First Flight, Final Fall by C.W. Farnsworth

Chapter Twenty-One

Iwake up on the living room floor. At least it’s an upgrade from the bathroom tile. I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Emma is sprawled out on the couch. Anne’s in the recliner. And Cressida is on the opposite corner of the rug.

Emma snores loudly, and I grin, pulling out my phone so I can record her.

“Shit!” I shout when I look at the screen.

“What?” Anne startles awake, glancing around the living room wildly. Her red hair is just as untamed.

“It’s almost eight,” I reply.

“Oh, shit!” Anne echoes.

“Cressida! Emma! Wake up!” I holler, running into the kitchen to start brewing coffee.

Emma sits up, yawning widely. “What?”

“We’ve got practice in twenty minutes!” I call back. “And I have the worst headache. I’m not drinking tequila ever again!”

Cressida strolls into the kitchen, stretching. “We weren’t exactly pouring it down your throat. And apparently, it’s some sort of truth serum. I found out more about your life last night than I have since we met.”

I dump the grounds into the coffee maker and dart toward the stairs. I whirl around my room like a hurricane, swapping out the pajamas I’m wearing for leggings and my practice jersey. My hair goes up in a messy ponytail, and then I sprint across the hall to brush my teeth and wash my face.

Slams and bangs suggest my housemates are all getting ready just as quickly.

I sprint down the stairs, cleats in one hand and sneakers in the other. “EMMA! ANNE!” I holler. “We’ve got to go!”

“I’m coming!” Emma shouts back.

“Why is no one else ever ready on time?” Cressida asks from the front hall, exactly where I knew she’d be. Her usual routine is to lean against the cubbies and watch us all dart around desperately. “Practice is always at the same time. It doesn’t magically move up just to catch y’all off guard.”

“You could have a little more sympathy this morning,” I retort.

“Even less. We all woke up at the same time. I’m ready to go.”

“Start driving yourself, then!”

“No way. Watching you all race around is too much fun,” she replies as the sound of running footsteps continues to echo upstairs as Anne and Emma hurry about. “Especially hungover.”

“Can you at least check if Jenny is here to pick us up?” I ask.

“She wasn’t a minute ago—holy shit.”

“What?” I reply, quickly lacing up my left sneaker. “Is Jenny not here? I still have a headache, but I can just—” I glance up as I grab my right shoe and freeze in place.

Because the sight of Adler Beck walking into my living room is not one I ever expected to see.

He’s wearing a tracksuit, all black with Kluvberg’s logo embroidered in white. A jacket is tossed across the top of the leather weekend bag he’s carrying. He must have taken a red-eye to be here this early, but his are perfectly blue, without any dark circles.

“What are you doing here?” I choke out.

“I got your gift,” Beck states.

I stare at him. Thanks to the copious amount of tequila I consumed last night, it takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about the painting I sent. “A thank you note would have sufficed. You didn’t need to fly across the Atlantic,” I reply.

“If you’d answered any of my calls, I wouldn’t have had to,” Beck retorts.

Shit.

“I didn’t—I’ve been busy,” I reply lamely.

He scoffs. “So have I. But I answered yours.”

“I know.” The call with Beck at my father’s wedding is burned into my memory. “I wasn’t—wasn’t sure why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you were calling.”

“Answering would have been one way to find out,” he snaps. “I wanted—want—to talk to you, Saylor,” he replies, in a tone that suggests it should be obvious. If he were anyone else, it would be.

“But why? You were so mad when you left Canada.”

“You’ve had weeks to think about it and you can’t figure out why?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I retort. “I’ve had other things to think about these past few weeks, okay?”

“What is going on down—” Emma comes to a screeching stop when she enters the living room with Anne right behind her. “Holy shit,” she says breathlessly. “Am I hallucinating?”

“If you are, I am too,” Anne replies.

“Me three,” Cressida calls from the entryway.

Beck turns and starts walking away, and this time I don’t let him.

“Beck!” I call as I scramble after him, quickly shoving my foot in my right sneaker and following him with the laces still untied. He’s already reached the front steps by the time I catch up with him. I can see Jenny’s silver SUV loitering along the curb with more of my teammates inside. The chances of anyone on the team not hearing about this just disappeared. “Beck, don’t walk away from me again. You can’t keep showing up unexpectedly and dropping bombs like saying you want a relationship and never give me any fucking time to react!”

Beck spins around to study me, and I have to force my body to keep from shivering. It feels more like winter than fall.

“Are you going to say anything?” I finally ask.

“I was waiting for you to.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I can’t have this conversation right now! I have practice in…” I check my phone. “Three minutes. Fuck. I’m making all the seniors late. But it’s only two hours, and then we can talk, okay?”

