Beat’s fucking heart was pumping in his throat.
He’d come so close to telling Melody everything. What would have been her reaction? He found himself craving it, even as he stuffed the information back down into its box, sealing the lid shut with a blowtorch. Every eye in the ballroom was on the spectacle taking place in front of them, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Melody to save the world.
Beat, my attraction to you isn’t your responsibility.
Christ, his body disagreed. Vehemently.
His fingertips had no purpose because they hadn’t traced that collarbone. Or the soft swell of her tits. He wanted to drag a hand up her throat, bury it in her hair, and beg her . . .
To withhold pleasure from him.
Until he was fucking shaking.
He wanted to take her into a dark corner and kiss her mouth while she stroked the front of his trousers, but never let him come. It would feel incredible. That wouldn’t be happening, though. He’d been keeping his interests behind closed doors since he turned sixteen.
What would happen if he told her, though? I enjoy being brought to the brink of pleasure and left there. That he refused to let himself be completely vulnerable with anyone—at least at the end of the act? What would she say? What if she trusted him enough to go there with him?
God, she might.
But two things were holding him back. One, he was keeping the blackmail a secret from her. Touching Melody without full honesty between them . . . bothered him. A lot. And two, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold a goddamn thing back from Melody in bed. She wouldn’t just be another partner. There could . . . no, there would be something deeper and more meaningful here than his usual hookup. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to let go with someone like that. Completely. Start to finish. Could he even go there considering the secret he was keeping from her?
Until he figured it out, he needed to keep Melody at a proper distance.
A feat that was growing harder by the second.
And they would be spending a lot more time together.
Beat dragged a hand down his face, lifting it to return a wave from his mother. Despite the golden mask she was wearing, he didn’t miss the way Octavia tilted her head, pinning Melody with an analyzing look. Like she was searching for a resemblance to Trina. Or maybe Octavia was simply stunned to see Melody’s back pressed to his chest, Beat’s hands on her waist. He forcibly stepped back now, suffering through Melody’s resulting shiver.
They weren’t on a date. He needed to stop acting like they were.
Feeling like they were.
Beat’s dates were usually private and had more of a transactional nature.
Finally, the trumpets died down and his mother was helped from her throne by one of the human swans. She noticed the camera hovering at the edge of the dance floor and gave an exaggerated eye roll, before smiling conspiratorially at her rapt audience. “Let the party commence,” she purred, eliciting whistles and applause from the crowd. Someone handed her a glass of champagne in a special golden goblet and off she went, working the crowd like a fairy granting audiences to commoners.
The ballroom eased back into motion, crowds gathering around high-top tables, other couples making their way out onto the dance floor. Now that Octavia had made her entrance, the lights were gradually dimming and the classical music was being replaced with a sexier beat to inspire dancing. Even early in the evening, guests were happy to oblige.
Melody turned, blinking up at him. “Wow. Your mother really just rolled up into this joint like Cleopatra.”
Beat chuckled, a sense of camaraderie he rarely allowed himself to experience making his ribs expand.
Shit. He liked Melody. A lot. And he could tell she wanted to dig into the conversation they’d been having before his mother arrived. It was right there in the slight pinch of her brow. But he wasn’t surprised that she could read his reticence to return there. They had a way of communicating without words.
They shifted at the same time. Regrouped.
“Where is your father?” she asked.
“He waits until the fanfare dies down and then he slips in through the side door, holding a brandy snifter and wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater he can find.”
“You’re joking. Does your mother hate it?”
“On the contrary. She loves it.”
Melody gasped. “Why?”
Beat shrugged. “He lets her shine.”
Whoa. His voice came very close to catching on that last word. It wasn’t unusual for him to talk about the love he had for his parents. But their happiness wasn’t usually hanging in the balance. Or resting on his shoulders, as it were, along with the truth that could destroy them as a family.
As if on cue, his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Of course, it could be his friends watching the live stream and wanting to pepper him with questions, which would only be natural. Intuition told Beat his blackmailer was calling, though. He always seemed to find the most inopportune moments to take a swing at him—and this would definitely be one of them—the gala benefiting the charity he and his parents put so much work and love into.
“Hey, Beat!” called a familiar voice as they passed on the dance floor.
He tore his eyes off Melody and waved at Ursula Paige, an up-and-coming opera singer and one of their past scholarship recipients. “Ursula.” He nodded, quickly shaking hands with the performer’s date. “Happy Holidays. Nice to see you both.”
“I would say it’s nice to see you, too, but . . .” Ursula pulled out her phone and shook it around a little. “I’ve been seeing you. All over the damn place.”
“Right.” Beat breathed a laugh, settled a hand on Melody’s back. “Then I guess you’ve met my . . .” His what? The sentence trailed off into silence, three sets of ears waiting for him to finish. His friend? His costar? His . . . what? “My Melody,” he said, trying to laugh off the blunder.
