Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(37)

“Besides his brothers, because that will only prove my point further.”

I shut my mouth again.

Chris chuckled. “Come on. Tell me what’s going on so I can stop bugging you and get back to my show.”

I covered my face with my hands, blowing a hot breath through the fingers. “I don’t know,” I groaned out. Then, I peeked through my fingers at Chris. “There may or may not have been lip contact.”

“Lip contact? As in, kissing?!”

“No.” I bit my lip. “Well… maybe kind of?”

Chris filled his glass of wine before topping off mine, and then he kicked back, making himself comfortable on the couch. “Tell me everything.”

So, I did. I told him how Logan and I had started getting along, how I’d brought him into my studio that night after our walk, how we’d found a rhythm at work. I told him about my first real tour, how it had felt so good before we realized we’d forgotten the no photos allowed speech. I told him about Mac, about our punishment, about Logan’s surprising taste in music and how his nerdiness somehow made me like him more. I told him about the box we found, the laptop, the hard drive.

And finally, the almost-kiss.

Chris was giddy the entire time, smiling like a loon and completely unable to keep still the longer I talked. By the time I finished, I thought he was going to squeal or giggle or jump up and down.

“This is bad, Chris,” I pointed out. “We almost kissed. Or… at least… I think we almost kissed.”

“Oh, you definitely almost kissed,” Chris agreed. “Honestly, I’d say lip contact classifies, but since there was lack of embrace or tongue, we can file it as an almost.”

I sighed.

“Why are you acting like he kicked your cat?”

Dalí croaked out a meow from where he was curled up under the coffee table.

“Lip-locking is fun, Mallory — especially with a Becker boy.” Chris waggled his brows.

“Did you hear what you just said? He’s a Becker. His entire family hates my entire family — and honestly, if you ask me, it’s for good reason. Plus, we work together. Plus, my father would murder me.”

Chris scoffed. “And? Like pissing off your dad isn’t your favorite pastime.”

“It’s different this time. He has me by the balls with this building being in his name,” I said, gesturing to the studio apartment we were sitting in above the shop.

“Fine,” Chris conceded. “But, does he even need to know? I mean, it’s not like it has to be anything serious. It sounds like you like him, and from what you’ve told me, he likes you, too. Why not have a little fun?” He tipped his glass toward me before taking a sip. “From what I know of the guy, he could use it.” Chris grimaced. “Who watches space documentaries for joy?”

I chuckled, flying through the list of reasons why entertaining any kind of feelings for Logan Becker — whether just for fun or otherwise — was a terrible idea. Still, just a centimeter of his skin on mine had sent me into this spiral, and now that I’d had a taste, I couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to dip the whole spoon in and take a full bite.

My phone vibrated, and Chris eyed me with a smirk. Before I could even think to reach for the phone, it was in his hands, unlocked with Logan’s newest text pulled up — since I shared everything with my best friend.

Mistake.

“Still need help with the shop tomorrow?” Chris read, mimicking a deep voice that I presumed was supposed to be Logan’s. He quirked a brow at me. “Help with what?”

“He likes to organize and clean and put things in their place,” I explained with a shrug. “I told him he could help me put the shop together this weekend, if he wanted to.”

Chris smiled triumphantly, tossing me the phone before kicking back and pushing play on the remote. “Sounds like fun to me.”

I sighed, looking at the text with every quiet voice inside me saying I should decline. Logan Becker and I should have had a relationship that existed only within the walls of the Scooter Whiskey Distillery. He as the Lead Tour Guide, me as the guide in training. He’d show me the ropes, and I’d try not to get him into any more trouble.

Because he was a Becker, and I was a Scooter.

That was where all the lines should be drawn.

But the louder voices inside me wanted more of the Logan I got that night we walked Main Street, wanted to know what other music lived on his playlist, wanted to crack his shell, loosen him up, add a little color to his life.

Maybe it really couldn’t hurt, I thought. Maybe we could be friends, hang out, have a little fun…

It was a stupid idea. Obtuse, really.

But it didn’t stop me from sending the next text.



Me: Tomorrow at noon. Wear something you can get dirty in.





I was obsessed with the little wrinkle between Logan’s eyebrows.

I stared at it all afternoon as he worked in my shop, opening up boxes and building furniture, hanging up signs and unpacking paint, organizing easels and brushes and sponges and cups. I loved how concentrated he was, how the same fire that fueled me when I envisioned the shop seemed to live inside him. It was like it was his, like he had something to fight for with me — something to lose.