’m the one in the wrong. I flip him the finger and finish crossing the street—on the crosswalk that clearly indicated it was my turn to go—my heart still racing.

The restaurant I’m meeting Beckham at is another block away. Why didn’t I pack a change of shoes in my bag? I’d kill for some flats right about now. I love my heels, how they can completely elevate an outfit, but man do my feet hate them.

Beckham texted me this morning to say that he wouldn’t be at work until the afternoon, but he would be available for lunch. That was all he said, followed by a link to the restaurant. He didn’t give any explanation for why he was out, and I didn’t ask. We don’t have that kind of relationship, though over the last month we have become . . . not friends, but maybe reluctant reacquaintances?

Finally, I see my destination and book it a little faster since the sooner I get there, the quicker I can sit down and rest my feet.

When I open the door to the restaurant, I find that it’s busy with the lunchtime crowd. I shoot a text to Beckham, asking where he’s seated.

The dickhead doesn’t respond despite the message showing that he’s read it.

What a prick.

“Are you looking for someone?” the hostess asks me.

I sigh in relief. “Yes—he’s about six foot six, dark hair, and always scowling.”

She laughs. “Is he insanely good looking?”

“Unfortunately.”

“He’s this way.” She nods for me to follow, and sure enough, she leads me right to Beckham, seated at a booth. He has his laptop set up and appears deep in thought, his phone resting beside his hand. “Enjoy your lunch.” She leaves me alone with the biggest pain in my ass to ever exist.

“You seriously couldn’t text back? You have your read receipts on, you know.”

He rubs his bottom lip, intent on whatever is on his computer screen. “I know.”

I roll my eyes. “This isn’t our usual place.” I cringe at my words, because in what world do Beckham and I have a usual place?

“No, it’s not.”

“Why here?”

He gives me an exasperated look. His eyes are shadowed like he didn’t get much sleep. Even his shirt is slightly rumpled. This isn’t the put-together Beckham I’m used to. It makes me curious about what went on this morning that had him unable to come to the office.

“I was in the mood for something different. That’s why.”

I roll my eyes yet again, because why does he have to be so rude about everything? I open the menu and search for something that sounds good.

“Where were you this morning?” I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’m nosy.

He closes his laptop, crossing his arms on top of the table and then hunkering down, like he’s about to fill me in on some kind of juicy secret. I find myself leaning closer to him.

“Let me ask you something.” He crooks his finger, urging me nearer. Stupidly, I follow the gesture until we’re practically face to face. “Why do you think you deserve to know?”

I bristle. “It’s not about deserving. It was only a question.” I rearrange the cutlery on the table to busy my hands. My mother used to reprimand me for my fidgety nature whenever I became nervous or annoyed. It’s a habit I’ve never been able to break, and one that she’d comment on if she saw it now.

“Sure it was.” His sarcasm isn’t lost on me. He sits back in the booth. “We’re not friends. Remember that.”

“God, you’re so full of yourself.” It annoys me to no end how impossible he can be. Even a simple question makes him snappy.

“I am.” His long fingers tap lightly against the table.

“At least you’re self-aware.”

The waitress stops by for our drinks, and Beckham surprises me by ordering an appetizer.

“Fried pickles?” I ask after the waitress has left.

“They’re the best. I can’t come here and not get them.”

I try to stifle a laugh; at least he’s acting a tad more civil. Maybe he’s just hangry, and the promise of food has him feeling better.

“Anyway, we need to talk about the project. I hate to tell you, but I think we need to scrap all the ideas we’ve had so far.” It’s been tough, since Jaci is giving everyone a lot of leeway for the proposals, wanting to see where our creativity takes us. “Not that these are bad,” I go on while he stays silent, “but they’re not strong enough to stand out.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose like he already has a headache forming. “Unfortunately, I agree with you.” I school my features, trying not to show how surprised I am. I must fail spectacularly, because he says, “Don’t look so shocked.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear, having chosen to wear it down today in loose waves. “I didn’t know you were capable of agreeing with anything I had to say.”

His lips twitch with an almost-smile. “It’s only because it was what I was going to say. That’s why I wanted to come here instead.”

“Huh?” I’m genuinely confused as to what he means.

“I needed the fried pickles to get me through in case you threw a fit.”

“Ah, you’ve got jokes.”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

After the waitress sets down our drinks, my hands reach greedily for the sweet tea. I don’t normally drink it, but for some reason I find myself craving it.

