Page 66 of One Touch

He shook his head.

“What?” I asked.

His hands dipped lower, running down my calf until he captured my foot. His thumb pressed into the arch. I moaned and closed my eyes.

“Nothing. You’re just cute.”

I opened one eye. “Cute?”

“Verycute.” His hands continued to rub and melt away the aches in my foot as ribbons of steam swirled around us.

I lifted my chin. “Did you think my lap dance wascute?”

He locked his eyes on mine, intensity darkening his gaze as he recalled my performance. “Thatwas sexy as hell. Right now you’re cute. You can be both.”

When I rolled my eyes dramatically, he continued: “I happen to like both.”

Any compliment from Beckett was a rare and beautiful thing. It left me speechless.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I managed.I recalled how Declan chastised me for taking the dance classes in the first place.Cheap, he called it.

What a dick.

“Your hidden talent was very ...” He thought for a moment. “Impressive.” He inched closer to me, his muscular body slicing through the water. “But it better stay fucking hidden. You only dance for me.”

A giggle threatened to escape as I wiggled my toes. “So grumpy.”

In a quick move, he grabbed my ankle and tickled the bottom of my foot. I screamed in surprise and tried to pull my foot from him, splashing water and bubbles over the side of the tub.

“Stop!” I cried.

“Tell me. Tell me your dances are only for me.”

Laughing, I relented—anything to get him to stop tickling me. “Yes! Fine! They’re only for you!”

He moved through the water, pulling me into an embrace and holding me close. “That’s what I like to hear.”

I wrapped my arms around his back and held him close, my head resting on his broad shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” he whispered and nuzzled my wet hair.

You may be the worst, but I’m falling in love with you anyway.

* * *

I couldn’t helpbut smile as I watched Beckett’s serious expression while he painted the old farmhouse’s exterior. He was so focused on the task that he didn’t even notice me walking up behind him.

“Hey, Grumpy Bear,” I teased, tapping him on the shoulder.

He turned with a scowl, but I could see the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “What do you need?”

I grabbed the paintbrush I had tucked into my back pocket and dipped it into the bright-white paint. While I’d fought him on the paint colors—I really,reallywanted to turn the farmhouse into one of the historical “Painted Ladies” I saw splashed all over Pinterest—ultimately Aunt Tootie agreed with Beckett and opted for a fresh, clean white with creamy undertones to complement the home’s natural surroundings.

Of course, this was not before a healthy online debate and Beckett insisting on educating the followers ofHome Againon the history behind white-painted farmhouses.

If I had to endure another lecture on lime paint, whitewash, andpurity, I was going to drown myself in one of the many, many five-gallon buckets of paint lined up in the shed.

But, with every stroke—yes, he also insisted it be done by hand to ensure the integrity and authenticity of brushstrokes—I knew they had been right in choosing such a fresh and welcoming palette.

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