Page 28 of Flare

“So, are we ready to eat?” Beck thundered down the stairs, then cast a curious look between us. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing.” Jack jumped to his feet. “You guys sit and I’ll get the mac.”

Beck eyed his nephew. “What are you up to? Youneverserve.”

“It’s called being a host.”

“Like hell.” Beck waved me toward the table. “Wine? Beer?”

“Beer, thanks.”

He looked surprised but headed for the kitchen while I tried not to stare at a freshly washed and eminently drool-worthy Beck, with his hair still dripping at the ends and looking cool as a cucumber in loose sweats, a Matchbox Twenty T-shirt, and yes, even the open red flannel shirt was kind of hot in its own way, although I’d deny it to my deathbed. It was especially difficult watching him bend over to study the contents of the fridge with that glorious arse on full display.

But somehow, I managed.

I’m committed like that.

“Do you think I’m too prissy for beer?” I called him on his bullshit.

He turned, ears pink, and I was really starting to like that look on him. Or maybe it was still the whole dripping-with-water thing.

He brought our beers to the table and leaned close. “Maybe I happen to like prissy.”

My gaze darted to Jack, but he was too busy with the mac and cheese to be paying attention. “Yeah, well, prissy, my arse. You obviously don’t know me.”

Beck pulled the chair out from the head of the table and waved me into it.

I hesitated, my mind replaying that kiss to my hand. “Well, this is a first.” I took my seat and he pushed it in. “Not sure anyone’s ever done that for me before.”

“That’s a shame and an outrage.” His lips brushed my ear and I shivered.

I watched as he took the seat at right angles to me, the backs of our hands brushing, the fresh citrus scent from whatever shower gel he used washing over me like a fucking aphrodisiac. “You’re a romantic, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “Poetry, remember? Romance is in my blood.” He said it like a promise, and somewhere in my heart a whole fucking orchestra pulled out their dusty instruments.Stop. It. Now.

Jack appeared and Beck’s hand slid away as a steaming dish of mac and cheese landed on the table. Then Jack took the seat on my other side, which left me floundering as one corner of an achingly domestic triangle. A flash of warmth puffed into life somewhere in my chest, but I didn’t give it a chance to get any silly ideas before stamping it out.

No matter what you want, this isn’t yours to have.

Beck clapped his hands. “Right, let’s eat.”

The mac and cheese turned out to be pretty damn good and I placated Beck with a well-deserved draw between his version and my mum’s. His addition of feta stuffed randomly into the dish before it baked, along with a sprinkle of cayenne, was a masterstroke, not that I’d be telling my mum that.

The conversation was easy, mostly because I peppered both Beck and Jack with enough questions about school and work to fill the majority of the time, but not all of it... unfortunately.

Beck asked about Fashion Week since Jack had been yammering on about it, so I gave a brief rundown about how it was the pre-eminent industry show in New Zealand, and what a crazy privilege it was to get an invite as an up-and-coming designer. The only drawback being, of course, that if I didn’t get reviewed well, it could make or break my shiny new label just like that.

Turning the tables, I learned that Jack thought school was okay but not great; he had no real friends, which tugged at something in my heart; his best subject was technology; the boys at his new school sucked; and he wished he was back in Napier. A quick glance at Beck caught the sting in his eyes at the comment and I nudged him with my knee, then left it there, just because.

After Jack, I started on Beck, who made it clear he knew exactly what I was doing, like I could give a shit. Keeping him talking meant I could legitimately keep my eyes glued on him without looking like the creepy stalker that I was.

Up close, the broad scar on his lip was much more obvious, although mostly due to the occasional long white hairs that drew attention to it. I wanted to tell him to ditch the disguise and simply wear the scar with confidence, but that was easy for me to say.

When our plates were clean, Jack jumped to his feet and ferried them to the dishwasher. Beck watched him go with a surprised shake of his head and a smile for me that said this wasn’t the norm for his nephew, and oh yeah, I could smell a matchmaking teen a mile off. The last thing I needed.

Beck followed Jack to box the leftovers while I grabbed a dishcloth and wiped the table.

“Am I free now?” Jack closed the dishwasher and set it running.

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