Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(4)

That was why I couldn’t sit still, why frustration and giddiness battled inside me as I waited for her to show.

I wanted to see her.

I hated that I had to see her.

I couldn’t wait to talk to her after all this time.

I couldn’t bear the fact that I had to talk to her at all.

Not a single emotion made sense as they fought that war within me, and logic didn’t have enough time to show up and calm them all down before there was a knock at my office door.

I dropped the stress ball in my hand just before it swung open, and I followed that bright yellow, spongey ball as it rolled all the way across the office and knocked gently against the toe of dirty, white, high-top Chucks.

I’m not sure how long I stared at those shoes, only that it was a little too long. Because by the time my brain finally processed that I should stand and clear my throat and make my way around my desk to greet my guest, she was watching me with an arched brow and flat, beautifully painted lips.

“Logan Becker?”

I forced a smile, ignoring the way my name sounded rolling off her tongue. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever heard her say it before, though I was almost certain I hadn’t.

I’d have remembered.

She had a slight Tennessee lilt, which seemed a little out of place, given her appearance. She paired those high-top white Chucks with jeans that had more holes than fabric, revealing slivers of the tattoos on her thighs. Her t-shirt was black, with a band name I didn’t recognize, and more tattoos peeked out from under each sleeve. She had a blue and green flannel tied around her waist, accentuating a waist I wagered was just right for me to fit my hands around. Her hair — which had been purple just last week — was now a platinum blonde, parted down the middle and framing her face in a tight, shoulder-length bob. Her lips were painted a dusty rose, her blue eyes lined and shaped like a cat’s, and that septum piercing she was so famous for around town glittered in the fluorescent light of my office.

She was everything that every other girl in this town wasn’t.

And I loathed that it made me want her so fiercely.

Mallory arched her perfectly drawn eyebrow even higher as the silence stretched between us without me answering.

“Uh, yes,” I finally said, stepping away from my desk and extending a hand for hers. “That’s me. And you must be Mallory.”

She popped the gum inside her mouth in lieu of an answer, which made my eye twitch before she took my hand and gave it a firm shake.

“You changed your hair.”

The idiotic statement flew from my mouth just as she pulled her hand from my grasp. She still had that one eyebrow cocked up to her forehead, and she tucked her hands in her back pockets, watching me. “And you know that… how?”

I fought against the heat rising up my neck, praying it didn’t show on my cheeks. “They provided a headshot with your file,” I lied. “Your hair was purple in it.”

The corner of her mouth quirked up, drawing my attention to the overly plump shape of them. She eyed me like she knew I’d lied, but thankfully, didn’t call me on it.

“It was,” she finally admitted. “But Daddy said the Scooter Whiskey tour guides had an appearance to uphold, and I was forced to dye it.”

I didn’t miss the sarcasm laced in the word daddy, and if I’d had any question as to whether or not she was here of her own accord or by the force of his hand, I’d just found my answer.

Mallory twirled a strand of her platinum hair around her finger to illustrate the new color, tilting her head to the side as she took a step closer to me. “What do you think?” she asked, lips rolling into a pout. “Do I look as good as a blonde as I did with purple hair?”

My next breath left my chest mid-inhale, which just made Mallory smirk more. She knew what she was doing — which meant I was doing a piss-poor job of hiding the fact that I found her attractive.

But with another pop of that damn gum inside her mouth, I snapped back into business mode.

My breath found me again, and with it, my common sense. I turned my back on her without a response, crossing to my desk and casually sitting in my chair before I pulled her file from where I’d placed it on the corner of my desk.

“Please, take a seat, Miss Scooter,” I said, my expression leveled, my demeanor cool once more. “We have a lot to discuss before your training commences.”





Mallory


Logan Becker’s office was my own personal hell of a jail cell.

Not only was it a symbol of my surrender to my father and the first day at a job I had been trying to avoid my entire life, but it also felt like a jail cell — or, at the very most, an uptight library.

The walls were cream, the wood flooring dark and warm — but all that warmth was offset by the blinding fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. Not a single piece of art hung on the walls. In fact, the closest thing to art was the impressive wall of bookshelves behind his desk. They would have been beautiful, had they not been so meticulously organized that they felt more like a farce of comfort in a doctor’s office than a display of stories worth reading. The books were lined up by height order, and then by color, and then, I was sure, without even looking closely, by author last name.

His actual desk was the same dark wood as the floor, held up by black, metal legs. His monitor sat on it, along with the file he’d just pulled — that I assumed had something about me inside — and a swinging ball pendulum that tick-tacked back and forth slowly.