Pretty Little Mistake

Laurel watches me lug my suitcase to the door. Sure, I might’ve overpacked, but ever since that one time I didn’t and my dress ripped right on the ass, I’ve refused to be caught off guard without backup clothes.

“I can’t believe you’re going to Chicago with Beckham.” She looks torn between annoyance on my behalf and amusement over the whole situation.

“Believe me”—I push my hair out of my eyes, but it promptly falls back where it was—“I can’t either.” Giving up, I pull my hair into a ponytail, securing it with an elastic. I’m dressed for comfort in a pair of leggings and an oversize tee. I won’t be surprised if Beckham shows up to the airport in a suit, but I can’t bring myself to dress up for a flight.

“Well.” She pulls me into a hug. “I wish you luck.”

“Thanks.” I squeeze her back. “I think I’m going to need it.” My stomach churns at the thought of being stuck with him all weekend. Being around him leaves me unbalanced. He’s someone I used to know so well, but now he’s practically a stranger. It’s a weird juxtaposition to get used to, because when I look at him, I see the grown-up version of the boy who was my friend. But I have to remind myself that I don’t know the man he’s become. I suppose I could do a better job of trying to get to know him again, but he’s so utterly infuriating.

“You can handle him,” she assures me, dragging me from my rambling thoughts.

I’m glad one of us is confident in that fact, because I’m not sure.

The ride to the airport is a quiet affair—in the sense that my driver never speaks to me, but he does spend a fair amount of time yelling at other drivers.

It shocks me that Beckham has a car. Most people I know in the city don’t bother, choosing to walk or use the subway. But I guess, since he’s such a control freak, it makes sense. I bet his car is just like him, probably something big and intimidating but polished at the same time. Sleek. Maybe a Mercedes or Porsche. I’m betting on a Porsche. Not that I’ll ever know.

The driver lets me out, and I text Laurel to let her know I’ve made it to the airport in one piece. She always worries that something bad is going to happen with the way cabbies drive, so I try to ease her worries.

Inside, the security line is long and arduous, but I eventually make it through. Luckily, there’s enough time until the flight that I can stop and grab coffee and a bite to eat near my gate. With extra coffee in my system, I won’t be as much of a grump on the flight. It might’ve been entertaining to go without it just to torture Beckham, but since I’d be punishing myself in the process, I’d rather just have the coffee.

I scarf down my food inside the little café. Since I’m starving, I swear it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. For some reason I haven’t been able to eat all day, and it’s nearly two in the afternoon already. It might be nerves with having to deal with Beckham for a whole weekend, but I would prefer not to give him any credit for making me feel any type of way. Good or bad.

After tossing my trash, I go to my gate and spot a familiar dark head already sitting there waiting. His leg jumps up and down restlessly, AirPods secure in his ears as he looks around. When he spots me, some of the tension visibly eases from his body. Curious.

“You’re late,” he says when I plop my butt into the vinyl seat across from him.

I look at the gold watch on my wrist. “No, I’m not.”

His jaw clenches, his leg back to bouncing up and down. It’s then that I realize he’s in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Not at all what I expected. And damn if he doesn’t look good. The more casual attire makes him look younger, more his age.

“You’re later than me,” he says after an extended moment.

“Actually,” I say as I pull my phone out of my purse, “you’re wrong. I grabbed some lunch first, and you weren’t waiting here when I checked the gate.” He wrinkles his nose, looking mildly appalled that I could’ve beaten him here. I watch his restless, jumpy movements with a frown. “You still hate flying?”

“No,” he scoffs, moving to tug on the sleeves of a dress shirt that he’s not wearing. When he realizes his mistake, he rests his arms on the seat.

“The flight should be less than three hours,” I say to try to reassure him.

“I know,” he bites out, his knuckles turning white where he grips the arms of the chair. “I’m not afraid of flying.”

My lips twitch with the threat of a smile. “I never said you were afraid.” He makes some sort of garbled noise of protest. “Do you want a snack or something?”

“No!” he practically shouts. “No,” he says, softer this time. “No food.”

“All right.” I riffle through my bag and pull out my own AirPods. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” I wave a hand at his restlessness. His lips pucker like he wants to say something, but he chooses not to.

I put on the audiobook I’ve been listening to and do my best to block out the annoyed man across from me. I’m not sure I’ve ever come across someone quite as surly as Beckham Sullivan. He was adopted by the Sullivans when he was thirteen years old, having been in foster care before then, and I’m sure getting thrust into such a lavish lifestyle overnight involved a rough transition. But the Sullivans are good people—better than my parents, at least.

