Black Ties and White Lies(20)

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?”