Beckett didn’t answer right away, but his gaze locked on my mouth. “I told them the truth.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Which truth would that be?”
He was still staring at my lips when he answered. “That when I woke up this morning, I had my hand up your shirt, but I couldn’t do anything about it because I knew I had to leave. That’s when they told me to go finish what we started.”
My mouth fell open, a shocked burst of air pushing from my lungs.
He pinched his eyes shut. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that, you slept through the whole thing and I felt like such an asshole. This is why I never drink.”
I swallowed, dredging up a moment of vulnerability because this could go sideways so very, very fast.
“I didn’t,” I managed to push out.
His gaze snapped to mine. “Didn’t what?”
“I didn’t sleep through the whole thing.” I took a step closer, and his face went wary. “I … was awake when you left the bed.”
Beckett breathed hard, his eyes dark. “I’m drunk.”
I nodded.
“We shouldn’t talk about this right now.”
“Right.”
“You weren’t asleep?” he asked, voice low and demanding.
I shook my head.
Beckett clenched his jaw. “Why didn’t you pull away?”
My heart rattled urgently, and it was really hard to keep the honest answer crammed down somewhere safe, but we were about to revisit this whole ‘you’re not my type’ thing, and I wasn’t sure this was the right time.
Because I had a feeling—something I couldn’t ignore even if I wanted to anymore—that my husband was very much my type, and I had no idea what to do about it.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about this right now,” I reminded him gently.
He sighed, rubbing his face, suddenly looking very tired and a touch more sober than he had when he first walked in. “I know.”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
The sounds of Olive up in her bedroom pulled his attention away. “Yeah.” He managed another slight smile. “And maybe some of that pizza to start?”
I patted him on the shoulder. “And a big glass of water.”
Chapter18
Greer
When I was younger, I had a major obsession with Julia Roberts. The entire Roberts catalog is locked so deeply into my brain that I can recall any line of dialogue from one of her movies.
And the very first thing that I thought of when I got a call from Olive’s school—the absolute first thing—was Julia Roberts inStepmom.
She swooped in, so cool and levelheaded and helped her stepdaughter lay the smackdown on some bullies.
It was totally going to be me, I thought, as I marched into the elementary school office ten minutes down the road. The woman at the front desk greeted me with a smile. “Can I help you?”
Before I could tell her why I was there, Olive was already running around from behind her desk, hurtling at my legs, emitting the tiniest, most pathetic little sniffles I’d ever heard.