Page 24 of Flare

Why now? Whythisman?

It was only when Jack hit the top of the stairs and threw us a puzzled look that Beck released his grip and stepped away. “Thanks for the coffee.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and Beck smiled as if he knew. I turned to Jack. “Good job today.”

“Thanks.” Jack flushed, no doubt remembering the incident in the yard. Then his eyes widened at the keys Beck threw his way.

“You can drive home. Get it warmed up.”

“Yes!” Jack fist pumped the air and sprinted down the stairs.

Beck retook my hand and lifted it to his lips.

I watched the kiss he pressed to my knuckles as if in slow motion, my heart thundering in my throat.

“Till next time.” He tipped his head like some character inBridgerton, smiled, and then left in that long, loping stride, as calm as you like. As if he hadn’t just turned my whole fucking world upside down and shaken all the choking dust from those dark, hidden corners.

Fucking hell.

I opened the window a crack so I could see better as Jack reversed Beck’s older BMW out of its park. And only when the car was out of sight did I fall back into my chair and stare at my hand, raising it to my lips to catch his scent.

What the hell?

And for the first time in years, I thought of a name that waited in an old email.

Was it time?

CHAPTERFIVE

Beck

“Goddamn prehistoric, fucking piece-of-shit plumbing.”I struggled out from under the sink, threw the wrench in the bucket, and leaned over the countertop, temper blown all to hell. My feet paddled in rank water, a stench not unlike that from the dumpster by the university cafeteria wafted from my armpits, and a sheen of equally attractive sweat painted my face—a not insignificant feat considering the digital weather station hadn’t cruised past the blue-balling mark all day.

To top it off, I’d wasted three hours of uninterrupted marking time at home to the foolhardy idea of fixing my slow draining kitchen sink, and all because I didn’t want to cough up the money to pay for a plumber. How hard could it be, right? Probably not hard at all, if you knew what the fuck you were doing.

Ten years ago, it had seemed like a great investment. A character-filled century-old house close to the city and with a sliced view of the harbour—if you stood on your toes at the lounge window and leaned slightly to the left. Who wouldn’t want that? But factor in the ongoing and expensive renovation and repair scenarios, and my bank account was in constant need of life saving resuscitation.

Would I swap? Not on your life. Did I want to burn it to the ground on a semi-regular basis? You bet your double-glazed and underfloor-heated warm little toes I did.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and swore. Five fifty.Shit.There was no way I’d make it to Flare in time to pick Jack up. I should’ve perhaps been more upset about that, but I’d managed to avoid anything more than a passing hello to Rhys in the last three days, and I was more than happy about that. Perhaps he’d been avoiding me as well. It was probably the only thing we had in common.

My own fault. I’d read things wrong, again. Getting a handle on Rhys was like trying to snatch smoke from the air. I couldn’t tell if he liked me or if he was just being nice. But regardless, he had my dick under some kind of spell. Because whenever I was around him, I found myself doing shit I regretted later, like kiss his fucking hand, for Pete’s sake. I could still see the shock on his face. I mean, yes, I’d done it before, well maybe once, and not that successfully as it turned out, since that particular relationship fizzled pretty soon after.Note to self—romance is dead, or at the very least in need of sustained resuscitation.

But the way Rhys had talked me into a corner had my dick paying way too much attention. I was an English professor. In a battle of words, I ate most people for breakfast. It came with the territory. But not Rhys. He turned my stereotypes inside out and politely fed them back to me with a cheeky smile and a serving of indigestion, leaving me lost for words—a state that was mostly foreign to me, because... teacher. But around Rhys, all that confidence flew out the goddamn window.

I sent Jack a text to catch the bus, grabbed the wrench from the bucket, and flattened myself on the floor to have another go at getting the damn pipe unscrewed.

I had no idea how much time had passed, but when I heard Jack’s key in the front door and his feet hit the waxed rimu floors, I’d only managed to get one of the pipe connections undone.Go me.Who needed a functioning kitchen sink anyway? I glanced up at the clock and frowned. Six thirty. Way too soon for the bus.

“I’m in the kitchen,” I yelled. “Come and hold this for me. Sorry about the bus, but I thought—”

“No one read your beloved nineteenth-century poets anyway, so you thought you’d get a real job?”

Rhys.

“Dammit.” The wrench glanced off my forehead on its way from my hand to the floor and I peered up at him with one eye closed. “And fuck you too.”

Rhys crouched beside me, his cool fingertips tracing the path of the wrench on my brow, and I repressed a shiver. “Ouch. I bet that hurt. It didn’t break the skin, though. I think you’ll live.”

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