Page 17 of On the Run
The giant strode to the far side of the bed, blocking the exit, and I jumped up to face him, standing on the balls of my feet. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “Don’t you dare—”
“I’m getting my pants on, since you seem to be distracted by my… myjunk, as you call it.” He grabbed some shorts off the floor and turned away as he pulled them on over a very firm ass. Then, he turned to face me and crossed his arms over his chest again. “Fine. I’ll start. I’m Beale—”
Oh, damn. Damnity damn.
I was even more of an idiot than I’d thought.
“Goodman,” I whispered. “Fenn’s cousin. The gay one. Who believes in crystals and magical woo-woo.”
He frowned. “I suppose that’s me. Yeah.” He shook his head. “And you are?”
“Mason’s friend Toby,” I said. Then I winced, remembering too late that I was supposed to be incognito.
“Oh. I’ve heard of you.” Beale’s posture relaxed just slightly, his eyes unwrinkled… and if this guy thought that putting his shorts on was gonna be enough to tone down the sex vibe in this room, he had another think coming.
I wasn’t the only junk-checker-outer in the room.
“And now that we have that out of the way, what in the name of fuckity fuck are you doing in Mason and Fenn’s guesthouse?” I demanded.
“Sleeping.” He nodded at the side of the bed closest to him, where I was shocked to notice a dented pillow and a discarded throw blanket that hadn’t been there when I came in earlier. “I’m house-sitting while Fenn and Mason are out of town.”
Oh. Oh, shit. “You’re staying here?”
He nodded.
I ran a hand over my forehead. Littlejohn had made it sound like Mason’s house-sitting friend would be swinging by to check on the contractors, not staying in the guesthouse. Of course, he also believed I was the house-sitting friend, so he clearly wasn’t an accurate source of information.
Now I’d blown my cover to Beale, and I’d possibly have to find new sleeping arrangements, and I still didn’t have any money or a phone.
“Fuck.” I sank down on the bed and bent over to bury my face in my hands. To my absolute shock, tears of frustration filled my eyes. “Fuck this day.” I sniffed. “Fuck cameras. And dumbass, shittyuserswho betray your trust. And fuck Florida. And fuck rental car computer systems. And vomit. And fuck me for being a sucker for SpaghettiOs, especially when I’m hungover.”
The bed dipped as Beale sat beside me, and then his warm hand patted my shoulder with surprising gentleness for a guy his size.
He whistled low. “That’s a comprehensive list of fuckery right there,” he said, his deep voice dry and sympathetic at once.
This wry humor was so wildly unexpected, I snorted against my will and lifted my head. Beale watched me with blue eyes full of sympathy.
“Long day?”
I snorted again. “You might say that. There was a wholethinggoing on back in New York.” I waved a hand, because no way was I explaining it. “Mase said I had a standing invitation to visit, so I came here. Then I lost my phone and my credit card at the airport. I couldn’t get a rental car. A toddler puked on my sandal.” I glanced up at him. “Armani. Last season, but still.”
“Still.” Beale nodded solemnly.
“I called Mason a billion times, before the phone incident, but he didn’t pick up—”
“Ah. He was probably on the plane to New York—”
“To visit his sister,” I finished glumly. “Yeah. I knocked on the door across the street, and Littlejohn Jennings filled me in. Then the cat incident.” I sniffed morosely. “Not sure how much Mase has told you about me, but suffice it to say, my dick hasn’t been that close to a pussy in my life, so I’m extra traumatized. And… actually, I think that’s all.” Aside from the paparazzi hunting me down, which I still would not be sharing. “More or less.”
His lips twitched. “You skipped the part where you got in here.”
“Oh! Well, that was the only easy bit of the whole night.” I shrugged. “Littlejohn has a spare key, so he let me in after dinner.”
“Of course he did.” Beale snorted. “HavingDaleJennings messing with my life wasn’t bad enough, his cousin had to take a turn.”
“Excuse you?” I pushed to my feet and threw my shoulders back. I could do the arm-foldy chest-thing, too, even if my biceps weren’t quite as bulgy and impressive as his had been. “‘Messing’? I am not ‘messing.’ I’m a motherfuckingdelight.”
Almost like he couldn’t help it, Beale’s avid gaze slid down my smooth chest and torso, as hot as a physical touch. “You’re something, alright.”