No one said anything for long, torturous seconds. Melody looked down at her dress.
Beat stared at an escaped strand of hair by her cheek, wondering if he should tuck it behind her ear for her.
Ursula elbowed her date hard in the ribs. “No offense, but we’re going to stop talking to you now, so we can keep watching you.”
“What are: phrases that sum up 2023,” Melody mumbled, answering in Jeopardy! format. And tucking that strand of hair back on her own. Damn.
Ursula and her date laughed, high-fiving Melody. “Oh my God, Melody. The internet is so right to be in love with you. You’re hilarious.”
Melody’s nose wrinkled. “The internet what?”
The pair only laughed harder.
Beat and Melody exchanged a lost expression, but there was an odd gurgle in Beat’s stomach. Was the internet falling in love with Melody? Of course it was. And he didn’t have any right to feel the sharp prickle of possessiveness, but there it was. He liked the world having access to her even less than he’d been expecting, which wasn’t fair. He didn’t have any claim on Melody, despite what every fiber of his being seemed intent on telling him.
“Don’t worry, Beat. There are already several campaigns underway on your behalf.” Ursula thumbed through her phone. “One to make you the next James Bond and another to elect you as president of this puss—” She snapped her mouth shut. “Sorry, I should have read that one all the way through before saying it out loud.”
Melody snorted. “I’m so glad you didn’t.”
Beat felt the urge to smile. Even as the phone continued to buzz relentlessly in his pocket. “Would I secure your vote as the next president of pussy?” he asked Melody.
“Your name is Beat.” She gave an exaggerated wink. “You’re a natural fit.”
A laugh cracked in his throat. “Your mind is a dumpster. I had no idea.”
Melody pointed at Ursula. “She’s obviously a bad influence.”
“Okay, sorry, we are so going on a double date,” Ursula decided. “When this reality show is over, obviously.”
“Oh, we’re not . . .” Melody started, making a rapid gesture between them.
Help her out. Why didn’t he want to? “We’re . . .” What? “Friends.”
That word tasted like expired pastrami in his mouth.
“Right,” Melody agreed, her smile serene. “Friends.”
The expired pastrami turned to dust.
“Uh-huh.” Ursula’s dude spoke for the first time, his demeanor clearly skeptical. “We’ll see you soon for that double date.”
When the couple walked away, Beat and Melody snuck each other sidelong glances.
After a few tense seconds, she laughed. “Can you imagine if the relationship our mothers manifested by giving us these names actually came to fruition? They would need to be sedated.”
Beat said, “That’s one way to guarantee a reunion—a wedding.”
She laughed. Because he was so clearly joking.
Was this bow tie extra tight, or what?
A waiter stopped in front of them and Beat plucked a glass off the silver tray, handing it to Melody, since he was still holding a full glass of now piss-warm champagne. As soon as the waiter departed again, she held up her flute. “I just want you to know that I’m glad we’re friends.” He followed the progress of her blush, all the way to the tips of her ears. “I’m content with friendship. Okay? I hope . . . all this crush stuff won’t make things weird. Is there a chance that maybe you could forget you ever found out?”
He thought about it. He really did.
Whether or not he could put on blinders and pretend Melody wasn’t attracted to him . . . well, he decided that if a man could forget that this woman felt anything for him, that man would be a waste of a human being. Still, he didn’t want her to be embarrassed around him. He wanted her to be comfortable.
“What crush?” he said, resisting the urge to rub at his windpipe.
Melody blinked several times, attempted a smile, then gave up and ducked her head. Shit. Had he been too flippant?
“Mr. Dawkins!” A frazzled young man in a headset skidded to a stop between Beat and Melody. “I’m Lee. Assistant to the party planner. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Here I am, Lee,” he murmured, still watching Melody closely. “What’s up?”
“Your mother has decided to do the wish ceremony early this year.”
Beat reared back slightly. “When did she do that?”
“Eight minutes and thirty seconds ago,” panted Lee. “Would you come with me? We have lighting and audio on standby.”
“Sure.” Over Lee’s shoulder, he mouthed Be right back at Melody.
Melody saluted him. “You’ve got a very brief window before I track down the shrimp.”
He pointed at her. “As long as you wait for me to eat dessert.”
“I’ll prawn-der it.”
How was it possible to be having fun in this moment? The phone in his pocket still buzzed periodically, reminding Beat he was being blackmailed, he was minutes from formally requesting a Steel Birds reunion on camera, and he was still worried he’d been too dismissive of Melody’s feelings for him. Yet here he stood, chuckling over shrimp puns.
“Mr. Dawkins, we really need to move.”
Still, he hesitated. “Right.”
Suddenly, his hand moved of its own accord, reaching for Melody’s. Before Beat could analyze his own decision-making, they were following Lee, hand in hand. All because Beat didn’t want to spend a few minutes away from her. Wow. “You’re taking me down with you? I thought we were friends!”