“Okay,” Beck responds, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“Okay. There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry, and—”

“Saylor?” I look away from Beck to see my dad and Sandra walking toward the house. Crap. I totally forgot they were coming over. “Just stopping to say goodbye,” my father says unnecessarily, looking at Beck curiously.

I think longingly of the days when my life at Lancaster were uncomplicated. I sigh and walk down the rest of the steps, wrapping my arms around myself.

Wordlessly, Beck hands me the jacket he has draped over his bag, and I slip it on. “Thanks,” I mutter. He doesn’t respond. “Um, thanks for coming,” I say louder to my dad, who’s stopped a few feet away. I’m not sure what else he’s expecting. I’m in no way emotionally equipped to handle a heart-to-heart right now.

Beck takes over, stepping forward and holding a hand out to my father. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Scott. I’m Adler Beck.” There’s no flash of recognition on my dad’s face, and for once I’m glad he’s never taken any interest in soccer. This moment is awkward enough already.

“Marcus, please,” my dad responds, shaking Beck’s offered hand.

“And you must be Sandra?” Beck asks, shifting his gaze to her. She nods.

My dad’s eyes flash to mine, and I flush. It’s now pretty obvious this isn’t just some booty call I was shoving out the door.

Beck makes it worse when he adds, “Congratulations. From what I’ve heard, it was quite a wedding.” I wince at his thinly veiled reference to my phone call.

“Thank you,” my father replies. “Married life is pretty great so far.” It’s a sweet sentiment, and it also makes me want to vomit.

“Did Saylor give you a full recap?” Sandra asks, curiosity burning bright in her voice as she glances between us, obviously trying to discern our relationship. I wish her luck because I’m unclear on it myself. He could have taken off, and yet he stayed to make small talk with my dad.

“Nope. I just heard a lot about the bridesmaid dress,” Beck responds.

I’m torn between wanting to strangle him and smile. He’s making things with Sandra and my dad a hundred times worse. My dad’s looking a bit curious now as well, but it’s almost worth it to see the lighthearted, joking side of Beck that has been glaringly absent from our last few interactions.

I intercede. “It was really nice of you guys to stop by, but I actually have practice, so…” The words remind me that half my team is watching this conversation take place.

“Yes, of course. We should get going.” My dad hovers for a moment, and then steps forward and gives me a hug. “I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply.

Sandra gives me a quick hug as well. They both say goodbye to Beck then head toward the car parked across the street.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell Beck.

“You met my parents,” he replies.

I nod. “I have to get to practice. I’ll be back in a coup—”

Beck cuts me off. “Can I come?”

“You want to come to my college soccer practice?”

Beck nods. “Um, I guess so.” We’ve had random spectators at practice before: parents, friends, siblings. Never any world-famous soccer phenoms. “Let me grab my gear and keys. That’s my car there.” I nod toward the black sedan parked in the driveway. Beck heads toward it as I hurry inside.

Anne, Cressida, and Emma are all standing just past the front door when I walk back in.

“Care to share anything?” Emma asks as I dart into the living room to grab my abandoned cleats and soccer bag. I quickly bend down to tie my right shoe’s laces and grab my car keys from the hook by the door.

“He just showed up.”

“Yes, that much I actually figured out for myself, Saylor,” Emma rolls her eyes. “I meant—”

“We’re going to be super late,” I interrupt. “I’ll see you guys there.”

“Wait, you’re driving yourself now?” Anne questions.

“Yeah, he wants to come.”

“Adler Beck is coming to our soccer practice?” Cressida shouts.

“Apparently.” I rush back outside before any of them have a chance to say anything else.

Beck is leaning against my car. “It’s unlocked,” I tell him as I toss my bag in the back.

He climbs in the passenger seat without comment. I twist the key in the ignition, and the engine flares to life. Loud pop music blares through the speakers, suggestive lyrics pounding our eardrums. I think I catch a ghost of a smirk as I turn the volume down and reverse out of the driveway. Jenny’s car is still loitering along the curb waiting for my housemates to depart the house, and I zoom past the SUV.

It’s a short trip to Lancaster’s sports complex. The few minutes feel like hours in Beck’s presence, though. I can’t believe he came all this way. At least at CFOC I knew why he was there.

There is no reason why Adler Beck should be headed to a Lancaster women’s soccer practice.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer any of your calls,” I finally say. It’s the truth, and not only because it’s landed me in the predicament of showing up at practice with Adler Beck in tow.

“Are you?”

“I mean, at the very least, I could have saved you some money on airfare.”

“I think my male athlete salary will manage to cover it.”

“Or some more magazine covers.” The words are out before I’ve thought them through. I feel his eyes on me, and I’m glad I have the excuse of looking at the road.

