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But she knew it was time to stop. It was time for her to move on with her life and there was no room for anything of Beckham in her new one.
That had been the plan. This was closure.
But instead it felt as if some sort of wound had only been cut deeper and longer and now gaped wide open.
Five
He’d let her go. He’d stared at the duffel bag outside his goddamned door and rather than chase her, call her, call the doorman, call his sister, call someone. He’d stood there, just staring at the bag. Then he’d brought it inside, and stared at it some more, jaw clenched. He’d reached inside, pulled out one of his shirts, and smelled it. And goddamn him, it smelled like her.
And he’d clenched it in his fist, fighting to let her go.
Because it was what he wanted.
Wasn’t it?
Hell yeah, he didn’t need a little problem called Sandy Brown in his life.
Did he?
For a whole week, Beckham couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t go back to his life the way it had been before prior to Sandy’s visit to Houston.
“Mr. Winters,” his assistant rang him on the phone as he sat in his office, coming to the realization that his life would never be the same after her, “Mr. Finch is outside—“
“Tell the pilots to get the Cessna ready. We’re going to Miami.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Exactly what I said,” he said, the conviction firing him up in a way he hadn’t felt fired up in days, “Oh, and, also…cancel all meetings? I realize this is a first but this situation I’m in…is kind of a first.”
He smirked to himself as he realized there was no going back to the way his life was before he saw sexy, adult Sandy Brown and fucked the living sheeshus out of her. Oh no. Things had changed—and he was manning up to the fact that he didn’t plan to spend the next ten years sulking about it.
He flew to Miami at noon. Descended the stairs of his Cessna jet, climbed into his rental car, and punched the address on the GPS that Calli had given him.
He’d asked Calli to call Sandy and tell her she was having something important delivered, and could she please be home to answer?
Well.
Sandy—his Sandy—was in a T-shirt and tiny jean shorts when she opened the front door, and her wide innocent eyes went even wider and more innocent when she saw Beckham across the threshold.
The unguarded look of surprise and yearning in her eyes was quickly concealed, but Beckham’s chest still tightened with that glimpse of it.
“I didn’t take anything!” she cried, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe he’d come here.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Are you sure about that?” He started for her and she backed off, her pulse fluttering so fast that he could see it—right there, at the base of her throat.
It was so good to see her, he could barely talk, his voice roughened with emotion. “You see, you took something from here—“ he tapped his chest “—and I’m not doing too well without it.”
She started shaking her head, but he lifted a hand so she let him finish.
“So I want to propose you come back to Houston with me. I want you to move in with me for a while, Sandy—and if we like it, then I want you to stay. For keeps.
I know you want to go back to school, and there are plenty of schools in Houston. And there are a lot more…” He tugged at the shirt he wore, “where this came from.”
“Becks, this is unnecessary,” she said, alarmed as if this shit was getting too deep for her, too intense for her. Too fucking close to reality for her.
“I’m not doing it for you,” he part laughed, part growled as he reached out for her arms and pulled her closer. “This is for me. And so is this.” He kissed her, sucking her tongue into his mouth, needing a taste of her. Damn she tasted good. Like home. Like what he needed. Like what gave his life fucking meaning. “You get under my skin, Sandy, you get under my nails, my teeth, my hair, my goddamned mind.”
She clawed at his shirt, wiping her tears. “I finally conquered the urge and I gave everything back.”
