America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(52)

“You get lonely,” she says quietly.

Like she gets it, despite the fact that she clearly has more experience than I do with bumping uglies.

And I never would’ve used that word, but— “Yeah.”

“I broke up with my last boyfriend because I didn’t want him to know who my parents were.”

“Did he—never mind.”

She smiles sadly. “Yes. But what was the point if I wouldn’t let him in here?” She taps her head, then her heart. “Or here, I guess.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand, because it’s there, and because I know a thing or two about keeping people out. I know a thing or two about not knowing if someone likes me, or if they like who they think I am.

It’s why I’m so fucking glad for everyone from home. I might not have someone warming my bed every night, but I have family. My family, who won’t accuse me of fathering kids that aren’t mine—and it fucking sucks, by the way, because I would love kids someday—or try to take advantage of me because they don’t care about the heart under the body.

She squeezes my hand back, and with Sarah, I don’t know if it means thank you or let’s arm wrestle and I’ll kick your ass, but I like her hand in mine.

Soft, but strong.

So comfortable.

And so easy to just sit here. Without saying anything. With a woman I never should’ve met, but who’s quickly becoming one of my favorite people, even when she makes me squirm.

Probably because it’s a rare breed of people willing to make me squirm, and who also understand how hard it is to trust people on an intimate level.

“You could teach me,” I offer. “I’m not too humble to admit I could learn a few new tricks.”

She laughs and pulls herself up off the couch. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe?” That’s disappointing.

I like her. I trust her. I want to make out with her.

She glances back at the windows, at the world outside. “Okay, that’s not you. It’s me. I have trust issues.”

“I’d be worried about you if you didn’t.” Especially growing up under the celebrity microscope. “Want to know a secret?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“I have trust issues too.”

She studies me closely, then nods. “That’s probably good for you.”

“Yeah, but it’s not good for getting any experience at giving a woman a double O.”

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but she can’t hide a small smile and a subtle blush. Like maybe that was harder for her to say than I can comprehend, and I just scored points for my own honesty.

“I’m going to get my computer,” she says. “Did Charlie say there’s office space one floor down?”

Dammit. “Yeah. Let me see if your clothes are dry yet, and I’ll show you.”

But I’m not giving up.

Because I like her.

And I can’t tell you the last time I liked a woman. Not like this. Is it scary? Yeah.

But worth it?

I hope so.

So slow and steady it is.

Until our contract’s up.

And then I don’t know what I’ll do, but I have time.

I’ll figure it out.

Unless I fuck something else up in the meantime.





Twenty-Three





Sarah



I’ve barely finished a blog post about an upcoming meteor shower when Beck knocks on the office door.

Not that I’m surprised.

He doesn’t seem like he does well when he’s alone. And I don’t mind, because he’s remarkably easy to talk to.

About anything.

“Hey. You hungry?”

I push my computer back and just look at him.

Which isn’t a hardship, honestly. He gets more attractive with every little twist to his personality. If I weren’t biased against gorgeous men with thick dark hair and movie star blue eyes and easy grins and perfectly formed bodies—yes, including the ape arms—I’d probably call him hot.

Instead of a classy button-down or a polo, he’s lounging in a white Simpsons T-shirt. His jeans still look like they cost a million bucks and they fit his slim hips and hug his long legs perfectly—again, undoubtedly from his own fashion line—but he’s also barefoot, which adds exactly the right amount of realness to him.

And somehow, hearing that he hasn’t had many girlfriends adds even more to the appeal. I’m not usually so forward in talking about sex—not that I have a lot of opportunities, because guys are hardly banging on my door every day—but he was the one who brought up making out.

Multiple times now.

Like maybe he doesn’t care that I forget to get haircuts and I never wear makeup and I think of clothes as functional items for comfort and to prevent me from breaking indecency laws more than as fashion statements.

His lips twitch like he can’t stand the silence, and sure enough, within seconds, he’s talking again. Not that I mind. It’s just kinda amusing.

“It takes a lot of calories to look this good,” he says, as if he needs to explain why he’s hungry again.

“If I ate that many calories, I’d look like a blimp.”