Wreck the Halls

Was the ground moving or was that her imagination? “What changed between now and then?” she managed, barely able to hear over the pounding of her heart.

“I don’t know exactly.” Beat swallowed. “I can’t stop thinking of the way you looked at me, back in the park. When you tackled me,” he added wryly, before sliding toward serious again. “Maybe I’ll never be unguarded like that with my friends. With anyone. But I loved being that way with you. Just . . . open. Exposed. There’s no judgment. No guilt. And I think that’s because you’re the good part of me I’ve been missing. You’re the one who gets me. I just want you to have all of me.” His chest lifted, plummeted, lifted again. “God knows I want all of you.”

Heat seared the backs of Melody’s eyelids. There was a monotone ring in her ears, the kind she imagined would hit her during a flight-or-fight ultimatum. This man standing in front of her held half her heart in his hands. She’d given it over the first time they met—and he was completely and utterly worthy of it. He was. But she had to protect the half still in her possession. The one she’d healed through years of therapy and self-acceptance.

“We’ll take it slow,” she whispered.

He made a gruff sound, his grip tightening on the back of the couch. “Thank you.”

Oh God, she needed to do something with her hands. She was going to stretch and twist the hem of her turtleneck to the point of no return. They wanted very much to reach for Beat, stroke the whisker growth on his cheeks, warm the wind-reddened skin of his neck, reacquaint themselves with the dips and swells of his pecs and abdomen. But they would move too fast if she did that. The next time she touched him, she didn’t want to feel rushed. She needed to know it was right.

“Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I can make us sandwiches.” Melody waited a moment, then brought up the subject that had been riding on her shoulders since the snowball fight. “We can eat while you tell me why you need the Applause Network’s money.”

Beat was already nodding, as if he’d expected her to go there. Yet she couldn’t help but notice the way his expression became momentarily hollow. “Yes.”

She took a step in his direction. “Whatever it is, we can handle it.”

Those nods turned into headshakes. “There’s nothing for you to handle, Mel.”

“Let me be the judge of that?”

Beat wanted to argue, that much was plain, but he followed Melody in silence to the kitchen instead. He pulled out a chair at the breakfast bar and watched as she removed fixings from the fridge—ham, cheese, mayo—and whole grain bread from the pantry. Having this man watch her make sandwiches was a new experience, to say the least. The butter knife felt awkward in her hands. Her fingers tingled, along with the backs of her thighs. She could feel him wondering where the tops of her stockings ended and that intuition caused her to drop the knife twice before successfully cutting the sandwiches in half.

After plating the snack, she settled it on the counter in between them.

“I love watching you do . . . Jesus, everything,” he said, his teeth sinking into the bread. Chewing. “I want to hate every single person watching your daily life on the live stream, but I understand the obsession. You move like everything you’re doing is new. Like you’re experiencing it for the first time and want to get it right.”

Her sandwich was paused halfway to her mouth. “Example?”

“Like settling into a seat on the plane. Studying the survival manual, figuring out what each button does, testing out five sitting positions until you find a comfortable one.”

“You’ve been watching me closely.”

A small, humorless laugh escaped him. “Some might say too closely.”

“Not me,” she whispered. “I like knowing you do.”

Beat’s hand fisted on the breakfast bar. “Come here, Peach,” he ordered gruffly. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Talk first,” she forced out. “I’m not going to be distracted.”

His gaze traveled down the front of her body. “Your nipples say otherwise.”

“Beat.”

“Okay.” He raked a hand down his face, appearing to gather himself. Gather courage? When he let the hand drop, several seconds passed without him saying anything. “Mel, I need the network money because I’m being blackmailed.”

That last word clattered into the kitchen like a falling drawer full of silverware. It was the last thing in the world she expected him to say. Maybe because this man was the most wonderful being alive, in her eyes, and she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to cause him harm, whether physical, emotional, or financial. “Blackmailed?” She braced her head in her hands, trying to keep her racing thoughts from melting out of her ears. “By who?”

A snowplow rumbled by on the street, the room taking its time descending back into silence. “My biological father.” He blew out a sharp breath. “Oh shit. That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. My dad . . . Rudy. He isn’t really my dad. And he has no idea.”

Weight pressed down on her sternum. “Yes, he is. He is your dad,” she said firmly, somehow knowing that sentiment was important for him to hear, but there was so much more to unpack. “Help me understand. Your biological father is blackmailing you,” she said slowly. “If you don’t give him money, he’ll inform the public?”

“Yeah,” Beat said, voice rusted through. “Mel . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s been going on for five years,” he rasped. “The amount of money he wants gets bigger every time he resurfaces.”

“Five years?” Moisture flooded her eyes, her legs beginning to tremble. “Oh my God. How are you living with the . . . the stress of this?”

“I live with it, so they don’t have to.”

“Meaning Octavia and Rudy have no idea? You’ve just been shouldering this all alone?”

He just barely inclined his head.

She felt dizzy. “Where has the money been coming from until now?”

“My own. The money I earn working for the foundation. Cashing in savings bonds, selling stocks. I won’t touch Ovations money, Mel. I won’t fucking touch it.”

“I know you won’t. Of course, you wouldn’t.”

He slowly let out a breath, as if relieved by her belief in him. “Until this year, my own funds were enough, but like I said, the amount escalates.”

“Beat. You have to tell your mother.”

“No,” he said emphatically. “After this life she’s given me, I can handle this one goddamn thing for her. I can stop her being dragged by the press, like they did to you. Being adored is her lifeblood. And my dad . . .” He closed his eyes. “Imagine finding out the wife you’ve been worshipping for over three decades cheated and your son isn’t really your son? I can protect them from that pain.”

“It’s not your job, Beat,” she said in a shaky voice. “You won’t be able to sustain the increasing demand for money forever. Or the stress is going to kill you. Please.”

His eyes remained closed for a breath. “For now, can telling you about this be enough?”