Beck wasted no time getting us to New York. He essentially gave me one night and the morning to say goodbye to my friends and get my things packed before he showed up at my apartment early this afternoon, pestering me in hurrying to get ready so we could catch our flight.
I’d argued. If he owned the jet, couldn’t he technically be late?
I’ve never felt truly poor. My family did what they could to get by. My parents lived paycheck to paycheck to make things work, but we were loved and we were taken care of. I didn’t want for much of anything growing up. Sure, I wanted the three-level Barbie Dreamhouse and only got it a year after it first released and it was on clearance, but all the things I truly needed, and even most of what I wanted, I had. I was a happy kid growing up, even if my family didn’t have a ton of money.
The first few months after college could arguably be the time where I felt the most poor. I was living off ramen noodles and off-brand snacks that were on sale because they were about to expire. In the moment, it felt like the New York way to live.
At least it was my version of the New York college kid way to live.
Standing in the foyer of Beck’s penthouse high-rise apartment, it’s just now occurring to me how incredibly rich he is. My first clue should’ve been that he lived in Manhattan. One month’s rent for a teeny-tiny studio here is almost triple what we paid to live in a three-bedroom in LA. My second clue should’ve been the fact that Beck had to swipe a keycard in front of a sensor when we stepped into the elevator before he pressed a glowing button with a PH on it.
Of course he lives in a penthouse. And of course it’s the most gorgeous space I’ve ever seen.
“Are you just going to stand there and gawk?” Beck’s footsteps echo off the black marble flooring. He stops at a lavish gold entryway table, putting his wallet and keycard into a ceramic bowl.
My feet stay planted on the fancy carpet of the elevator. It dings three times before the doors close in on me. With a yelp, I squeeze between the closing doors, almost dropping my purse in the commotion.
Beck smirks from the middle of the room. His fingers wrap around the handle of my suitcase, his eyes watching me closely.
“Thanks for the help,” I say sarcastically.
“I thought you could manage on your own.’ Turning around, he walks past a large staircase. He turns his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s leave the gallery.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I step next to the staircase. The side is all glass, the stairs white with gold metal accents. It’s very modern and expensive looking. “I’ve never heard the word gallery used in that context.”
Beck walks past an enormous dining table, his hand still perched on the handle of my suitcase as he wheels my cheap looking suitcase next to a grand table. My old duffle bag almost slides off the top of the suitcase with his jerky movements. I gawk in awe at the table that sits next to my things. It looks to be made out of some kind of black stone that probably has some kind of fancy name. It looks incredibly heavy. I wonder how many people it took to get it up here. “Gallery…” I repeat, testing the word on my tongue. It feels odd to use it to describe a location in a home.
“Yeah, that there is the gallery. And right now, we’re standing in what’s called a dining room,” he says condescendingly.
I stick my tongue out at him. “I gathered, asshole.”
Stopping, he lets go of my suitcase and walks toward the most luxurious kitchen I’ve ever seen. Beck runs his finger over the dark countertop. “This right here is called a kitchen.” He draws out the syllables of the word, explaining it to me like I’m a toddler.
I ignore him. If he wants to be a dick, I’m not going to engage. Instead of spewing the various insults running through my head, I take in the space that’s going to be my home for at least the next year.
There’s no way Beck had anything to do with decorating the space. It looks too nice. Even with the dark color scheme, it’s inviting. It doesn’t feel too cold or unwelcoming. The kitchen is what catches my eye. Cabinets take up the entire wall, the dark wood of them have a slight sheen to the material. The wall of cabinets and counter space meet floor to ceiling windows on one side. On the other, it meets a wall that houses two ovens, a little nook with a fancy-looking coffee machine, and then the biggest refrigerator I’ve ever seen.
My feet take me into the space. I slide my hand over the cold countertop of the expansive island, right in the middle of all of it. My fingers trace over the delicate fissures in the dark stone, stopping at a sink that seems large enough for me to fit me in if I wanted. The cabinets, the faucet, all the details of the kitchen are a shiny brass color, fueling the modern look of the kitchen. The color palette works well together. Although I’m sure Beck had nothing to do with it, whoever did design it did a wonderful job.
“Have you ever cooked anything in here?” I stop admiring the kitchen and instead look to Beck, deciding to admire him instead.
He is my future fake fiancé after all.
Beck holds my gaze. He leans up against the lip of the countertop. His hands leave his pockets. One smoothes down the fabric of his tie while the other pulls at the knot around his neck. I watch in fascination as he loosens the tie around his neck until he pulls it off completely. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Margo Moretti, beginning with the fact that I actually enjoy cooking when I have the time.”
My lips part in shock. I’m trying to picture Beck in this kitchen cooking, but I can’t quite produce the image in my head. It seems too messy, too casual for someone who seems to be in a suit and tie ninety percent of the time. “You cook?”