“Iced tea?” Even Beckham notices. Huh. “You never drink that.”

He’s not wrong. It’s always coffee or water or even wine for me.

“I wanted to be different today.” Do I sound as defensive to him as I do myself? “Your fried pickles inspired me.”

“Are you guys ready to order?” the waitress asks, interrupting our conversation. Stupidly, I completely forgot she was there.

Beckham gives me a questioning look, and I nod. He places his order first, a cheeseburger, and I follow behind him with chicken and waffles.

“You’re going all kinds of southern on me today, honeybee.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and I have no doubt he’s silently wishing he could take back that slipup.

“You picked this place,” I remind him, choosing not to call him out on his use of the pet name. I’m not in the mood for a sparring match with him.

“That’s true.”

He opens his laptop, then fiddles with some things before turning the screen to face me. “Do any of these mood boards resonate with you? I work better with visuals.” I swear there’s a light stain of blush blooming on his cheeks, but it’s hard to tell with the scruff there.

I can almost hear my dad scoffing at Beckham’s facial hair while declaring that real, dignified men shave their beards. I happen to like the overgrown-stubble look on him. It gives him a roguish appearance. Not that I’ll ever admit that.

I scoot his laptop closer, taking my time to carefully consider each one. There’s five in total. I go back and forth before zeroing in on one. “I like this one.”

He smiles—it’s small, but it still counts. That somehow feels like such a victory.

I made Beckham Sullivan smile. I’m winning at life.

“That’s my favorite too.”

Before we have a chance to discuss it, the waitress is placing his appetizer on the table.

“Those look . . .” My lips curl.

“Delicious?”

“Artery clogging.”

He grabs one, dipping it into some sort of house-made sauce. “Don’t let that scare you away.” He waves one in front of me. “Try it.” He takes a bite. “Mmm, delicious.”

I snag one of the pickles, following his example of dipping it first. “That’s actually really good,” I admit, chewing slowly as I try to savor it. “Like, really good.”

He chuckles, his lips quirking into the briefest of smiles before he schools his features once more. “I tried to tell you.”

“How’d you ever come to find this place?” I dip the pickle again. If he says anything about double-dipping, I might smack him. After everything we did just over a month ago, I think double-dipping should be the least of our concerns.

“Brendan recommended it, so I checked it out one day.”

“Do you come here a lot?” I’m not sure why I keep asking him questions, why I even want to have a normal conversation with him.

“Sometimes.”

I wipe my greasy fingers on a napkin. “What does that even mean?”

“At least twice a month—does that specificity suffice for you?”

I swallow a sip of tea, trying not to smile. I know he’s not trying to be funny, but I can’t help but be amused by him. “Yes, thank you.”

We get back to brainstorming, and it isn’t long before our meals are delivered. I’m not as hungry as I was, thanks to the fried pickles, but that doesn’t stop me from digging in. I skipped breakfast this morning—not on purpose—since I slept through my alarm, and it didn’t leave me with enough time.

Beckham watches me with barely concealed amusement. I refuse to let him bother me.

I’m almost halfway through my chicken and waffles when the nausea hits me. It comes out of nowhere, but it’s so instant and persistent that I’m afraid I might projectile vomit all over the table and Beckham.

No. Oh no.

I gag, slapping a hand to my mouth.

“Are you—”

I’m gone, running from the table blindly toward bathrooms I don’t even know the location of.

I’m not going to make it. I’m not going to make it. I’m not—

Restrooms. There in the corner.

I make it in the nick of time, my knees slamming against the tiled floor. I try not to think about how dirty it might be. Now’s not the time.

Everything I just ate ends up inside the toilet.

I’ve had food poisoning one other time, and it was hell. My stomach cramps, trying to expel every last bit of what I assume is undercooked chicken. It looked fine, but chicken can be finicky.

The bathroom door creaks, and I feel bad for the poor woman who just needs to pee and is going to have to deal with the memory of me sprawled in an open stall, expelling everything I’ve ever eaten in my whole life. At least that’s how it feels. Already my body is growing damp with perspiration. My shirt clings to my chest, and I try to pull it away, but it’s a feeble gesture.

“Lennon?”

What the hell? The last thing I expected was for Beckham to brave the women’s restroom—and to what? Check on me? Has hell frozen over?

I can’t answer him, because more bile rises in my throat.

The sink squeaks, water running, and then a moment later, a cold, damp paper towel is pressed to the back of my neck, my hair gathered in his large hand.

