Page 35 of Catching Sparks

When he walks back in, I’m still in the same position. There’s something about the way he moves now that has me a bit on edge. The minutes after a hookup are always awkward, and this is no different.

Having Garrison Beckett use a hot pink bath towel to wipe his cum off my ass after a rough fuck was not on my bingo card, but I’m not the least bit upset about it.

I save him the task of having to deliver the typical “I should go” speech. Waiting until I’m cleaned up, I sit up and grab a shirt from my dresser drawer. The pain between my legs is a welcome one, even if it does have me wincing a bit.

“I assume you’re not staying here, right?”

Garrison shakes his head and steps into his slacks, then his shoes. “No.”

“Want a different shirt? I have a few of my brother’s around here,” I offer.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Great.”

My steps are quick as I leave him there and return with a grey tee that has seen way better days. It’s better than a buttonless dress shirt, though.

I hand it to him and ask as he slides the shirt on, “How are you getting back to the ranch?”

“I was going to walk.”

“You can stay, if you want,” I offer, knowing he’ll turn me down before the words even make it out. I’d do the same thing.

“I could use a walk. Some fresh air, you know?”

I don’t bother telling him that it’s at least a half-hour walk to the ranch. It most likely doesn’t matter to him. “Sure. I’ll see you later, then.”

He tucks a hand into his pants and stares at me for a beat longer, his stare focused on my mouth. The tension is back, a force that doesn’t seem to get the meaning of cool-down time.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” he mutters.

I swallow and force my legs to carry me out of the bedroom and toward the front door. Garrison doesn’t say anything as we travel through the hall, the light from the bathroom lighting the place enough that he can surely see how unimpressive everything is. I try not to let that bother me and focus on letting him out.

“Thank you,” I tell him with a grimace once we reach the door.

“Don’t thank me for that, Poppy.”

“I don’t really know what else to say.”

“Good night,” he says bluntly. “That’s it.”

I laugh softly, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Good night, then, Garrison Beckett.”

“You keep using my last name, but I don’t know yours.”

“It’s Huntsly.”

His nod is nothing more than a dip of his chin before he opens the door and murmurs, “Good night, Poppy Huntsly.”

13

GARRISON

My private jet lands at the Toronto airport as the afternoon sun blazes in the clear blue sky. Fatigue weighs my every step down the stairs to the tarmac. A black SUV is waiting, my driver standing at attention by the back door. I wheel my filthy suitcase behind me, the sunglasses on my eyes blocking enough of the sun to soothe my pounding headache.

Apple pie shots, indeed.

“Good morning, Mr. Beckett. Let me grab that for you.”

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