“You’re a slow driver,” he comments.

“Law-abiding,” I correct.

“Slow,” Beck insists.

“Well, not everyone can get themselves out of a ticket the way you can. I’m not famous.”

“Yet.” The words are matter of fact.

His confidence in me, his belief that I’ll one day be well-known enough that a random traffic cop knows who I am despite the dim, flickering spotlight on women’s sports means more than I can put into words. So, I just agree. “Yet.”

I veer left into the athletic facility’s parking lot a minute later. Jenny’s SUV is nowhere in sight.

Not wanting to lose any of the ground I gained, I grab my soccer bag, throw my door open, and step outside into the chilly morning. Beck follows my lead, unfolding his long, lean frame from the passenger side and following me toward the main doors.

A swipe of my student ID lets us inside the building, and as soon as we pass through the lobby, I point toward the stairs. “You can watch from up there.”

I keep walking toward the entrance of the field before Beck has a chance to respond. My nerves are stretched taut, tensed to the point of breaking. This day is not progressing at all how I expected it to.

It was supposed to start with an early morning practice and end with finishing the marketing project I’ve been putting off all week, but I’m not wed to a schedule. Unexpected events are ordinarily easy for me to navigate.

Adler Beck’s startling appearance feels more like I was dropped in the midst of a maze.

I breeze onto the field, noting most of the team is already gathered in the center of the field. I drop my bag and head toward the huddle, resisting the urge to glance up at the window that overlooks the field as I do. The window that looks out from the observation room I sent Beck to.

“Scott! Care to tell me why half my starters are ten minutes late?” Coach Taylor barks.

“Sorry, Coach. They should be here soon. It’s my fault. I had an unexpected delay.”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes.”

I hear whispers behind me, and Coach notices too.

“Ladies! Anything you’d like to contribute?”

“Sorry, Coach, it’s just, uh, Adler Beck is here,” one of the freshmen says. The words are wrapped in awe.

Every girl on the team looks up to the observation room where I sent Beck. Reluctantly, I follow their collective gaze. He’s leaning against the wooden divider between the windows, typing something on his phone. He’s taken off his track jacket to reveal a white t-shirt, and he looks every inch the international football star he is. I feel Coach’s eyes on me.

“Your delay, Scott?” she asks.

“Yes,” I admit.

“Hmm,” is the only response. Coach Taylor has a knack for saying a lot without actually saying anything at all. It’s a talent I’d love to mimic, but I know I’ll never be able to. I tend to opt for more blatant approaches when it comes to registering my opinion.

Cressida, Emma, and Anne show up a few minutes later with the rest of our usual carpool, jumping into the warm-up routine we’ve already begun. I’m not sure if it’s an intentional response to the tardiness and pulsing excitement, but Coach Taylor barks out instructions that push the limits of my own fitness.

Considering I’m one of the few players on the team I know adds to our already rigorous routines, that’s saying something.

Or maybe it’s the tequila talking.

Either way, I’m grateful for the distraction. Not only for myself, but also for the gazes I can feel bouncing between me and the upstairs window.

We’re all part of one of the most competitive soccer programs in the country. Meeting legends in the sport is nothing new. However, they don’t usually look like the male specimen that is Adler Beck. And—I know this is the crux of the interest—they don’t normally have a connection to any of us.

Lancaster didn’t arrange for him to come do a clinic with us.

He’s here because of me.

Practice ends, and I take a seat on the turf to stretch my tired muscles. The downside of the taxing practice is I had no time to plan out what to say to Beck. I hate the paralyzing feeling that accompanies uncertainty. I can feel it creeping over me right now, making my skin itch and my insides crawl.

Especially when the source of the anxiety appears in the doorway.

“You need to work on your left touch still,” Beck informs me as he walks over to where I’m stretching, loudly enough for most of my teammates to hear.

“I only take advice from footballers who have won a gold medal,” I retort. I know Germany getting silver two years ago is a sore spot.

Beck grins, and it’s an easy, carefree one that adds a dash of nostalgia to the complicated feelings swirling inside of me. It’s been a while—a lot longer than just since I departed Germany—since there was any easy banter between us, since everything wasn’t seeped in secret feelings and hidden meanings.

“Nice to see you, Adler.” Coach Taylor approaches to shake Beck’s hand. I drop my gaze back to my calves to finish stretching.

“You too, Elaine,” he responds.

“Wasn’t expecting it to happen quite so soon,” Coach says.

“Me neither,” Beck states.

Coach nods, and then shifts her attention to me. “Good work today, Scott.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

Coach heads off the field, followed by the last of my teammates finally trickling off as well. I’m unenthused by the prospect of facing them in the locker room, but I’ll have to deal with their questions eventually.

