Page 27 of The Escape Plan

I thought there could be nothing worse than being trapped down here with Beckett while wearing only a sports bra. But I have to say, being practically bathed in his unfairly good smell might be worse. It’s probably going to smell like ketchup and dog saliva when I give it back. Which is just one more item to add to “Keeley’s Embarrassing Moments of the Weekend.”

“Can’t believe you’re even wearing a sweatshirt in this heat,” I tell him as I hoist myself up to sit on one of the dryers.

Beckett laughs good-naturedly and sits a couple of dryers over, his long legs dangling over the side. He’s wearing shorts, and I can’t help but notice what nice legs he has. Muscular, like he played a lot of soccer growing up.

“Mr. Prenchenko keeps his apartment at sub-arctic temperatures, and I haven’t figured out how to change the thermostat yet,” he confesses, and I laugh.

“He likes to be reminded of the winter he once spent in Yellowknife, studying Inuit culture.”

Beckett smiles in amusement. “He’ll be right at home in Ireland, then. It’s been cold and rainy every day this summer so far.”

“Um, on that,” I hedge slowly. “I’m sorry about making a joke about the Irish drinking culture. Offended or not, it wasn’t super polite of me.”

“Unfortunately, the stereotype is often true. The Irish are big drinkers.” He grins. “Not me, mind. I’m a desperate lightweight. But in general, I guess we are famous for drinking like fish. And for manufacturing Botox.”

“Botox?” I blink.

“Yes,” he says mock-proudly. “Ninety percent of the world’s Botox is made in my very own County Mayo.”

I snort, wondering if Sissy—a huge Botox fan—knows this little tidbit. “Fascinating.”

“It’s a real cultural hub, where I come from.”

“What else is Mayo famous for?”

That flirtatious smile is back on his face. “We’re known to be great craic.”

My eyebrows fly up. “Ex-squeeze me?”

“Ya know, good craic. A grand old time. Life of the party. Et cetera, et cetera.”

Man, just as I was warming to him, I find out he’s on crack.

“I don’t know how they do things back in Ireland, but crack is something upstanding citizens of the community generally avoid in this country.”

“How boring,” he says, eyes glittering.

“A little boredom never killed nobody,” I mutter as I look at Beckett. He doesn’t look like he’s on crack, but then again, my only experience with such things is from watching those shoot-em-up movies with lots of bad guys and explosions. My eyes move desperately to the door. “Shall we bang on the door again? Shout a little louder for someone to rescue us?”

“It means fun, Keeley.”

“Huh?”

“Craic. C-R-A-I-C. It’s the Irish word for a good time.”

“Oh.” Abject relief washes over me.

Beckett grins wickedly. “I was informed that it means something entirely different to you Americans, but I needed to test that theory first to see if it was true. Turns out it is.”

“You’re the worst, Beckett,” I tell him.

His smile grows. “My friends call me Becks.”

Chapter Ten

Beckett

“Friends, huh?”Keeley—who is currently drowning in my sweater and looking very cute doing so—tilts her head at me, her long black hair waterfalling over one shoulder.

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