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It was as if he’d slapped her. She actually stepped back a pace. “Beckett. I—”
“No,” he said. “I can’t.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m mad. How am I supposed to know what you want? And do you know what I did tonight?”
“I thought I just made it clear that I don’t want to know.”
“Too bad,” she said. “I’m telling you anyway. We went out to dinner, and George was extremely funny and made me laugh like crazy, and there wasn’t that much beyond a friendship-spark, because he’s … I don’t know. Too nice a guy for me? Too much of a banker? Which is mostly being a salesman, from what I know. Like being a realtor. Professionally nice. I’m positive he’s in Rotary. Of course, I’m in Rotary, too, but that’s because judges are supposed to be involved in the community, not so I can drum up business. Also, he’s from New Jersey. How could I date somebody from New Jersey?”
“This is lost on me,” Beckett said, but he possibly didn’t look quite as tense.
“Let’s just say it’s not Montana,” she said. “And I told him the … the situation, that we’re friends with benefits, or whatever, but it’s not quite … quite worked out yet, and he said, it sure sounds like you’re in love with the guy, and I said, I’m not inlovewith him, I just—”
“I hope you didn’t make him pay for this dinner,” Beckett said.
“We split it,” she said, aiming for loftiness and probably not succeeding. “Obviously. And he said, if I was trying to torture you, which I must be, or why would I have done this, we should go to the movies. They’re having a Marx Brothers film festival in Kalispell. I’d never actually seen the Marx Brothers. Have you?”
“No,” he said. “Not so far.”
“You should. They’re really funny. Mostly Groucho, because the rest of them weren’t as good, in my opinion—I’m more of a verbal humor person—but anyway. We watched two of them and laughed some more, and he drove me home and said he hoped I figured out my situation, and if it didn’t work out, I had his number. And kissed me on the cheek and said it was too bad, because he really liked me. And I said I really liked him, too, and if he wanted to run with the group—he’s a trail runner, which is why Martin picked him, I guess, but probably a pretty slow one—he should drive up to meet us, but I guess it isn’t the right time, otherwise. Relationship-wise. I thought that was more tactful.”
“Congratulations,” he said. “On thinking of it.”
“Yes,” she said. “I thought so. Not my strength. And here I am. I had my best first date so far on the night when I didn’t care, because, all right, I kept thinking about you, and here you are, just being all … all stiff and outraged. How was I supposed to know where we stood, though? And I already had the date! What was I supposed to do about that?”
“No,” he said. “More like, what wasIsupposed to do. Because I clearly haven’t been doing it.” And set down his trowel. Without smiling.
Sweaty. Dusty. In his work boots.
Oh, boy.
She should have kissed George back instead, because she was way,wayout of her league here.
34
STARS
If you were trying to show a woman that you weren’t in this for the casual sex, your best plan probably wasn’t grabbing her in a cold attic full of wallboard dust, putting your hands on the sides of her head, and kissing her like you were going to do it right here.
That was his thought for the first ten seconds or so. After that, he wasn’t thinking at all. He had his hand on that red jumper and was cupping her breast, and she was gasping into his mouth and sliding her own hands up under his shirt. He wrenched the jumper off, and there was the black bra again, the one with the cups that went only halfway up.
Her mouth wasn’t under his anymore, because she was kissing his neck and saying, “I need to buy more … date underwear. It feels kind of … Oh, touch me there some more. Please. Do that. Uh, kind of … slutty wearing it for two guys. In a … good way.”
He said, “You’re not wearing it for two guys. You’re wearing it for me.” And felt the surge of heat in her as if it were in his own body, or maybe it was. He got his hand back there, unclipped the bra, and felt it fall to the ground between them, and then he had his hand, not on her breast, but on her belt buckle.
She was pressed up against him, her back arching like she needed his hand on hernow. He undid the belt buckle somehow and unzipped her jeans in one big hurry, then was wrestling them down those thighs. The woman didn’t need a belt at all, because those jeans wouldn’t have been going anywhere if he hadn’t been yanking on them. He said, “Step out. And take your socks off.”
“Beckett …” she began.
“Do it.” He couldn’t help the edge of roughness in his voice, and when she shivered, hereallycouldn’t help it. The heat had him, just like the night before, and the second her socks were off, he was backing her up. Straight over to the bed, which he’d draped with a dropcloth. A paint-smeared, plaster-smeared dropcloth, and he didn’t care. He shoved her down to sitting, and she didn’t protest. That was because her hands were under his shirt, and she was pulling him forward and kissing his ribs.
He didn’t bother to object. He just dropped to his knees.
This time, he was doing it first, and no arguments.
* * *
Wait,she wanted to say, and then Beckett had pulled her hips to the edge of the bed, the canvas cloth rough beneath her, and was yanking her underwear—non-matching, because she hadn’t had time for the black ones to dry, so it was Fruit of the Loom, but he wasn’t complaining—down her legs. His hands were on the backs of her thighs, shoving them up and apart, and …