“So, I should probably…”

“Want to work on that left touch?” Beck asks, tossing my ball in the air with a practiced flick of his toe and bouncing it on his knee.

“You want to play?”

“Something else you had in mind?”

A flirty comment referring to some of the other activities I think about involving him is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. “I don’t want to play games with you, Beck.”

The ball bounces three more times then falls to the ground. I’m mentally patting myself on the back for acting the part of an adult, not a sex jokester, so it takes a moment for his next words to sink in. Or more specifically, their tone.

“Seems like all you do is play games, Saylor.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “That’s not fair.”

“You sail along doing whatever you want, whenever you want to do it, and don’t bother to think about how it might make anyone else feel.”

I jerk back like he just slapped me. “Excuse me? Let’s not pretend you’re doing all of humanity some sort of personal favor by chastising me. You’re mad at me and—”

“I didn’t come all this way to fucking chastise you, Saylor. I knew you’d never face it, any of it, and—”

“Are you calling me a coward?” I snap.

“I wasn’t the one to leave Germany without saying a proper goodbye,” Beck shoots back.

“What did you want me to say?” My voice is no longer just angry; it’s also loud, echoing through the enclosed expanse of field we’re standing on.

“Something!”

“I figured you’d be too busy posing for magazines to notice I’d even left,” I retort. “Oh, wait, that’s exactly what happened!”

“I think I made it pretty clear I’d noticed at CFOC,” Beck replies.

“Saying ‘I don’t know’ wasn’t an easy answer for me,” I tell Beck. “I know you think it was, but it wasn’t.” He doesn’t say anything, so I forge ahead. “Whenever any other guy has asked me how I felt about him, I’ve always known. Sometimes I’d hedge around it, tell him I was too busy with soccer or wasn’t looking for anything serious. Most of the time I wouldn’t. But the point is, I knew. I don’t know anything when it comes to you, Beck, except you’re the best sex I’ve ever had. But you’re more than that. You always have been. And I didn’t know how to express that to you. I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

“You’re supposed to know,” Beck replies quietly. “You think I’ve ever told anyone else I want a relationship? You think it was easy for me to say that, knowing you’d probably run in the opposite direction?”

I bite my bottom lip, studying him. Then, I grab his left hand and start hauling him toward the exit door. I only manage to pull him a few feet before he halts.

“What are you doing?”

“Just trust me,” I implore. “I want to show you something.”

He doesn’t say anything but lets me lead him through the door that leads out to the soccer stadium. His strides pick up a bit once it comes into sight, realizing our destination. I hop the fence, and he mirrors me, trailing me out to the center line. I flop down on the turf, and he studies me for a minute before lowering himself down beside me.

“This is why I came,” he says quietly, so softly I almost don’t hear the words.

“To stare at the sky?” I ask, as I do just that.

“No, I can do that in Germany,” Beck responds, smirking as he sits back up.

I scoff as I sit up too, brushing bits of tire off the backs of my legs. The skin feels textured now, with dozens of tiny indentations marring the ordinarily smooth skin.

The shift in position is accompanied by a change in expression. Beck looks serious now. Earnest. Maybe even a little uncertain. Almost vulnerable. Or, as vulnerable as someone who radiates confidence simply by breathing can look.

“I came because I feel this way around you even when we’re just staring at the sky,” Beck continues. The words are a leisurely confession. Languid and slow. But there’s also an honesty that resonates in every syllable.

“Feel what way?” I ask, because this doesn’t seem like the right moment to rely on body language and subjective meanings. You only need to watch one romantic comedy to know that’s usually the catalyst for some amusing misunderstanding. Except I’m not laughing. Beck isn’t either.

“Like we could be doing anything in the world and it would still be as thrilling as skydiving.”

I snort. “I will never go skydiving. Do you know how many people break their legs? I wouldn’t be able to play for months!”

“I don’t want to go skydiving with you, Saylor. I want to be the person you rely on when you’re acting like you can do everything on your own.” His words remind me of my dad’s, and I push back the same way I did at the wedding.

“I can do everything on my own,” I insist.

“There’s a difference between wanting to and having to,” Beck replies sagely.

“Jesus. Did you read a self-help book on the flight here or something?” Beck doesn’t respond to that quip, and that’s how I know he means the words. Means them now, at least. “Relationships hardly ever last.”

“Which you know from the many you’ve been in?”

“I didn’t need to get nailed in the face with a soccer ball to know it was going to hurt,” I retort.

That earns me a wry smile. “You’re equating me swallowing my pride and flying almost four thousand miles to being on the receiving end of a wayward kick?”

