Page 81 of One and Only

So … the respectable polishing was really just me.

The clock neared seven, and Olive told me she was going to read in her room for a little bit. While I cleaned up our dinner mess, I decided that the sort of stepmom gig wasn’t all that bad.

When the counters were sparkling and clean, I stood back and surveyed the family room. Maybe he’d let me do a little painting in here too. I eyed the rock fireplace. It needed a big mantel to add some visual interest. I made a note to ask Cameron if he’d be able to build something that could be mounted on the large stones.

In my head, I imagined ways to frame some of Olive’s artwork when an unfamiliar vehicle pulled into the driveway. A few guys were in the car when I saw Beckett climb out of the passenger seat. Someone tossed a gym bag out at him, and it fell on the ground. He stared at it for a beat, slowly bending down to pick it up, and I realized with a grin that he looked a little tipsy.

I covered my mouth with one hand, emitting a shocked laugh when he stumbled on the first step of the porch, and whoever was driving the car stuck his head out and hollered at Beckett. I didn’t know every player on the roster, but I was fairly certain he was one of the offensive linemen.

Beckett couldn’t see me where I was standing, and I watched him try to sober up right before my eyes. He blinked, very hard. He blew out a long, slow breath and then opened the door with great intention.

Because he’d gone from the weight room to … wherever they’d brought him, he still had that slightly rumpled look after a good workout. His hair was slightly disheveled, and it should not look as good on him as it did.

Probably because he was hardly ever this out of sorts.

I crossed my arms and watched as he let himself in the house. His eyes landed on me and his mouth curved in an adorably crooked grin.

“Wife,” he said in greeting.

My eyebrows arched slowly. “Husband.”

“Where’s Olive?” he asked.

I pointed upstairs. “Reading. We had a fun night.”

“Good.” Beckett swallowed, his gaze tracking down the entire length of my body.

I felt that look.

Like a hand over my ribs.

Like a thumb on the curve of my breast.

“How much did you have to drink?” I asked.

“Not much,” he admitted. “But … I never drink, so it doesn’t take much either.”

“Ahh.” I walked over and held my hand out for his bag. “I’ll take that. There’s some pizza in the fridge if you want to put something in that stomach.”

He hummed. “That sounds good. I never eat pizza.”

“I can tell,” I mused.

“How?” He swayed a little in place.

I plucked at the front of his T-shirt. “How do you think?” I asked. “Guys with stomachs like yours never eat the good stuff.”

Beckett’s eyes seared into mine, surprisingly lucid for a guy who wasn’t sober.

“What?” I asked.

His eyes burned when he answered. “The guys told me I should come in and take you straight to bed.”

My cheeks heated, but I refused to look away. “That so? I dearly hope my brother wasn’t in the car because I’m about to feel really awkward.”

He laughed, a dimple popping in the dark stubble on his face, and my stomach clenched at the sight of it.

“What’d you tell them?” I asked lightly. “When they made that helpful little suggestion.”

---