I pluck out one earphone, and he raises a brow. “How are your parents? I haven’t seen them in a while.” The last few times I was home, my mother was too busy sending me here and there on horrid dates she’d set up for me, so there was never time to catch up with the Sullivans.

He gives a small jerk of surprise at my sudden question. “Good. They’re good.”

“I feel bad that I haven’t stayed in touch.”

His parents were like a second family to my brother and me, especially once they adopted Beckham. Hunter and I spent a lot of time at their house.

His lip curls. “Why?”

“Why haven’t I stayed in touch?”

“No, why do you think you need to?”

“Because they were always kind to me. Isn’t that reason enough?”

Long fingers tap against his knee. “I suppose.” He looks away, and I feel as if I’ve been dismissed.

Popping my earphone back in, I listen to my book until we’re called to line up for boarding.

Once we’re seated on the plane, it becomes even more obvious that Beckham genuinely does not like flying. As the flight attendant goes over the safety instructions, a sweat breaks out over his forehead. I’m sure he’s had to fly a decent amount with this job, but clearly it hasn’t helped him get over his fear.

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I slowly inch my pinkie finger over to his closed fist, lightly touching his heated skin to say, I’m here.

Ever so slowly he unfurls his fist, his pinkie moving to touch mine.

It’s such a little thing, but it feels like a big thing.

When the plane lurches during takeoff, he grabs my hand fully, wrapping our fingers together. Startled, my gaze shoots to his.

“Don’t say a word.” There’s a pleading, vulnerable tone in the way he says it.

I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key, but that does nothing to stop my growing smile.

The car lets us off at the hotel, and we step out into the mid-August heat. Color is finally beginning to return to Beckham’s face. I feel bad for the guy. He spent the entirety of the flight a putrid shade of green, swaying slightly in his seat like he was on the verge of passing out. There was a moment there where I wished I had a better grasp on what to do, whether he should nibble on a cracker or suck on a peppermint, or maybe just close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else. But then I reminded myself that it wouldn’t matter. There’s no situation in which Beckham is ever going to listen to my advice.

“I need a drink,” he mutters, wheeling his suitcase behind him. He twists his neck back and forth, cracking it loudly.

I follow behind him into the lobby. “Are you sure a drink is a great idea right now?” I can’t help but think about how off his color still is. Surely alcohol wouldn’t be the best idea.

He looks back at me, a single dark brow arched. How does he do that? There’s no way I’d be capable of moving just one brow. “It might not be, but it is a necessity.” He sighs like he’s been carrying around an immense weight and exhaustion is setting in.

I don’t protest further, because even I feel like I need a drink. Thankfully, we don’t meet with the woman we’re interviewing until tomorrow. One drink shouldn’t be a problem.

The lobby is a mixture of exposed brick, concrete floors, and marble accents. There’s a uniquely rustic-modern style that I find myself instantly drawn to. I wouldn’t mind curling up on one of the green couches and reading a book—you know, if this weren’t a work trip.

We get checked in and ride up together to our rooms, which turn out to be side by side.

Beckham lets out a small, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Jaci really took this whole forcing-us-together thing seriously.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t get us one room,” I say, swiping my key card to open the door. “Do you mind if I join you for a drink?”

“It’s a free country, Wells,” he replies in a weary tone, letting the door fall shut behind him.

I stare at the closed door for a few seconds before letting myself into my own room.

I unpack the contents of my suitcase, grabbing the simpler dress I brought with me just in case I go out at all. It’ll certainly look better than the leggings and T-shirt combo I’m currently in.

I hop in the shower and wash up, knowing it’ll make me feel better after being on the plane. I touch up my makeup and brush out my hair before slipping into the dress. I don’t have Beckham’s number, so I head straight down to the lobby bar in the hopes that he’s there.

The bar is busy when I reach the lobby, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised with the hour and the fact that this is a city. My eyes scan the area for Beckham, coming up empty. He could’ve chosen to stay in his room, I guess, or maybe he hasn’t come down yet and I’m early.

With a sigh, I approach the bar to place an order. I’m not much of a drinker, but after dealing with his close proximity today, I feel like I need one. I shouldn’t let him, but somehow he manages to get under my skin.

A prickle of awareness shoots through me. That’s when a heavy, warm arm snakes around my middle and tugs me in close. I’m about to scream, throw up my hands, do something, when there’s a gentle pinch on my hip and I see that it’s Beckham. I relax, feeling foolish. He’s seated at the bar, jaw clenched as he stares at someone. He’s changed out of his jeans and T-shirt, opting for his typical attire of a dress shirt, tie, and pants.