“You’re Adler Beck.” My words are matter of fact.

“I know.” He looks bemused by my statement.

“Practically every woman in the world is in love with you. That’s what? Over a billion people? Probably some men, too? My teammates, my sister—who very recently thought soccer was measured by touchdowns, by the way. Any relationship is tough. Us? It would be a mess, a disaster everyone would know about and feel entitled to talk about. I’m not interested in being known for nothing but my involvement with you.”

“We don’t get to pick and choose how others see us, Saylor,” Beck snaps. “You’re judging me for shit I have no control over.”

“Well, you certainly haven’t spent the last few years avoiding the spotlight.”

“I’m not going to apologize for my past.”

“I’m not asking you to! I’m just telling you it means I’d be a fucking fool if I…”

Beck stands and starts walking away.

For the second time today, I chase after him. “It would be really nice if you could cut it out with the taking off,” I snap when I catch up. “I thought you came all this way to talk—you can’t even make it through a full conversation.”

“Well, I got a little sick of being criticized. Figured I’d wait at your car while you got changed.”

“I’m not changing. I’ll deal with the team inquisition later.”

“Is that my fault, too?”

I sigh as we reach the fence encompassing the field. “I’m not trying to blame you for anything, Beck.” No response. “How long are you staying for?”

“No idea. I didn’t think this trip through, clearly.”

Shit, shit, shit.He came all this way, and I can’t seem to stop fucking it up. “I could give you a tour of campus?” I ask tentatively. At this point, I’m expecting Beck to want nothing from me but a ride to the airport.

“Hey, Scott!” I turn to see Kyle Andrews jogging over. I list off a long and impressive array of profanities in my head. “Reliving your game yesterday? Heard it was fucking epic—holy shit. You’re Adler Beck.” He glances between me and Beck twice. “This is Adler Beck.”

If I were in a better mood, I would laugh.

“Holy shit,” Kyle repeats. “You’re—I mean, man. I’m a huge fan! We always watch the Kluvberg games. I can’t believe—I wish…” Kyle glances around like he’s waiting for someone to appear with a camera to commemorate the moment.

I take pity on him. “Beck, this is Kyle. He’s on the men’s soccer team.”

“I’m the captain, actually.” Kyle gives me a side glance.

“Wasn’t sure if you wanted to take credit for going one and three,” I say sweetly.

Kyle glares at me, but it morphs into a worshipful expression when Beck holds out a calloused palm and says, “Nice to meet you.”

Kyle looks a bit dazed as he shakes Beck’s hand and I chuckle. “As entertaining as watching you completely lose your cool is, we’ve got to get going.” I start walking, and Beck follows. “If you want that tour of campus, we should probably do it now, before Kyle tells the whole school you’re here,” I tell him.

“He a friend of yours?” Beck asks.

“I guess.”

“Good friend?” He’s fishing, and we both know it.

What I don’t know is why I answer the way I do. “No, I haven’t been very friendly lately.” Distance, Saylor, I chide. I’ve never slept with Kyle, and I think Beck knows that. I also think he knows I just admitted to the fact that I haven’t been with anyone else since him. Not something I planned for him to have any inkling of.

His response is an anticlimactic nod as we walk along Lancaster’s central path. It’s a Sunday, so campus is pretty quiet. Just a few overachievers hustling to the library, too concentrated to give us more than a second glance. Still, I’m not willing to take any chances.

I duck into the student center, which houses study rooms, along with the post office, a smattering of offices, and the campus store, my current destination. Beck follows me, looking around the open space containing every item you could imagine Lancaster’s logo being embroidered on.

I don’t think I’ve been in here since I visited campus for my recruitment trip. Being on a national-championship-winning team, I’ve been plied with more free Lancaster apparel than any one person could wear. I find the hat section easily, grabbing a navy one and heading up to the register.

“Good morning,” the middle-aged woman says pleasantly.

“Morning,” I respond. “Just this, please.” I set the hat on the countertop.

The phone next to the register rings. “One moment,” the woman says, lifting the receiver. After listening to whatever is being said, she covers the speaker. “Stephan! Can you cover the register?”

A baby-faced boy with brown hair appears from around a t-shirt display. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Wow. You’re Saylor Scott, right?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply. There’s a sound of amusement to my left, but I don’t look over at Beck.

“Uh, you don’t need to pay for this,” he tells me.

“It’s fine,” I reply.

“No, I mean it. If my supervisor knew you’d come in and I made you pay… seriously, take it.”

“Fine,” I say. Arguing doesn’t seem worthwhile. “Thanks.”

He nods eagerly.

Beck laughs as we leave the store. I shove the hat at him. “Shut up,” I grumble.