I blink bleary eyes over my shoulder at him. “What are you doing?” Even sick, there’s no missing the surprise in my voice.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He’s squatted beside me, black slacks hugging his thick thighs. “You looked like you needed help. Here I am.”

I don’t get a chance to respond before I’m heaving again. My stomach hurts so bad with the way it feels, like it’s squeezing against itself.

Beckham shuffles beside me, my hair still held in his grip. I realize he’s pulling out his phone.

“Hey, Jaci. Yeah, no, sorry. I wanted to let you know I won’t actually be in today. Lennon won’t be back either. We met for a work lunch, and she has food poisoning, so I’m going to take her home and make sure she’s okay. Yeah. All right. See you tomorrow.”

“You’re not . . .” I press a hand to my head. Ugh, am I going to get a headache now too? It feels like my brain is pulsing behind my eyelids in a desperate attempt to break free. “You don’t need to take me home.”

“I know I don’t, but I am. Give me your address—I’m getting us an Uber.” He’s so sure about it, not a hint of hesitation.

“No.”

He stares at me, some sort of silent battle of wills. Who will give in first?

“I’m not letting you get home on your own like this. Now’s not the time to be your usual stubborn self.” He looks amused, which only makes me want to slap him.

“I’m not stubborn, you—” I turn away from him, back to the toilet bowl that has now become my new home, because there’s no way I’m letting Beckham take me to my apartment.

I’m never eating chicken again. Not for as long as I live. It has betrayed me in the gravest of ways.

“Address?” he prompts when I’m no longer puking my guts up.

I grumble out the location. He wins the battle. Someone crown him the victor.

He smirks the whole time he puts in the request for an Uber. I’ve never wanted to kick a man in the balls before, but I have a feeling I’d get great enjoyment out of it with Beckham.

He sits quietly with me in the bathroom, never letting go of my hair. “The car is almost here.” I haven’t been sick again, so I say a prayer that I’m in the clear. For now, at least.

Beckham helps me up. The only reason I accept his help is because my body is aching from being on the floor, and my knees are throbbing. They didn’t appreciate that bruising hit they took on the tile.

“Stay here,” he says with a forceful nod. “Just in case. I’m going to pay our bill, and I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” I slowly shuffle to the sinks to wash my hands.

He could totally abandon me here. This could all be a ruse, but somehow, I think he actually wants to help me. I lean my back against the wall, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth. I have no idea if that’s the proper way to do it, but it seems to help ease the nausea slightly and quiet the pounding in my head.

It’s not long before he returns with a to-go box, a paper cup of some sort of drink, and an empty plastic bucket that looks like it’s probably meant to store food.

He notices me looking. “It’s in case you get sick on the way.” Well, that was thoughtful of him. “And this is ginger ale. It’ll help your stomach.” He wags the cup, ice sloshing around. I take it, sipping hesitantly. “The car should be here in a minute. Let’s go. I don’t trust the guy not to drive away.”

“What’s that?” I point to his bag.

He takes my free hand, guiding me out of the restroom. “My food. I’m not the sick one, and I’m hungry.”

I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so shitty.

Outside, he checks his phone and searches the street. “He’s almost here. How are you feeling?”

“Better. At least I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up all over your shoes.”

His eyes widen in horror. “Please, don’t. I like these.”

“I could buy you new ones.”

“But I like these.” He pouts in a petulant way.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re dramatic?”

He rubs his jaw, still looking for the car. “No, just you.” He must spot it, because he reaches for my elbow and starts tugging me down the street. “This is it,” he says, opening the back door to a red Honda Civic.

He greets the driver and waits for me to get in first. I don’t think it’s meant to be a gracious, gentlemanly gesture. He’s probably afraid that if he doesn’t get me in the car first, I’ll run away from him. Normally, that wouldn’t be a wrong assumption, but considering how I feel, there’s no chance of me taking off.

We don’t speak during the drive. I sip the ginger ale, while Beckham eyes me for any signs that I’ll need the plastic bucket.

I do get a tad nauseous again on the ride, since our driver is a typical New Yorker who thinks traffic laws don’t exist.

By the time the car stops near my building, my head is spinning. I feel almost faint. I’m reminded again that I didn’t eat much today, and then I threw up the little I had. There’s no chance that I’ll risk trying to have anything right now, so I’ll have to suffer through.

After offering me a hand, Beckham helps me out, his arms going around me when I teeter on my feet. “Are you okay?” His breath is warm against my forehead, the question almost a gentle caress.

