Page 99 of Moms of Mayhem
Beckett leaned in and kissed me again, thumb trailing across my cheek to wipe away the tears. “Absolutely, he is.”
We lay there in silence for a few moments, tucked under layers of flannel and starlight, snowflakes drifting slow and soft past the open tailgate like the universe had decided to take its time.
“I thought you were bringing me up here to have sex,” I said, and Beckett’s chest shook underneath my cheek.
“I mean, I wouldn’t say no. But this is pretty perfect, if you ask me.”
“Careful, Conway,” I murmured. “That almost sounded romantic.”
“I can do romantic.” He tugged me closer. “I just needed the inspiration. Needed to find the girl I wanted badly enough to sweep her off her feet.”
“Well.” I leaned up until our noses bumped. “Consider me swept.”
He kissed me again, slow and sure and full of promise.
The drive back into town was quiet, music drifting through the car as Beckett wove his way back toward my house, our fingers intertwined on the center console. My heart was stillhumming to the rhythm of Beckett’s kiss, the intimacy of tonight seeming so much more than just sex.
Too soon, we were back outside my house, staring at the blue siding and the little porch light. Beckett lifted my hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “See you in the morning.”
I nodded, the smile on my face feeling damn near permanent at this point. “Bright and early.”
Snow crunched under my boots as I hurried up the front steps, only then realizing I forgot to ask him to stop for coffee creamer.
I cracked the front door open, hoping that Jace had gone to bed already. But no such luck.
He was still on the couch, legs up, controller in hand, the same battle game lighting up the TV screen. His head swiveled toward me the second the door shut behind me.
I froze like I’d just been caught sneaking in from Makeout Point, which was ridiculous becausehewas the teen, and I was the mother in this equation, even though that was exactly what was happening.
Jace raised an eyebrow. “So, where’s the coffee creamer?”
I stared at him for a half-second too long, then slid my boots off. “They were out,” I blurted. “All out. Not a drop of dairy in the whole place. Even the half-and-half was expired. Total cream crisis. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
He squinted. “You were gone for over an hour.”
“You wouldn’tbelievehow packed the store was.” I bent to put my boots under the bench, then went to the stairs. “That post-game rush, you know? And then the dairy shortage just made it worse.”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at me with that same skepticism.
“Anyway.” I flicked off the living room lights, washing us both in darkness aside from the TV, hoping it hid the blush creeping up my cheeks. “I’m going to bed. You should, too. Practice tomorrow?”
“I practice every morning.”
“And that’s why you should go to bed.”
As I reached the landing, I heard him mutter, “Man, she’s weird.”
I closed the bedroom door, leaned against it with a dopey smile, and tried my best not to relive every second of those kisses under the stars.
Tried, and failed spectacularly.
30
Tuesday morning Pilates shouldn’t have been sexy. But apparently, when Emmy Hudson was the one guiding my mom through modified stretches and mindful breathing, it was damn near erotic.
She was patient and encouraging, quick to help when Mom lost her balance, and somehow still focused enough to keep things professional—at least onherend.
Me? I was toast the second she bent down to adjust Mom’s form. Game over. Heart racing. Pants suddenly too tight.