Beck folds the tie nicely and sets it next to him on the counter. “Why does that shock you so much?”
I inch my way to his refrigerator, pulling the large doors open to inspect what he’s got inside. I was expecting a bunch of take-out containers, or maybe nothing in there at all, but it surprises me how well stocked it is with fresh ingredients. Looking over my shoulder, I find Beck watching me with a smug look on his face.
I close the doors, turning to face him once again. “I don’t know. I just expected you to be the kind of guy that had a private chef cook for him all the time. It’s hard to imagine you cooking. Wouldn’t that ruin your suit and all?”
He laughs softly, pulling his body from the countertop and closing the distance between us. I hate how my pulse spikes as he gets closer. The problem with Beck is that he’s easily the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. His personality could use some work, but even with his harsh demeanor, he’s got this magnetism to him that draws me in. I could choose to fight it, or I could let it pull me in. I’m not sure which one would be worse in the end, but I need to keep my hormones and feelings in check with this deal.
I’ve already had my heart broken by one Sinclair brother, I’m sure as hell not letting the other anywhere near my freshly mended one.
Beck’s hands press into the matte black refrigerator over my head. He doesn’t touch me, but his presence is looming—dominating—that it actually feels like he’s touching me everywhere. “I do have a private chef that cooks most of my meals. But it isn’t because I don’t enjoy cooking or know how to, it’s more for convenience.”
His breath tickles my skin. My tennis shoes do nothing to give me any kind of height, so with him this close, it brings attention to just how vastly different our heights are. I’m only a few inches over five feet on a good day. He’s got to be at least a foot taller than me, but I’m a terrible judge at that. I know Carter used to brag that he was six feet tall, and Beck definitely has a few inches on him.
He leans in closer, our foreheads almost touching. I want to know what cologne he wears. He smells like bergamot mixed with something else, something sweet—maybe jasmine. Whatever it is, I can’t get enough. I want to bury my face against wherever he sprays it in the morning, to inhale the scent until it’s forever imprinted in my mind.
“You’re quiet for once,” he observes. I don’t tell him the reason I’m quiet is because I’m imagining pressing my face to his neck just to lose myself in his scent. His intoxicating indigo eyes roam my face. He doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring right at my lips.
Does Beckham Sinclair want to kiss me?
Do I want to kiss him?
Our conversation from a few days rings in my mind. He’d told me we’d be kissing sooner rather than later. I’d scoffed at the idea, but with him looking at me like this, I can’t help but wonder what’d happen if we did.
I press my shoulders into the cold metal doors of the fridge, trying to escape him, even if I know it’s no use. “I just couldn’t picture you cooking. Do you wear an apron to keep yourself all nice and clean?”
Beck removes his hands from over my head, but his feet stay planted in the same place. Keeping eye contact with me, he deftly undoes the top button of his button-up. I expect him to stop there, but he doesn’t. Once the top one is undone, he pops the button from the next hole as well. After three buttons are undone, I can see the splatter of his blond chest hair.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, half-panicked as I watch him all too closely. Even as my gaze is focused solely on his fingers as they continue to undo each button, I feel Beck’s gaze watching me intently. “I’m starving. And sorry to disappoint, I have no apron. Can’t get this shirt dirty. So I’ll just have to…” He leaves the rest of what he was going to say up to the imagination as he quickly untucks his shirt and undoes the last button.
And holy hell, seeing Beck stand in his kitchen with an undone button-up and his abs on display might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I don’t know where to look first. There’s the fire in Beck’s eyes. I swear they burn so brightly with desire that it makes my body feel hot all over. There’s also the ripple of muscles in front of me. I’d barely have to lift my hand and I’d be reminded of what his abs feel like underneath my touch.
When Beck rolls his lips together as he stares at my own mouth, I’m lost in the lust of the moment.
I want to feel him underneath my touch more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
I’m about to act on impulse when he makes the decision for me. He leans in, letting his nose brush against my jawline.
Holy fuck. My breath is mixing with Beck’s breath.
Are we going to kiss? To fuck? God, I want it so bad even after telling him days ago that we could never cross the line.
Right now, I want to say screw the line and have Beck screw me.
“Margo,” he breathes, his hand coming to rest next to my head. I have to steady myself by doing the only logical option, placing my hands against his hard abdomen. As soon as my skin connects with his, I feel his muscles clench underneath my fingertips.
I didn’t know someone could feel so hard and warm and intoxicating.
Maybe he’s right. I’m tempted to beg him to fuck me.
“Yes?” I pant.
Beck leans in even closer, lining his lips right next to my ear. A featherlight kiss is pressed against my cheekbone before he speaks. “I need in the fridge.”
It takes a moment for my brain to process his words, but as soon as it does, it feels like cold water has been thrown on me.
And then I get the hell away from him.