I clutch the sleeves of his shirt, steadying myself. “I think so.”

“Where exactly is your apartment? This way?” He points down the street.

The urge to tell him I don’t need his help is strong, but since I really do feel like shit, I don’t have it in me to argue. “Yeah, this way.”

If you’d told me this morning that I’d willingly be leading Beckham to my apartment, I would’ve laughed. But here we are. The universe has a weird sense of humor.

We fall into silence again until we reach my door, where I have to dig through my purse for my keys.

“Give it here.” He takes my purse and gives it a shake, after which my keys jingle at the bottom. He sticks his hand in and comes out with my assortment of keys on a pink puffball chain. “Nice key chain.” I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

I lean my head against the wall beside the door. “Shut up.”

After he unlocks the door for me, I push past him and head inside. Luckily, Laurel and I are in the habit of doing a nightly reset, where we straighten things up and wipe down the counters before bedtime, since neither of us likes to wake up to a messy apartment.

“This is nice,” he remarks as he closes the door behind us. “Smaller than I expected.”

“What did you expect?” I sip the last of the ginger ale before emptying the ice in the sink.

“Figured Daddy would’ve gotten you a penthouse.”

I shrug as I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. “He would have, but I didn’t want that.” Beckham lingers outside the bathroom door. I narrow my eyes on him. “What are you going to do? Stand there and stare at me while I brush my teeth?”

He grins, leaning against the doorway with crossed arms. “Sure.”

I try to ignore him as I brush my teeth, but I can feel him watching me. After spitting out the toothpaste, I rinse my mouth and turn to him. “You can go. I’m feeling much better.”

“Nah.” He leans away, letting me exit the bathroom. “I think I’ll stay.” He says it in a light, teasing way, but I don’t miss the genuine worry in his eyes.

Lucky for him, I don’t have the energy to fight. “Fine. Make yourself comfortable.” I gesture vaguely around us.

“Why do I have the feeling that was sarcastic?” He crowds behind me at the fridge while I grab a bottle of water.

“Because it most definitely was.” I twist the cap off and gulp down some water, then sink onto the couch and wrap a blanket around my shoulders. Beckham takes a seat in the chair, looking way too big for it. He wiggles around, trying to get comfortable. “Seriously, there’s no need for you to stay.”

The last thing I need is him sticking around out of some sort of pity. It’s not his fault the chicken was bad.

He sighs, leveling me with one of his infamous glares. “I’m fine right here.”

“Suit yourself.” I won’t say anything else about it. Let him suffer in the chair if he’s going to be stubborn about it.

“Do you care if I reheat my food?”

I reach for the remote and turn the TV on. “Knock yourself out.”

He strides into the kitchen for his lunch while I search for something to watch. I also send a text to Laurel letting her know what’s going on.

Laurel: WHAT?!

Laurel: You can’t just drop that information on me like it’s nothing.

Laurel: He’s in our apartment?

Me: Yes. He won’t leave.

Laurel: Do you want me to come kick him out?

Me: I can handle him.

All of a sudden, a horrendous smell hits my nose. “What is that?” I shriek, gagging while I struggle to disentangle myself from the blanket.

“I’m microwaving my burger,” he answers, raising his hands innocently when I look at him over the back of the couch.

“It smells like it’s rotten!” I lunge for the bathroom toilet.

I don’t know how it’s possible that I still have anything left in my stomach, but I do. I’m never letting Beckham pick another lunch spot again.

“My burger definitely isn’t rotten,” he remarks, his voice raised from the kitchen. There’s obvious confusion in the way he says it. “Are you sure you don’t have a bug or something?”

I flush the toilet, then pick myself back up to wash my hands and brush my teeth again.

“I don’t think it’s a bug. I really think it’s food poisoning.” I press a hand to my clammy forehead. Exhaustion settles deep in my bones.

“Lennon,” he says carefully, like he’s treading dangerous waters. His steps grow near, and then he’s right at the door. “You didn’t eat my burger—it was the smell that made you sick?”

My eyes widen in horror, because I might be loath to admit it, but he’s right.

I lunge past him, digging through the blankets and pillows on the couch for my phone.

No. There’s no way. We were safe.

“No, no, no, no,” I chant, finally locating my phone and bringing up my app.

“What the hell is going on?” He suddenly looks panicked and even more out of place in my apartment than he did before. I turn my phone around for him to see. “Is that supposed to make any sort of sense to me?”

“My period,” I practically cry, collapsing onto the couch. “It’s late.”