He pulls the tag off and puts the ball cap on. The sight of Beck in a Lancaster University hat sends a pang of yearning through me. What would it be like if Adler Beck had just been a guy in one of my classes? If he was just a hot guy who’d sat next to me? Not a world-famous one revered, beloved, and fantasized about?

“I kind of wanted to go to university,” Beck informs me as we leave the student center and start walking along the brick path that cuts through the center of campus.

“It’s not all that great,” I tell him. “Classes, essays, exams? I’d rather just play soccer.”

“Really? I’ve never gotten that impression from you.”

In one of my more mature moves, I stick out my tongue at him. He grins, a carefree expression that transports me to the German wilderness and a penthouse apartment simultaneously.

We head inside the building that houses the public relations department. It has the same brick, ivy-covered exterior as every other academic building here.

We pass the stretch of hallway that houses professors’ offices and advance farther into the building. I pop open the door for one of the lecture halls.

“Here’s what the not-fun part of college looks like,” I inform Beck.

He moves forward to look inside, but instead of moving around me, he moves into me. Suddenly every muscular inch of the front of his body is pressed against mine, and I pull in a quick breath. Lust hits me with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

“You better cut that out, or this is going to be a short tour,” I warn.

“If you’ve seen one classroom, you’ve seen them all, right?” Beck asks, giving me a sexy smirk that makes the heat already pooling in my belly simmer. He yanks me around the corner inside the hall and forget any seething. I’m at a boil.

“We can’t do this here,” I pant, as the door slams shut and his hand creeps under my shirt.

“You sure about that?” The words are a whisper against my skin. A dare.

No, I’m not. The chances of anyone walking in on us are slim. There’s no class scheduled in here today, and most people don’t just wander into empty classrooms. But there’s a chance. If I’d paid attention during statistics sophomore year, I might know what percentage, but Beck’s hand wandering across my ribcage makes any mathematical calculations impossible. Even if I knew an equation.

“Beck,” I whisper as he reaches my breast. I arch against him, barely managing to stop a moan from crossing my lips. Yeah, I won’t be the one stopping this.

Based on the bulge in Beck’s pants, he’s not feeling particularly inclined to pump the brakes either. It’s been weeks—I know exactly how many—since we were this close to each other. Since he was inside of me. No matter what my brain says, my body wants this. Badly. I’m soaked by the time Beck’s fingers make the journey south to feel between my legs.

Just like our first time together, I don’t let him linger. We’ve crossed the boundary into where this feels inevitable, but just because I’ve accepted that doesn’t mean I’ll stop to dawdle. I’ve got his cock out and aimed before I realize what’s missing.

“Do you have a condom?” I tear my lips away from Beck’s.

“Oddly enough, I didn’t imagine fucking you in an empty classroom when I boarded the plane,” Beck replies.

Oh, good. He’s lucid enough to employ sarcasm, while I’m a panting mess risking suspension or expulsion by fucking an internationally renowned athlete in what is, and I hope will remain, an empty classroom.

I fight through the Adler Beck haze. “Right. Because we never have sex. You tend to ask permission before giving me a goodnight kiss and use phrases like ‘Gosh darn, dear,’ too.”

Beck wrestles with a grin. His lips win. “‘Gosh darn, dear’?”

“I grew up in the South,” I snap. Heat is still racing through my veins with no other outlet. I yank my shirt down, and Beck makes himself presentable as well.

But we remain against that wall, just staring at each other. I re-memorize the way his face looks this close and in person.

The freckles scattered on his cheeks.

The faint scar slashing the edge of his left eyebrow.

The way the blue of his eyes grows lighter closer to the pupil.

It’s only when I recall the fact that I slept on the living room floor last night and got ready this morning in approximately five minutes that I jerk away from the wall to end his perusal of my appearance. It’s stupid. He knows what I look like, but I care what Adler Beck thinks of me, whether he finds me attractive.

I care a lot.

“We should keep going,” I tell him.

“Ja,” Beck agrees.

But he doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

“Okay,” I finally manage. “Let’s go.”

We head through the building, ending up back outside. This morning’s wind has dissipated, allowing for a little more warmth to permeate the air. I guide Beck through the rest of campus, and then we end up at the parking lot where I left my car.

Neither of us says anything on the drive. The tour served as some sort of unspoken truce between us. Now, I’m not sure how to bring up any of the heavier subjects hovering in the air.

The driveway is empty when I park in it, suggesting no one else is home. Beck trails me up the path and inside.

“Wow,” he remarks when we step inside the kitchen. The remnants of last night’s drunken slumber party combined with this morning’s hurried departure have made it a sight to behold. He picks up the half-empty tequila bottle. “Wild night?”

