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One
Beckham Winters’s evening went from good to bad the instant he spotted Sandy Brown across the crowded night club.
He blinked in disbelief as a flash of ebony curls bounced toward the bar in that little walk that could only belong to one woman in the world.
The one that thank God got away.
Annoyance flared through him as he remembered her.
He had lived the past decade in peace and quiet, especially the last decade when Sandy moved to live with some distant cousins in Florida. It had been ten years since then. Ten.
Why would she be back in Houston?
She couldn’t still walk like that, fuck him right now.
He stared down at his drink, wondered how many he’d had, then back at her, his chest roiling when he spotted her profile. Sandy Brown. Oh yeah, it was her alright.
A thorn on his side.
His sister Calli’s friend since young, as acid as Calli was sweet.
He’d spotted her a while ago in a group of females, laughing and talking as she downed her cocktail. That woman talked so loud, Beckham could almost bet if he strained his ears through the loud music playing, he’d be able to hear her.
She was more…rounded. Was wearing a strapless electric blue dress that would match her eyes, and heels that were dangling from one hand at her sides. What kind of woman went barefoot all around a club?
Sandy Brown, that’s who.
His eyebrows drew lower over the bridge of his nose. Sandy Brown never had any sense, as far as he was concerned.
She was trouble, he’d warned Calli time and time again. Every time she came for a pajama party with Calli, one of Beckham’s belts, ties, or boxer shorts mysteriously disappeared from his closet.
She had a thieving problem so far and wide, she didn’t even remember stealing things—according to Calli. But she’d easily taken more than a dozen of his things in her lifetime, and he suspected she’d taken so much more than he knew.
Not only that, but when she was fifteen, and Beckham nineteen and visiting his family during the summer, she’d stolen at night into his fucking bed. He didn’t even know how long she’d been lying there, but he’d woken up with a groan and his usual morning boner, to find her big blue eyes were watching him from beneath the covers.
He’d jumped out of bed like she was made of fucking fire. Hell, his parents had been only doors away. His sister sleeping right next door. Jesus, was she insane? he’d ranted.
Her chin had trembled, and he’d almost thought she would cry. But no. She’d told him some choice curse words, acted like he was some sort of demon because he didn’t welcome her in his bed, and then marched off, only then making him realize she was wearing one of his gym sweatshirts. Damn her, he’d been so infuriated that day, it felt like nothing could calm him down, not even running or kickboxing, and definitely not the cold shower he’d had to take. Sandy was just too young to know not to mess with him, he’d told himself. But no. That girl was older and wiser far beyond her tender fifteen, and Beckham had moved out because of her.
His fancy Houston flat was built with the latest high-tech security system, supposed to shield him from a nuclear bomb and other natural disasters, but he couldn’t think of a worst disaster than Sandy Brown. Knowing she’d been in Florida had been a relief to him for years, but now…
His muscles contracted as she tossed back her hair and leaned on the bar. Her hair fell down her back in a crazy disarray that made one want to tame it as hard as the owner should be tamed, and her well rounded ass poked out in a way that screamed to be squeezed and fondled.
He jerked his eyes away and rubbed the back of his neck. Uh, yeah. Fuck.
He didn't care what she looked like now.
He’d been damned glad to get rid of her and he’d be damned glad to ignore her for the rest of his life.
His eyes flicked back to her, and she was touching the tattoo on the barista’s wrist, and Beckham’s face hardened with rage. His hand almost crushed the glass of gin, and when he realized this, he downed out in one gulp.
“Oh my god, is that Sandy?” From her place in the booth, Calli leapt from her on-and-off boyfriend Harrison and turned wide eyes to Beckham. “It’s Sandy, isn’t it?”
“How the hell should I know?” he said in a cold, stiff voice, giving a good, long look to the fucking turd who’s tattoo she’d been fondling just now.
“It’s her! And I thought you might know, because you’ve been scowling at her for the past ten minutes, idiot!” Calli laughed. “Nobody makes you so angry, of course it’s Sandy! I’ll be back in a bit, Harrison, don’t look at any hot women.”
Harrison, Beckham’s best friend, chuckled. “No, baby, I’ll just watch your sweet ass from here.”
“Jesus, get your eyes off my sisters’ ass,” Beckham grumbled, once again taking his seat as soon as Calli slid out of the booth.
His sweet, angelic-looking sister—dressed aptly in white—plunged through the crowd in the direction of Sandy, and Beckham watched in rapt attention as Sandy turned to spot his sister approaching.
Even from afar, Beckham could make out Sandy’s even white teeth, almost hear that cackling laugh of hers. His stomach felt the heat of the embrace she gave Calli, and he could almost feel her fingers touching him as they touched his sister’s shoulder.
Fuck, Sandy pressed all his buttons and then some.
Yep. Houston, we have a problem.
A big boner growing—and fast.
Harrison said, “She the one? The thief? The one that always comes up when you’re drunk?”
“Yeah. But not always, man, I’ve probably mentioned her once.”
“Once every goddamned minute,” Harrison shot back in amusement.
“Shut up, fucker, you don’t even know what you’re talking about when it comes to this chick.” Beckham shifted in his seat and only then did he realize he was now hard as hell. And he refused, absolutely refused, to acknowledge who this wood was for.
But he was in trouble and he knew it.
Sandy was no longer the fifteen-year-old thorn on his side. She was older now, and the thorn had grown with her, morphed, into a damned knife in the goddamned guts.