I swing my head in the other direction, finding an attractive brunette in a sleek pencil skirt and blouse.

“As I was saying,” Beckham continues, his voice strained, “I’m here with my girlfriend.”

His fingers tap lightly against my belly in a little dance, encouraging me to go along with this.

Smiling, I hold out a hand to the woman. “Hi, I’m Lennon. It’s nice to meet you.” Then, for good measure, I lean my body into Beckham’s spread thighs, my lips grazing his cheek when I ask, “Did you order me anything yet, baby?”

His eyes jump to my lips. He seems almost transfixed for a moment. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his thumb coming up to stroke beneath my lip. My whole body feels that touch, and I both hate and love it. How can someone I haven’t seen in years still affect me so easily? “What do you want? You can have whatever you’d like.”

Something about his tone and the words has me thinking about things that don’t involve drinks. I squeeze my legs together, silently cursing my lady bits for feeling anything close to desire for this man.

He might be one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen, with that dark hair and intense eyes. He reminds me of a cross between Henry Cavill and Heath Ledger, and apparently that’s exactly my type.

I give myself a mental slap. Stop it! This is a game. That’s all.

I can admit that I’m attracted to him—there’s a reason I only had eyes for him as a girl—but I have to keep my wits about me and not let myself get any wild ideas.

I turn back to the woman, having completely forgotten for a moment that she is even here. I’m going to start calling it the Beckham Effect, the symptoms being loss of one’s mind.

She gives me an annoyed smile. “I’ll let you two enjoy your evening.”

She moves away to the other side of the bar. I start to pull away from Beckham, but his hold on me tightens. “Stay.”

I look over my shoulder at him. “What game are you playing?” There’s no way he’s drunk yet. I wasn’t in my room long enough for him to get drunk down here, but I can’t help but question where this is coming from.

“No game.” He reaches for the glass in front of him, ice clinking the sides when he swallows.

“On a scale of one to ten, how drunk are you?” I have to ask, to be certain, though I’m positive there’s no way he is.

He glowers, my question having apparently offended him, and he sets the glass back down. “Not drunk.”

“Fine, how many drinks have you had?”

He hesitates. “Not nearly enough.” He motions lazily to the drink in front of him. Despite his admission, I make no attempt to move from between his thighs. My breath catches when his warm finger snakes up my bare back. That finger latches around the strap of my dress, and he uses that hold to tug himself closer to me. His lips brush the shell of my ear when he whispers, “I like this dress.”

He says it in that raspy way where I know what he really means is, I like this dress, but I’d like it better on my floor.

My breath stutters between my lips. What the hell is happening?

I motion for the bartender and place an order when she stops. I make to move away from Beckham, to give myself room to breathe, because I certainly can’t when his front is pressed all up against my back, but he tightens his hold. “Stay, honeybee.”

I think I internally choke and die. My pussy clenches at his tone, at those words. I can’t believe he’s requesting me to stay right here again.

Sweet Jesus, this can’t be happening. I’m the sober one, not one drop of alcohol having passed my lips yet. I have no excuse not to pull away and put an end to this.

But then my eyes catch on those of the woman across the way as she glares at us, and I realize this is just another game for Beckham so he won’t have to deal with being hit on.

When the bartender places my drink down, I swipe it up and drink greedily, hoping it’ll help rid me of the sting from the realization he’s only using me to stave off unwanted attention.

“Are you that thirsty?” Beckham rasps, dragging his finger down my spine. I shiver in response.

I really wish he’d stop touching me, but I also dread the loss of it. Why is my body so weak for this man?

My brain—oh, my brain remembers the hurt and pain he caused me, but my body has always been attuned to Beckham Sullivan.

“You didn’t answer my question.” His thumb draws slow circles against my stomach, making me wiggle against him. Despite the fact that we’re adults now, that time has separated us, he still manages to know exactly how to touch me.

“Y-yeah. I was thirsty.”

He’s quiet, but I swear I can hear him thinking. He doesn’t say anything, just motions for another drink for each of us.

After we each have another drink, he orders us some food. He still hasn’t let me move from my spot cradled between his legs, and I’ve since stopped trying.

“Beckham,” I warn when he plays with the strap of my dress, letting it delicately drop over my shoulder. “We’re in public.”

He flashes a smug grin. “Does that mean you’re going to let me dirty you up in private?”

My breath catches at his insinuation. “You hate me.” I don’t know whether I’m reminding him or myself.

He chuckles like I’m oh so amusing. “I can hate you and still want to fuck you.”

Oh my.