Stripped Bare (Stripped #1)(41)

“What?” I focused on him.

“Got delayed staring at photos, huh?”

I winced. “I didn’t mean to hear. I just kinda...did.”

“Good. You were supposed to.” He half smiled. “Don’t ask me ‘cause I won’t tell you. Hell, he probably won’t tell you yet, either, but I wasn’t lying. He can’t take his damn eyes offa you.”

“It’s really not my business, Beck.”

His indigo-blue eyes, so dark they could almost pass at black, bored into me. “I think it’s more your business than either you or him know.”

“I thought you were leaving.” West appeared with the bottle of wine. There was just over a glass left, and I’d drunk it all, but I felt completely unaffected by it.

Beck held his hands up. “Going. I’m going.” He got up, walked around the table, and kissed the top of my head. “Thanks for a lovely dinner, gorgeous. Much better than being alone with this miserable f*ck.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for cooking.”

“Always my pleasure to cook for a beautiful lady.”

“Beck. Get the f*ck out.” West glared at him, the wine bottle poised to pour me another glass.

“All right, all right.” He backed up with his hands up, winking at me right before he left the room.

I smiled and looked down. He was, quite possibly, the most likable person I’d ever met.

West finished pouring my glass and put the bottle in the middle of the table. Then he sat back down. He hadn’t drunk all night, but now, he twirled an ice-cold bottle of beer between his finger and his thumb. He was staring at it as it twirled, and an air of awkwardness hung between us.

“We don’t have to sit at the table,” he finally said after several minutes. “Come sit on the back deck with me.”

I nodded and grabbed my glass, following him through the house to the sliding back doors that opened out onto a spacious deck. His backyard was much the same as the front, bare apart from the odd cactus, but the deck held a large sofa, a small table, and a fire pit. There was also a grill at the opposite end, next to an outdoor dining set.

Not to mention the hot tub in the corner by it. I wondered how much time he spent out there—and if he spent it alone.

We both sat on the large, cream sofa, and West put his beer on the table only to grab me by the ankles. I squeaked as his strong grip made me lose balance, but he took my wine before it spilled and put it next to his bottle.

Then, slowly, he unlaced my shoes, pulled them off, and put them on the floor at the end of the sofa.

“They can’t be comfortable anymore.”

“Not really,” I admitted. “Thank you.”

He smiled, putting my feet down and kicking his own shoes off. He reached down to peel his socks off and tucked them inside his shoes until we were both barefoot, and then he unbuttoned his shirt, leaving it to fall loosely at his sides.

Did he ever wear anything else?

“So, you heard that, huh?”





I decided to play dumb and peered across at him. “Heard what?”

“Me and Beck. Talking. In there.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I bit the inside of my lip. “I guess that means you heard him and me talking.”

“Beck’s voice tends to carry very well through walls.” He kinda smiled. “I bet you’re wondering who Charlotte is.”

I turned toward him fully, bringing my leg up onto the sofa and hugging it to my chest. “West... It’s not my business. Beck said he meant for me to hear, but I shouldn’t have listened. Besides, I also heard you say you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t. But it doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“Then don’t talk about it. Talk about something else. Like... How old you are, or what your favorite color is, or the last time you did something other than work on an evening.”

“Twenty-nine, green, and tonight.”

“You’re just saying all that.”

He laughed and leaned back, propping his elbow on the back of the sofa. “I really am twenty-nine, I really can’t remember the last time I didn’t work on an evening, and I didn’t have a favorite color until I developed a possibly unhealthy obsession with your eyes.”

I pursed my lips. “Stop sweet-talking me. I know you just want inside my pants.”

“I do, but is it sweet-talking if I’m honest?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it, woman. Shut up and take a compliment.”

I rolled my eyes. “All right, all right. Thanks.”

He nudged my knee. “I don’t believe you mean that.”

“I don’t.”

He smiled, his eyes shining.

I took a sip of wine and rested my chin on my knee. “Do you really work every night? Like, you never take a break?”

“Rarely. Even when I do, I always remember something that needs to be done, or I’m thinking about it, so it’s never really time off.” He looked away from me, out to the end of the yard, where the now-set sun has painted the sky in shades of golden orange. “Beck pretty much made me do everything earlier and forced me to try to take tonight off.”

He was a workaholic—hell, even his idea of fun, when he stripped, was technically still work. That wasn’t healthy for anybody. Surely he had to have something else in his life, or was it all so intertwined with the club that there was no line where work ended and fun really began?