Page 47 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“I was telling Señorita your address. So she can come visit you in the middle of the night,” I say with a grin.

Beckett gives a full-body shudder. “Don’t even joke. That’s horrifying. Can you imagine? Being woken up in the dead of night with that little rat in your bed?”

“Inyourbed,” I correct. “She would snuggle right up to you and wrap her arms around your neck and keep you nice and warm.”

Beckett raises one brow at me. “I don’t think Señorita and I have the kind of relationship you’re picturing, where we keep each other warm at night. Interesting that your mind went there, though—”

“Shut up,” I say, laughing and nudging him with my elbow as we walk toward the nearest souvenir shop. Our steps are slow and lazy, and something about it is a nice change of pace from the chaos we dealt with overnight. I slow to a stop, though, when something occurs to me.

“Speaking of beds,” I say, looking up at Beckett. “What are the sleeping arrangements for tonight?”

Beckett’s answer is immediate. “You’re sleeping in my bed,” he says.

I frown at him. “And you’re going to sleep…?”

He shrugs and starts walking again. “Floor, couch, wherever. It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. There’s no way he’ll fit on the couch; it was even a tight fit for me earlier. “I’ve inconvenienced you enough already. You sleep in the bed. I’ll take the floor or the couch.”

“Nope,” he says. “That won’t work for me.”

“Beckett,” I say with a sigh. “I promise it’s not a big deal. I’ll be absolutely fine on the floor—”

But I break off when Beckett turns sharply to me, leaning down until his face is inches from mine. I gasp at his sudden nearness, my eyes widening as he invades my space.

“You will sleep in my bed, Molly,” he says in a low voice. His words are calm, but his tone is steel—he’s not asking. “Because if you sleep anywhere else, I will worry about you all night. And then I won’t sleep either. So you will sleep in my bed, on my pillow, under my blankets. You will make yourself comfortable there. Do you understand?”

His eyes pin me in place, and he’s close enough that I can see the specks of gold in his irises. He watches me expectantly with those eyes, never wavering. When I don’t answer, he speaks again. “Molly,” he says sharply. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I breathe. What is my pulse doing right now? It’s spiking erratically, tripping and stumbling with every new detail I notice—the curve of his lower lip as he speaks, the cool mint of his breath, his hands braced on my bare shoulders as he holds me in place. “I understand,” I manage to get out.

Beckett’s eyes roam over my face. “Good girl,” he murmurs finally.

“I feel funny when you say that.” The words tumble out of my mouth without my permission, but I’m too stuck in this moment to care—too hyperaware of his touch, his palms rough against my skin. Too lost in his eyes. Too close to the lips I’ve been dying to kiss for years.

The only change in his expression is the slight hitch of his brow. His gaze ping-pongs back and forth between my eyes, growing sharp with interest. “Funny how?” he rasps, taking one step closer to me.

“Like…” I say, feeling dazed. “Like I can’t breathe. Like my heart is going too fast.”

Beckett’s hands clench convulsively on my shoulders, no more than a spasm of movement, but I feel it like it’s the only sensation left in my body.

“There are lines, Molly,” he says through gritted teeth, “that we shouldn’t cross.”

“I don’t think I’m crossing lines,” I say with a hint of defiance. “You asked a question and I answered.”

Beckett’s hands are still holding my shoulders in a vice-like grip, but now he yanks them away, straightening up and taking a step back. “Fine,” he says, his jaw flexing. “That’s fair. I won’t ask questions like that again.”

“You asked because you wanted to know,” I say. There’s an inexplicable knot growing in my throat, but my words pour out anyway, sounding more and more strangled as I go on. “You asked because you wanted to know, because you—”

“Don’t,” he cuts me off, raking one hand through his hair. “Just…don’t.”

I blink hard, swallowing back the tears that are threatening to fall.

He feels something. I really think he does. But he’s fighting it, and I don’t know what to do with that. Because this situation is so far beyond even my wildest dreams. My initial hope for this port excursion was to see Beckett again and put these feelings to rest once and for all. Even when we first got stranded on Van Gogh Island, that was the plan I wanted to stick to.

But it’s hard to keep my distance when he looks at me like he wants me closer.

And yet…he’s saying no. He ran from the almost-kiss; he’s telling me now not to push this further.

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