“Not by your standards.” I grab a few dirty glasses and set them in the sink to clear some counter space.

“You might be surprised,” Beck replies, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. “I haven’t been going out much.”

“Mmmm,” I hum as I transfer some plates to the dishwasher, although I think that comment was his way of responding to my “friendly” remark earlier. “Is the season going well?” Soccer and sex have always been the two safe topics between us, and we already covered the latter with abysmal results.

“We’re playing decent.”

“So, you’re undefeated?”

Beck flashes me an arresting grin. “One draw.” I scoff as I throw away the desiccated lemons from Emma’s cocktail. “You had a good game yesterday?”

“Yeah. Three zip against one of our main rivals. Northampton. They were at CFOC.” I pause. “My dad came.”

“I figured that was why he was here,” Beck replies. “How was it?”

I lean against the now-clean counter. “I don’t know. It’s nice he made an effort. But it was weird, you know? Sharing this part of my life with him. Having him here. Him seeing me play. Meeting my friends.”

“You can’t expect to go from no relationship to a perfect one in a single visit,” Beck replies. “And it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Let him in as much or as little as you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” I whisper, and I’m no longer talking about my dad.

“Yeah, I know,” Beck replies. His tone is dry, and I know he isn’t anymore, either.

“Hello! Anyone home?” Emma’s voice echoes from the entryway, and then she appears in the doorway to the kitchen, with Cressida right behind her. They both stop and stare.

I straighten and sigh. I have no idea how long Beck is going to stay, and at this rate it will take us a week to get through a full conversation about anything meaningful. “Hey, guys. Um, this is Beck. Beck, this is Cressida and Emma.”

Beck smiles. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you both.”

Neither Emma nor Cressida say anything; they just gape at him.

“Don’t make it weird, guys,” I say.

Beck’s phone vibrates against the countertop. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he tells me. He grabs the phone and starts a rapid stream of German.

“Hey, Emma? Can we come in?” a voice calls from the direction of the front door.

My head whips to the left. “Who is that?”

“One minute!” Emma calls out. “If you’d answered any of my texts, you’d know.”

“My phone died,” I respond. “I normally charge it overnight, and there wasn’t exactly a cord on the living room floor.”

“Well, if you had charged it then you would know I agreed to host study group because this may or may not be the first time I’m attending it and I’m hoping they’ll give me the old notes,” Emma informs me. “You disappeared after practice and weren’t answering!”

“Why are they all outside?” I ask.

Emma sighs. “I said we had a party last night and hadn’t tidied up.” She surveys the room. “Thanks for cleaning.”

“Like you were going to do the dishes,” I reply.

“I would do the dishes! You won’t let me do the dishes!” Emma responds.

“Because you always leave—”

“Could you guys argue about this later?” Cressida interrupts.

“Fine. I’ll go hide upstairs in my own house,” I say, heading into the living room. Cressida and Emma trail behind me. Beck’s leaning against the back of the couch, still jabbering away in German. When I hold a hand out, he wrinkles his brow in confusion, but he lets me pull him upright, then lead him up the stairs, down the hall, and into my bedroom. He looks around curiously before taking a seat in my desk chair. I make a series of hand gestures I hope convey my plan to shower and head across the hallway to do just that.

I stand under the pulsing spray and try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about Beck. I can’t give him a garbled I don’t know this time. I owe him a yes or no. But what should be a straightforward affirmation or dissent is anything but simple.

I know I have feelings for Beck.

I stopped viewing him as a mere hook-up a long time ago. I just don’t know what these feelings are. I was hoping they’d just disappear, and they haven’t. But Beck was right earlier. I never would have done anything about it.

Never would have flown halfway around the world and shown up at his apartment.

Never would have pressed him on his feelings for me.

I have no idea if I’m ready for a relationship, or how to know if I am. Does me not knowing mean I’m not? I had friends with “boyfriends” in middle school, but I’ve never called a guy my boyfriend. Not even close. I’ve had no interest. I either friend-zone a guy, or I sleep with him. Beck was supposed to remain in the second category, but the lines got blurred.

I let them blur.

There’s no easing into anything when it comes to me and Beck. Not only because of who we are as individuals, but because he’s Adler Beck. There may be some interest in me at Lancaster or among the niche few who follow women’s soccer, but even if I hadn’t spent two months in Germany, I’d be well aware that the mania surrounding the European football league is a different beast entirely.

Surrounding Kluvberg.

Surrounding Beck, its most notorious player.

The one measly article with a photo of us at CFOC is nothing compared to the media circus that would erupt if it came out that we were in an actual relationship.

I step out of the shower. Steam swirls around as I squeeze excess water out of my hair and then wrap my towel around my torso. I’m gathering my dirty clothes to dump in the hamper when the bathroom door bangs open.

