ODESSA

“I emailed you the itinerary for our Vermont trip. I had Julie book us on a commercial flight.” They’re the first words I’ve spoken to him since Friday, when he took me against the wall of my office and then chided me for going there with him.

Like I had a choice.

Something came over me that day. Maybe it was seeing this powerful playboy in a weak moment, sensing ripe vulnerability, and craving a closeness more than words could say.

“Commercial?” He peers across his desk at me, an eyebrow cocked.

Good. He’s going to pretend like it didn’t happen too.

“I thought it might look bad if we flew in to their tiny little airport in a twenty-three million dollar private jet.” I fold my arms, suddenly defensive of my decision. “The last thing we want to do is fly into their quaint little town like a bunch of flashy high-rollers.”

He rises, slipping his hands casually into his pockets and chiding me with his signature smirk. “Well, Odessa, since you took the time to research the cost of the company’s private jet, you surely took the time to research the fuel-efficiency of a Cessna Citation X?”

“It doesn’t matter. The residents of Charity Falls will see it as Mr. Monopoly Moneybags rolling into town and forget the rest.”

“Flying commercial is actually more cost prohibitive, especially for our purposes. My jet can get to Vermont in under an hour. The hourly cost to operate our Cessna is actually half the cost of two commercial airfares,” he says. “On top of all that, we’re going to lose a full day of work traveling commercial. I wish you’d have consulted with me before making arrangements. And really, Julie should’ve known better.”

Julie tried to warn me that Beckham wouldn’t like this arrangement. I refused to listen, assuming he only flew private because he was a spoiled asshole.

“Jeez.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and swallow my pride. “I get it, Beckham. I’m sorry. I was focused on the PR aspect of this trip. Forgive me.”

My plea for forgiveness favors the sarcastic side.

“Have a good weekend?” I change the subject the second I sense the dark heat in his heavy stare. He’s looking at me the same way he did last Friday, seconds before his lips claimed mine and I gave them willingly in a state of unchartered desperate confusion.

“Are we really doing this?” He moves toward me, steady and daunting, igniting a quick swirl in my belly too rowdy to ignore.

“Doing what?” I bat my lashes. Playing dumb has never been my strong suit.

“Pretending like everything’s back to normal between us.” He’s before me now, running his hand along the side of my face before taking a strand of hair between his fingers. He lets it fall over my shoulder, his head cocked sideways.

I swallow the hardness in my throat. “We both know nothing about us was normal. We left normal back at the bar, before I sucked down a lemon drop martini and three tequila shots and came home with you.”

“You can blame the alcohol all you want, but you knew damn well you picked the only man there who could give you what you needed,” he growls. “Pretty sure I proved on Friday that I’ve still got what you need, Odessa…”

He’s right. I can’t deny any of it. But I have what he needs too. “Don’t pretend for a second you didn’t come storming into my office like some virile–”

“Odessa,” he interrupts. “I have no issue admitting that fucking you last Friday was one of the highlights of my week. All things considered.”

I can’t shake the mutual feeling. I tried all weekend.

“That why you told me I shouldn’t have let you fuck me?” For the better part of three days, I tried to simultaneously decode his comment and not let it bother me.

I failed miserably at both.

Beckham’s mouth twitches, his right dimple flashing. “Because I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands off you in Vermont. Several days together, just us? Hotel. Private jet. Could get reckless, don’t you think?”

My shoulders tense as I glance up at him. My eyes snap from his sharp gaze to the window behind him.

“Jeremiah’s back.” My confession dissolves the charge in the air.

Beckham steps away, his hands rising to protest. He swallows, his lips straightening. “Well then.”

“We’re not…back together.” The overwhelming urge to clarify that fact consumes me for reasons unknown. “Not engaged. Not…”

“You don’t need to explain, Odessa.” He cuts me off, raking his palm along his five o’clock shadow. I’ve yet to see him with one, and I’m shocked it took me this long to notice it. Can’t blame him after the past few days.

“Jeremiah and me.” I continue anyway. “We have issues. There are a lot of cracks in our relationship. Hairline fractures really.”

I neglect to tell him the “hairline fractures” have taken shape in the form of recently-unveiled doubts. My doubts. And not because of Beckham. God, I’m not in love with him just because he fucked me tirelessly on a Friday afternoon.

It’s just that I forgot I could feel that way; so electric. So all-consumed. So alive.

Beckham says nothing.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” My cheeks burn.

He returns to his desk, taking his seat. The distance between us grows. I feel it. “Because like it or not, we’re friends now.”

I force a smile that doesn’t want to be there and ignore the shattering sound my resolve makes as it falls apart. “Yeah. I guess we kind of are.”