“You wanted a wish ceremony, right? Here’s your chance.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll do the talking.”
“That was never in question. When I’m getting ready to take my turn on bocce nights, my nervous system just assumes I’m addressing the entire nation. Have you ever heard knees knocking? Mine actually tap out ‘pathetic’ in Morse code. And I don’t even know Morse code.”
A familiar, deep chuckle sounded behind them and they simultaneously realized they were being trailed through the crowd by Joseph, their conversation recorded. “Do you two mind putting your mics back on? Danielle is screaming in my ear.”
“Sorry.” Melody winced, reaching back to press the button.
Beat did the same.
A fifteen-foot Douglas fir towered beside a wide, sweeping staircase. Along with the gentle glow of gold and perfectly spaced ornaments, little white notecards decorated the fragrant branches. As Beat led Melody up the stairs, he scanned the cards and stumbled upon one requesting that Octavia sing them a song almost immediately, snatching it up between his middle and index finger. “Got one.”
“Holy Hannah, you’re really bringing me up here in front of everyone.”
A tremor moved through her fingers. Distract her.
“I’m coming to one of your bocce games, Mel,” Beat said in a lower voice.
“You most certainly are not.”
“What are the team colors? For body paint reasons.”
She shook against him with laughter. “Pink.”
Beat winced. “That’s fucking unfortunate, but okay.”
“Nope. You won’t do it.”
His lips spread into a smile. “You are dead wrong.”
Midway up the staircase, they turned and faced the crowd, side by side, Lee pressing a microphone into Beat’s hand and reminding him to wait for the spotlight.
“Spotlight?” Melody squeaked.
“Fair warning, Peach,” Beat said, clearing debris from his throat. God, he loved calling her Peach. The way it made her blush, exactly like the fruit in question, was addicting. “When the spotlight comes on, it’s a little startling. It’s just . . . pop.”
“Pop. Got it.” She lifted her chin. “I’m ready.”
The room went black.
A laserlike beam burst onto them from across the ballroom, hitting them like a sucker punch—and it propelled Mel straight backward, her ass landing on a higher step.
“Mel.”
“Wow,” she whispered. “You undersold that a little.”
Beat dropped the microphone, sending a squeal of feedback through the room while helping Mel to her feet. “Are you okay?” He turned her slightly to observe the impact point, not really stopping to think about how the impact point was her rear end. “Does it hurt?”
“My butt? No, it’s just startled.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “I mean, I was just startled. Not my butt.”
Laughter rang through the ballroom.
Apparently, the handheld mic was picking up every word out of their mouths, to say nothing of the smaller ones strapped to their bodies.
“I think I’ll just hide back here for a while.”
Melody sidestepped behind him, earning another laugh from their audience. Beat looked out over the sea of faces, but it took him a moment to summon the words that normally came to him easily. Had he been selfish to bring Melody up here? Sure, she’d agreed to appear on a live television show in front of an unknown number of people, but maybe being able to see a crowd in front of her was too much? He struggled against the need to turn around and reassure himself she was all right, but wouldn’t he merely be drawing more attention to her?
Beat bent down as quickly as possible to pick up the dropped mic, swallowed, and forced a smile onto his face. The one everybody was accustomed to seeing on him. “Good evening, friends, and happy holidays. On behalf of the Ovations family, myself and my parents, Octavia and Rudy Dawkins, we thank you for being here tonight and your generosity toward the scholarship fund.”
To everyone in this room, to everyone watching the live stream, he was the furthest thing from a mess. But secretly, that’s what he was, right? A mess. He used to be capable of getting through these public appearances without that fact screaming in his ear, but the performance was getting harder—
Melody laid a hand on his back. There you go. Easy.
No one knew about the half dozen threatening voice mails on his phone.
No one knew how he liked to be punished for everything in life coming so easy. For never being told no or deprived of anything.
Air filled his lungs and he forced his smile wider.
“In keeping with tradition, Octavia will be granting one of your wishes this evening. I can’t imagine what it will be . . .”
A knowing ripple of amusement went through the guests.
On cue, the crowd parted, and his mother made her way toward the staircase, a second spotlight encapsulating her in a hazy glow—and if he wasn’t mistaken, the lighting was a lot more flattering than the one glaring down on him and Melody. He couldn’t help but laugh at that.
Octavia’s expression wasn’t as indulgent as usual, however.
It was curiosity laced with dread—and Melody, who was now in a full body press against his back, her hand twisted in the tail of his tuxedo jacket, was the focus. His mother craned her neck to get a look at Melody, her brow quirking higher. She looked at Beat as if to say, Excuse me, are you sleeping with the enemy?
If only.
With a deep breath, Beat raised the mic. “This year’s wish is for—”
“A Steel Birds reunion,” someone shouted in the crowd.
Applause and whistles ripped across the ballroom like wildfire.
And then the chanting started.
