Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(46)

“Well, paybacks are a bitch,” I said, nodding toward my paint-stained shirt on the floor. “Told you that was one of my favorite shirts.”

Mallory smiled, her eyes heavy and sated. She climbed up my chest, pressing her lips to mine, and when she pulled away, she watched me with questions and concerns dancing in those blue irises of hers.

But she didn’t speak any of them out loud.

Instead, she rested her head again, wrapping herself around me even tighter as I pressed a kiss to her forehead.

And in the arms of denial, we both fell fast asleep.





I didn’t know what time it was when I finally woke the next morning, only that the weight of Mallory’s head was still resting on my chest.

It was warm, even with the comforter kicked down to my feet and the sheets covering only half of my naked torso. My body ached as I stretched my toes, flexing my calves, feeling the muscles in my quads protest at the movement after last night.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I’d woken up to Mallory’s ass pressed against my groin. I didn’t remember what time, or how long we’d been out. If anything, it felt almost like a drunken dream, like something I’d imagined — spooning her, kissing her neck, feeling her nipples harden under my touch, her back arch as I pressed my erection between the gap of her thighs.

Neither one of us had rested again until we were both spent, and then we’d curled back up easily, like we’d been together for years, like me being in her bed was the most natural thing in the world.

I ran my fingers through Mallory’s hair, ready to gently wake her, but when the silky strands ended abruptly, I peeked one eye open.

Dalí flicked his tail from where he was curled up on my chest, croaking out something between a meow and a yawn as he watched me with lazy yellow eyes.

“Well, hello there,” I murmured, scratching behind his ear.

I looked around the rest of the studio apartment for some sign of Mallory, but found nothing. It was just a series of messes everywhere I gazed — the wad of paint-stained sheets on the bed, our clothes littering the floor. I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander over her own mess that had existed before I’d even been there, too — the dishes in the sink, the half-empty glasses and mugs on the coffee table, the wires from her curling irons and straighteners falling over the cabinet of the bathroom sink, the dozens of paintings and sketches and framed photographs leaning against the base of nearly every wall.

I smiled, feeling completely surrounded by her.

And in the next instant, my stomach dropped so violently I nearly puked.

I shot up in bed, causing Dalí to scamper off much the way he did the night before. He hid under the couch as I had my heart attack, and I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the hard pumping of the frantic organ beneath.

Holy fuck.

I slept with Mallory Scooter.

I ran a hand back through my disheveled hair, cursing under my breath when I couldn’t get my fingers through the matted paint. All the thoughts swirling around in my head now felt just as sticky and complicated.

Thoughts that were nowhere to be found last night.

I couldn’t grasp onto one worry before another bounced in, like a set of ping pong balls let loose inside a rotating box. I thought about my mom, my brothers, about the fact that Mallory had been off-limits to me my entire life due to the last name she bore. My job was the next thought in my mind — the title I had, the one I wanted, the years of effort I’d put in to be the best at what I did.

I thought about the laptop, the hard drive, the password I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to decode to see if there was anything my father left behind. I’d been so fixated on that yesterday, and maybe that’s why I’d had the lapse in judgment.

I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

But perhaps the biggest worry of all was that the number-one thought in my head wasn’t that it was wrong, that I had fucked everything up by giving in, that I’d finally had Mallory Scooter in the way I’d always desired.

It was that I still wanted her, even more so now, and she was nowhere to be found.

Anxiety was still rippling through me as I let out a sigh, trying to calm my breathing and looking around the room as if it would have some sort of answer for me. When I looked past the pillow Mallory had slept on last night, I saw a sketch pad near her phone charger. It was propped open to a page somewhere in the middle, with chicken-scratch scrawling across it.

I reached over, pulling the pad into my lap, and when I saw the doodle next to the words, I smirked.

It was us — her mid-slingshot with her paint brush, sending paint flying across the page at me. And I had a brush in my hand, though my arms were crossed, shielding my face. We were both laughing, our features large and cartoonish.

And my awe for Mallory grew even more at the fact that she could bring that image to life, that she could bring any memory back with just a pencil, a sheet of paper, and those magic hands of hers.



Had to leave early for church — you know, princess of Stratford, and all. ;) Help yourself to some coffee. - M



I was still smiling, but my stomach dipped and flattened at her words. Other than the half-hearted joke and a winking face scrawled after it, there was no indication of how she was feeling, of what she was thinking about what had transpired between us the night before.

Then again, I couldn’t exactly blame her — since I had no fucking idea what to think about it all, either.