In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(57)

I barely manage two steps down the dark hallway before I see him. His big body tipped up against the wall, one shoulder and his head pressed to it. His arms are crossed and his face is shadowed, but I’d recognize the angles of his body anywhere—in the dark, especially.

“Beckett?”

He looks like he’s in pain. Shoulders hunched. A deep frown on his handsome face as I get closer. I reach out to him and my hand hovers over the slope of his shoulder, not sure if he wants to be touched right now or not.

He makes the decision for me, lifting his head and blinking at me blearily. He curls his hand around my wrist and tugs, a quiet oof slipping from my lips as I stumble into him.

His usual smell is tucked under layers of alcohol and fried food, but his skin is warm where my nose finds his neck. He wraps his arms around my back and holds on tight, clinging to me in the narrow hallway at the back of the bar. My hands slip over his shoulders and I hold on just as tight, confused and concerned.

“You okay?”

I feel a shudder work its way up his spine, a thin tremor in his hands. He rocks his forehead against my shoulder and grunts, mumbling something under his breath. He sways slightly and I tighten my grip.

“S’loud,” he finally mumbles, low and rough in my ear. “Needed a break.”

I drag my hands up and down his back in a soothing rhythm. He makes a grateful sigh against me.

“That’s alright. What can I do?”

“This is good,” he says with another squeeze. “Just wanna listen to you breathe for a second.”

I make sure to take a noisy, obnoxious breath on my next inhale and he softens further, the grip of his arms relaxing slightly but his body becoming heavier against mine. I shuffle back until I’m leaning against the wall, Beckett pressed right up against me.

It is loud in here. I hear Gus clamber back on the bar top with his megaphone, a short siren wail that has Beckett flinching against me. I smooth my fingers through his hair and he lets out a deep, rattling breath. Gus announces last call and last round, and the crowd gives a belligerent groan in response.

“Why did you come?” I ask him quietly, nails scratching lightly. He leans harder against me. “You could have said no.”

“Nova asked,” Beckett supplies quietly. “Didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

I asked, too. I wonder how much pressure Beckett puts on himself to be what everyone needs, all of the time.

“Not right back,” Beckett grumbles into my shirt.

“What?”

“You said you’d be right back,” he accuses, leaning back until I can see the lines of his face in the light from the bar. He frowns down at me. “You didn’t come right back.”

“I got caught up. Everyone wanted—“

“You were laughing,” he cuts off abruptly. “Dancing.” He swallows hard. “You aren’t like that with me.”

His hands flex at my hips and he takes a step back, leaving me propped up against the wall. I feel the two inches of space between us like a shove to the chest.

“I smile,” I start to say. “Beckett, I laugh with you all the time—“

He shakes his head. “It’s not the same. Not like when we were in Maine.”

He must have had more to drink than I thought. I glance out at the crowded bar and can barely make out the table we were sitting at—a wide collection of glasses haphazardly stacked next to empty food baskets.

“Sorry,” he snips, not sounding sorry in the slightest. His voice is grit and gravel and shades of possession, eyes heated to match. He takes a step forward and props his hand by my side. I am flat against the wall again, Beckett everywhere around me. “I forgot we don’t talk about it. I forgot I’m supposed to pretend like I don’t know exactly what you taste like.”

The image that blinks to life is immediate. Beckett on his knees at the edge of the bed, hand splayed low against my belly to hold me still. His nose at my hip and my thighs pressing at his ears, my foot drumming between his shoulder blades.

My entire body shivers, a forceful pulse pounding once right at the base of my throat.

“Beckett,” I say, a little bit dazed. His name lingers in the space between us. We don’t talk about it, he’s right, but I thought that was what he wanted. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough,” he says, his eyes intent on my face. “Cause I still think about kissing you all the damn time.”

I let that confession press against me, the words ringing in my ears despite the loud noise of the bar. I hold his gaze and blink as he stares right back. He pushes off the wall with a sigh, his hand through his hair.

“I need a beer,” he tells me.

I loop my fingers around his wrist. “I think you’ve had enough.” I glance towards the end of the hall and the door with EXIT marked in blinking red letters above. “I’m gonna drive us home. You want to say bye to your family?”

He shakes his head, muttering something about texting them later. He twists his arm out of my grip and straightens with a stumble. I slip my arm around his waist and his hand finds my shoulder, head tipping until his flower crown brushes my forehead.

“Sorry,” he says, his bottom lip against the shell of my ear. His voice is still that rough scratch that I like way too much. “I know I’m being an asshole.”