Page 47 of Near Miss

And I try to remember what it was all for.

The leaves of Stella’s eucalyptus, draped over the golden edges of the mirror, rustle in the cool night air drifting through the open window in my bedroom.

When I leave the bathroom, I debate going in, inhaling, seeing if those leaves will finally do something—but I notice the gown from the gala, draped over the arm of a chair in the corner of my room.

And then I think of Beckett.

I think of his eyes when I round the corner from the hallway into my living room.

I think of his hands, firmly gripping my legs and keeping me afloat, rooted to the real ground and not helplessly suspended in a body of water, when I grab my book where I left it on the shelf.

I think of him breathing, in and out with me, when I light the candle in the middle of my coffee table.

I think of his hands moving higher, stopping at my knees, the way his eyes flicked up to mine for permission, when I sit down on the couch.

I try not to think of him anymore when I pull out my bookmark from where I left off. But I can’t really see the words in front of me—they blur, my brain skips over them, and I have to double back.

I’m not really seeing anything. Only him, I think.

I see him: this effervescent person who tries to pretend that maybe he doesn’t take things seriously. But he took me seriously.

I see him staring at me intently, nodding ever so slightly, before a gentle smile turns into a grin, and those hands slide higher.

But I don’t see what comes next because my doorbell rings.

I drop my book, and I’m not really thinking when I walk down the hallway and open the door.

Beckett leans against the wooden railing, arms crossed over his broad chest, the curves of his biceps visible under the grey sweater pushed up his forearms, exposing all those cords of muscles and veins. One foot kicked up against the railing, laces of his shoes tied haphazardly, and thigh muscles on display where his shorts ride up his legs.

There’s no grin on his face, and he looks all too serious. Even his voice sounds rougher than usual. “Evening, Dr. Roberts.”

“What are you doing here? How’d you know I was off?” I haven’t seen him since the gala—since his head was between my legs for an extended period of time—only that textedthank youbetween us. It wasn’t for the orgasms—but for staying with me. For seeing me when no one else did and making sure I was okay.

“Took a lucky guess that a big, important fellow such as yourself wouldn’t be working on a Sunday night.” His eyes trail over me, and I notice they’re barely green. Dilated pupils, jaw tense with a muscle popping in his cheek. He looks back up and raises his eyebrows. “I have a bit of a problem I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about my head between your legs.” Beckett shrugs, his voice gravelly and rough and wholly inappropriate. “Season starts this week, and I can’t think aboutanything but you. Can’t visualize. Can’t aim for shit. Drove right by the turn to my street last night. Spending a disproportionate amount of time in the shower thinking about it. Thinking about a lot of things, actually. How I would very much like to fuck you.”

“Oh,” I repeat. I blink, and I feel my heart rate pick up. But it’s not the increased rhythm that usually warns me of bad things to come. This is something else entirely. My skin pebbles, I shiver, and I don’t think it’s from the night air. “You can come in, if you want.”

He nods, kicking off the railing. “I would.”

Neither of us say anything, but everything sounds impossibly loud. His footsteps across the porch. The creak of the door and the click of the lock when it shuts. His breath on the back of my neck as he walks behind me.

His heart. My heart.

The light is still low, the candle still flickers on the coffee table, and the book is where I left it, open on top of a throw blanket. Beckett glances around, but he doesn’t really seem to focus on any one thing before he sits down on the couch.

His eyes are on me the entire time I fold myself down beside him, only one cushion and the book separating us.

“Do you like reading about...” Beckett trails off as he picks up the book, glancing at the cover before flipping it around to read the back. He glances back up at me, and there’s a shade of the boyish charm there for just a moment, but then he’s entirely rough again. “Romance and sexy faeries?”

“Who doesn’t?” I bite down on my lip, leaning forward and taking the book back. My fingers graze his, and I go to sit back, but his hand wraps around my wrist.

“What’s this one about?”

My lips part and my breath stalls—I don’t think there’s any air left in my lungs at all, actually. But the thought doesn’t scare me like it usually would. I swallow, brushing my fingers alongthe back of his hand. “A human who gets transported to another realm and is held captive by a brooding, dark-haired, six-five male who sometimes has wings. You know, the usual.”

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