ODESSA

The second I shut Beckham’s office door, I hear him mutter something about a DNA test.

Seriously?

Some woman he obviously had sexual relations with in the past just had a baby and his biggest priority is doing a DNA test? The fact that he flew back to New York the second he got the news leads me to believe he feels the baby is his, so I’m struggling to find sympathy for his little predicament.

Serves him right.

And he should be there. At the hospital. Not sitting at his desk making phone calls.

That poor woman.

I felt sorry for him yesterday on the plane. He didn’t say more than a handful of words, and he sat there staring ahead with his legs crossed and his ankle bouncing for damn near five hours.

The coffee was a peace offering. For whatever reason, I felt sorry for him, which in retrospect was a huge mistake.

When I return to my office, I check my phone for the millionth time. Jeremiah still hasn’t called me back. It’s not like him. Break or no break, he’s not the type to ever ignore someone.

Especially not me.

I fire off an email to Dane and Beckham with a link to the preliminary website and ask for feedback. After that, I return a call to the Charity Falls Register to confirm the interview date and time. Yanking out a fresh legal pad, I jot down some key statistics and points I want Beckham to hone in on during his interview.

An hour of immersing myself in work leads me right back to where I started: worrying about Jeremiah.

Dragging in a defeated breath, I check his blog. The interface hasn’t changed. We did a good enough job with it, that the show’s branding has been coordinated around it. I click on the latest blog post: a recipe for sweet potato pie tied in with some pie crust sponsorship. He didn’t write it. Those aren’t his words. Some intern must’ve put that together for him.

I’d be lying if I said picturing him swarmed with college interns and industry executives all day didn’t hollow out my heart.

Scrolling through pictures on my phone of better days, I stop when I get to the one of me sitting on his lap last Christmas at my parents’ house in Minneapolis. We wore matching cable knit sweaters and Jeremiah donned a Santa hat my nephew had given him the previous year.

The Jer and Sam in that picture are content. Carefree. Living for the moment. Excited for the future. Our relationship was easy and effortless. We used to be so happy.

“I’m heading out for a bit.”

Startled, I glance up and see Beckham in my doorway.

“Going to the hospital?” I ask.

“Absolutely not.” His face scrunches as if my question insults him.

Maybe it’s residual resentment still coursing my veins and mixing with the flood of nostalgia and insecurity, but I feel the words rising in my throat before I have a chance to stop them.

“That’s shitty, don’t you think?” I can’t believe I just said that. A fresh batch of sharp opinions form fresh in my mind, snapping to the surface before I have a chance to stop them. “Shouldn’t you be with your family right now?”

Beckham’s usually relaxed composure tightens, starting with his mouth and followed by his jaw, trailing down his shoulders until it gets to his clenched fists.

“Please tell me you’re going to man up and take responsibility,” I say. I regret the words the second they come out, but I’m powerless. All my fears, apprehensions, and anger swirl together and cloud my better judgment. “Maybe the universe is trying to tell you it’s time to stop screwing around and settle down. Have to grow up sooner or later.”

Beckham’s eyes darken. “You. Know. Nothing.”

Shit.

In an instant, he’s gone. And now I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Running after him, I grab his arm by the time he’s halfway down the hall. He stops, jerking his elbow from my grasp, and turns to me.

“I’m sorry.” My palm covers my heart. “I mean it. I shouldn’t have said those things, Beckham. I…”

He studies my face, staring down his nose and breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat again. My mother once told me tacking on a bunch of excuses to an apology does nothing but dilute it. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

I feel the need to apologize twenty-five additional times, slathering him in apologies until he assures me it’s okay.

There’s no acceptance in his stern gaze, only a bitterness that chills me.

“I don’t know your situation,” I add. “I shouldn’t judge.”

“No, Odessa. You shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I heard you the first three times.”

“If there’s anything you need…” I sound pathetic. I know that. He’s probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I’m starting to wonder the same.

“I need you to stop groveling,” he says. “I don’t like this version of you.”

Me neither.

He steps toward me, and I amble backwards until I hit a nearby wall. I shut my eyes, breathing in his clean scent. It transports me to that night when I was just a girl in a bar and he was just a guy with every promise of wicked intentions.

“Today, of all days…” Beckham leaves his thought unfinished, his face twisted.

“I know,” I say, my eyes protesting and apologizing all at once. “You’re going through some stuff. I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, Odessa. I want you to treat me the way you did before.” His hand cups my jaw. “Don’t bring me coffee and act like we’re best friends all of a sudden because you feel sorry for me. And fuck, don’t you ever accuse me of being a shitty person because I’ve been nothing but honest with every woman I’ve ever taken home.”

His thumb traces my lower lip, leaving a trail of tingles. I offer an understanding nod, scared to breathe another word.

“I want everything to go back to how it was a couple days ago,” he sighs.

“I don’t understand.”

A couple days ago we did nothing but bicker, and my intentional thorniness was like emotional pepper spray between us.

“You want me to be rude to you?” I ask.

His hand leaves my jaw, trailing down my arm.

“Two days ago, my biggest problem was figuring out how to convince you not to hate me. Two days ago, my main priority was seeing how long it would take for me to fuck that hard-to-get pussy of yours again because not having the upper hand with you is the most infuriating thing I’ve ever experienced.” His eyes roll before he looks to the side. “Until yesterday.”

My mouth falls, my head and heart trying to reconcile the squall of emotions coursing through me.

“Fuck, Odessa. Life was easy then.” Anger abandons his expression, though pain wasted no time replacing it. His tongue glides across his bottom lip. “You threw up barricade after barricade, and I spent my time plotting ways to break them down so I could have you one more time.”

I knew it.

“I had no intentions of sleeping with you again,” I say, keeping my voice low in case Julie hears us.

“But I had every intention getting exactly what I wanted from you,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

His thumb grazes my cheek, sending pinpricks down my spine. My chest rises and falls. When did I lose my breath? A tingling sensation washes over my palms as they rest flat against the wall behind me. The ache in my hands urges me to grab onto something, preferably him, but I’m safely frozen in place.

“Unfortunately.” He frowns. “I’ve got a mess to clean up, and I’m quite certain by the time I’m done, you’ll be back with that jackass.”

A sliver of me doesn’t want him to give up that easily. The rest of me scolds that sliver for entertaining such an inappropriate thought.

“It was fun while it lasted, huh?” My voice breaks, but my gaze holds steady, locked in his.

Beckham pulls away, and I exhale. “For the record, you didn’t stand a chance.”

He flashes a smirk. The Beckham I first met is still alive and well in there somewhere, hidden behind the fact that life as he knows it has just come to a screeching halt.

“Likewise.” The corner of my mouth pulls. My eyes trace the perfect shape of his mouth, sending heat to my lips. I wonder if it’s possible to miss a kiss you never knew you wanted.

Beckham’s everything I never wanted and nothing I need. He should be with his new family, and I should to try to fix things with Jeremiah.

It’s just the way it has to be.