“You mean Mariah Carey warbling her way through one of my favorite holiday songs?”
“No, I mean the sound of your brass balls clanging, Darcy Cochrane. You’ve grown from a dependent girl into a self-reliant woman. And you have your father to thank because his dick moves set this great life of yours in motion.” He curled his hand around her neck and tunneled those rough-cast fingers through her hair, his tactile strength unbelievably sensual against her scalp. “Look at what he unleashed on the world. Look at you takin’ names, querida.”
God, this man’s support just slayed her. But as encouraging as that sounded, Beck was taking the product-of-her-environment argument a little too far. She owed nothing to her father. He had no say in how she turned out, yet . . . they were alike in so many ways. Stubborn, unyielding, hardheaded. She wanted to heal the rift between them, not go through life with this ball of negativity like a dead weight in her chest.
They were silent for a few moments, the air heavy with their thoughts and the chain saw’s whine as it cut through the ice.
“You’re pretty good at this,” she finally murmured.
“Uh-huh. PG.”
Her scarf was moved aside to reveal skin for a sensual nip of her neck. So not PG.
“I meant that you’re good at seeing the silver lining, making the best of any situation.”
“It’s the foster kid code. We live in the now, take the scraps, and hope to God some miracle can turn it into a five-course meal. Shifting your perception, choosing to take a situation that makes you afraid or hurt or angry, and see it differently—that’s the best way to move forward.”
Her Beck had become quite chatty over the years. Insightful, too. “Look at you being all wise and shit,” she said.
He grinned. “I know, right?”
“You own a suit, Mexican Dempsey?” Grams piped up, having just woken from her power nap.
“Does a birthday suit count?”
“Get one. Darcy needs a date to the fund-raiser.”
Darcy mimicked strangling her grandmother. “Grams, I can get my own dates, thanks very much! Also, his name is Beck Javier Rivera and he’s Puerto Rican, not Mexican, which you well know.” With an embarrassed head shake, she turned to find him beaming a sexy grin. Yum. “Friday at the Drake. You in?”
Surprise lit up his eyes like stones in a stream. “As my hearing has yet to be scheduled and I’ve already finished Grand Theft Auto—twice—I’m all yours.”
Waiting around for the call on his hearing was driving the poor guy screwy, but Darcy was reaping the benefit while he spent his free time with her. As for the fund-raiser, it would be a fitting punctuation to what had been an unexpectedly wonderful couple of weeks.
Something lurched in her chest at that.
He nuzzled her cold nose. “I’m all yours, not just on Friday night, but every night you want me.”
“Beck . . .”
Another kiss swallowed her protest, an invasive sweep of his tongue as he breathed his promise into her lungs.
And she let him, because it was just easier to give him his way in this. For now.
chapter 8
The next afternoon, Darcy shifted her weight back on the tattoo parlor’s stool and snapped a few mental candids for her memories. No one filled out the chair quite like Beck. Those beefy arms, strapping thighs, and well-built shoulders—he was every inch the powerful fighting machine.
“Can’t believe that fur ball of piss ’n’ vinegar is still around,” he said, jerking a chin in the direction of her cat, Mr. Miggins, who was curled up in a sated ball near the hissing radiator. The two had never been fans of each other.
“He’s like Grams. He continues out of spite.”
Smiling, Beck returned his gaze to his arm and scrutinized Darcy’s work. The green shamrock, like a pulsing Irish heart, bloomed on his bicep above the name of his foster father, Sean. Relatively simple in design, it might not impress her usual clientele, but pride swelled her chest at the thought of helping this amazing man commemorate his fallen heroes.
“You like?”
“I love.” He raised his eyes to snag hers as he said that. Intense, blue, romantic—and a hundred times steadier than her heartbeat.
I love.
And she did. Completely, utterly, and . . . she was not happy about it. Not at all. Every day with Beck dragged her deeper and tore her under a powerful current until she could barely breathe for wanting him.
Happy Frickin’ Holidays, Darcy!
Occupying her hands would be her best play here, and though they itched to meander south and stroke the perma-boner Beck always seemed to sport around her, she reined in her inner minx and reached for a bandage.
Beck was staring again. “How are you fixed for Christmas Day?”
One more week to the holiday, and then a few days later, bye-bye, Chicago.
Bye-bye, Beck.