She smiles and bites at her bottom lip like she knows where my mind has drifted off to, tracing the line of ink that curls over my shoulder. She taps there once and I get a glance of us in the mirror above the dresser, twisted white sheets and skin that shines like spun gold, my arm banded low around her waist. Never in my life have I wanted to take a picture of myself, but the urge strikes hot and fierce now, her bare skin against mine. Her face in my neck and the swell of her ass just barely visible.
I nose beneath her chin and press a single, lingering kiss to the fluttering skin above her pulse—a wordless encouragement to answer the question.
“No. Turns out you’re a fine distraction, Beck. The best kind, really.” Her answer is a whisper, a secret in the dark. She pauses, and then: “Do you regret it?”
No, I don’t regret it. Much as I probably should. I smile and drag my teeth up the line of her throat, nip at her earlobe and tug once. I watch in the mirror as her whole body shivers, her hips rolling down into mine.
“I like your kind of distraction,” I tell her as I catch her waist with my hands. I guide her into a smooth rhythm above me until we’re both panting, her nails scratching through my hair.
“Did you—” She hums and lifts up on her knees, maneuvering us with her hand on my chest until my back is against the headboard. She’s bossy when she wants to be, and I like that she tells me exactly what she wants, how she wants it. The rasp of her voice in my ear last night had me shuddering against her, hands clenching at her hips as I worked to follow every single instruction she laid out.
“Make it slower.”
“Harder.”
“Like that, yes. Right there.”
My head hits the wood with a dull thump and she settles back in my lap, rearranging the sheets until it’s skin on skin, a low moan of want heavy on my tongue. She mumbles something under her breath and then hiccups a sigh, another sound I chase with my lips against hers. She pulls back and looks down at me through heavy eyes. “Did you want more?”
The question has me huffing a laugh. I look at her and all I seem to do is want. I lean up until I can catch her mouth in a kiss and lick deep, my hand slipping from the back of her head to curl around her jaw. I hold her there until her hands turn into fists in my hair, body shifting impatiently above mine.
I can be bossy, too.
“I want more,” I tell her—another confession—my hand slipping down between us to brush the soft skin just below her belly button. “I want everything.”
I wake to a low roll of thunder, rain drumming against thick glass. A cool breeze sweeps in through the cracked window and I twist beneath the sheets with a groan, my hand searching for sleep-warmed skin. Last I remember, Evie muttered something about room service, snuggled further into the blankets, and fell asleep with both hands wrapped around my arm. It was … nice. Different, but nice.
I lean up on my elbows and glance at the empty spot next to me. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her moving around the room—didn’t feel her slip from the bed. I don’t usually sleep so soundly.
My gaze trips to the bathroom, the door half-cracked, a used towel slung over the back of it. It’s possible she stepped out to grab coffee, but I don’t see her suitcase and the nightstand is glaringly bare. I scan the rest of the room. The only sign that she was here at all is a half-empty glass of water on the dresser—a crumpled receipt on the desk.
I collapse face-first into my pillow.
This, at least, is a familiar feeling. Waking up alone.
“Stupid,” I tell myself. I sigh and dig the heel of my palm into my forehead.
I know better.
I have things I’m supposed to be doing here, and none of them are a gorgeous woman with legs for miles.
I flip onto my back and watch storm clouds gather outside the window. I just need to remember what those things are.
NOVEMBER
EVELYN
Well.
I was not expecting that.
I pace back and forth in my room at Inglewild’s only bed and breakfast, watching my shadow follow along the floral wallpaper. Jenny, the owner, must have visited my room while I was at the farm because I came back to candlelight and cookies, everything soft and romantic.
I frown at an ivory candle and debate my options.
I was in a similar bed and breakfast that weekend in Maine. There were flowers on the windowsill and a man with art on his skin pinning me to the bed, his lips against my neck and his throaty laugh in my ear. The same man I just ran into at the farm he apparently works and I was sent to evaluate.
Was not. Expecting. That.
Cookies tempt me from the shiny pewter tray in the corner. I snag one and swipe at my phone.
Josie answers on the third ring. “Did you get there okay?”
“We have a problem,” I say around a mouthful of dark chocolate and peanut butter.
“Uh oh,” her voice turns serious over the sound of paperwork being shuffled on the other end, the clink of a mug being set on a saucer. I check the time. It’s still late afternoon in Portland. She’s probably on her eighth cup of coffee. “Did Sway book you one of those escape room things again?”
Two months ago, my representation team thought it would make quality content if I were locked in a room for forty-five minutes by myself. No preparation or warning. Thank god I’m not claustrophobic.
“No. Thanks for the reminder though.” Josie laughs and I collapse on the edge of the bed, eyeing the plate of cookies. “I got to the farm today.”
“And? You were excited about this one.”
I was excited about this one. I am excited about this one. A Christmas tree farm just off the eastern shore of Maryland, owned and operated by a woman named Stella. Her story is lovely and romantic, and the small glimpse I got of the farm today was nothing short of magical. I just wasn’t expecting her head farmer to be the same man I had my first—and only—one-night stand with three months ago.
He had wandered into that dive bar with messy hair, a white t-shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled, and eyes like sea glass. He took one look at me and I felt my stomach drop all the way to my toes.
“Beckett is here.”
“Who?”
“You know,” I drop my voice. “Beckett.”
I hear the fumble of a glass and a string of creative curse words. “Maine Beckett? Hot, tattooed Beckett?” She sucks in a breath through her teeth and when she speaks again, her voice is three octaves higher. “Out of the ordinary, Evie is finally cutting loose, one-night stand Beckett?”
I give in and grab another cookie. “That’s him.”
I told Josie about Beckett after one too many glasses of Sauvignon blanc, wrapped up on her couch like a burrito. I couldn’t figure out why I was still thinking about him months later. It was supposed to be fun and fleeting. A harmless night. No strings.
Not something to relive in a marquee performance every other night in my fever dreams.
Josie laughs, a sharp cackle that has me pulling the phone away from my ear. I roll my eyes.
“Thank you very much for your support.”
“Sorry, sorry,” she says with a snicker. She tries to sober herself, but another chuckle slips through. “What are the odds? Is he visiting?”