“Hello! Occupied,” I say as Cressida barges inside, followed by Anne. “What is going on?”

Anne shuts the door a lot more quietly than Cressida opened it.

“Answers, Saylor. Start talking!” Cressida demands.

“Answers to what?”

“Adler Beck was in our kitchen when we got home!”

“Yes, I’m aware,” I drawl.

“Is he staying here?”

“I think so… we haven’t really covered logistics yet.”

“You’ve been off together all day!” Cressida exclaims.

I shrug. “It didn’t come up.”

“Kluvberg’s in season,” Anne points out. “Isn’t he missing stuff to be here?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked,” I admit. The first sentence is a cop-out. I know he must be. I have commitments seven days a week during the season. He’s a professional athlete. Playing soccer is his job. There’s no way Beck’s not missing something by flying across the Atlantic. “Could we discuss this after I’ve gotten dressed?” I request, gesturing down at the small puddle that’s forming at my feet.

The door opens, and Emma joins the party. I groan, leaning my head back against the shower door.

“What’s she said?” Emma asks eagerly.

“Absolutely nothing,” Anne supplies.

“Because there’s nothing to tell!”

Cressida scoffs. “Yeah, right. I never bought the ‘It was just sex’ line because you acted so weird about it, but there’s definitely something else going on.”

“I don’t know what’s going on! We haven’t talked about it yet, and even when we do I’m not going to give you a fucking transcript. I can ask him to get a hotel if you don’t—”

Emma gapes at me like I just suggested we streak across campus naked. Except we did that sophomore year and she didn’t look nearly as horrified. “Don’t you dare. I’m having ‘I slept in the same house as Adler Beck’ engraved on my tombstone.”

“Morbid. And creepy,” I add as I push through them to the bathroom door. “I’m going to get dressed. Let’s not do this again.”

Beck is still on the phone when I re-enter my room, so I don’t say anything. I don’t even make eye contact, just get dressed and flop down on my bed. I open my laptop and glance over at him. He’s staring out the window, listening to whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying. I turn my attention back to the marketing project I was planning to spend the afternoon on.

My phone vibrates on my bedside table a few minutes later. I yank the charging cord out and roll onto my back to read the latest message. It’s from Emma. All clear down here.

“Wir sehen uns dann,” Beck says, which I’m surprised to realize I recognize as a farewell. I didn’t think I’d retained any of my meager German. I hear him stand and walk over to my bed. The mattress dips as he sits.

“Long phone call,” I comment.

“Ja,” Beck responds. “My coach was… checking in.”

“Did you tell him you were coming here?”

He pauses. “We talked before I left.”

I drop it. “Emma had a study group over earlier, but they’re gone now. Do you want to shower? Or food?”

“Yeah, both would be good.”

“Okay. I’ll make something.” I close my laptop and roll off the bed. “Towels are in the closet.” I head out into the hall before he can say anything. I don’t know what Beck’s coach told him, but he seems more withdrawn now. Reticent. I’ve been so focused on my own emotions, I haven’t considered how it might feel if Beck is the one who walks away.

If he decides this isn’t worth it.

That I’m not worth it.

Anne is the only one in the kitchen when I enter it. “Hey.” She looks behind me at the stairs. “Whe—uh, where’s Beck?” I can tell she’s trying to sound nonchalant, but she falls spectacularly short.

“In the shower.”

Anne nods jerkily. “Speaking of, sorry about the bathroom ambush.”

I snort. “It’s fine. Where are Cressida and Emma?”

“Trying to fix the television before Twenty-Five to One is on.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you watching last week,” Anne replies.

“It was impossible to ignore. I didn’t think it was physically possible for someone to cry that much.” I open the fridge door to survey the contents.

“Are you making dinner?”

“Yeah,” I reply, pulling a package of chicken out of the fridge.

“What about Spaghetti Sunday?”

“Beck’s allergic to tomatoes.” Anne makes an annoying humming sound. “Don’t start, please.” I sigh.

“Just saying, you gave Natalie a peanut butter granola bar during play-offs.”

“She just doesn’t like peanut butter for some absurd reason. That wasn’t life-threatening.”

Anne hums again. “Still. You forgot.” She pauses. “You guys would make a cute—well, actually more like insanely gorgeous couple.”

I don’t say anything as I dump chicken in a baking dish and turn on the oven. Anne takes the hint and starts talking about our game on Tuesday instead. Cressida and Emma return to the kitchen, still bickering about whatever is wrong with the television.

It feels like an ordinary Sunday night.

Until the sound of footfalls comes from the stairwell. I keep my gaze fixed on the potatoes I’m peeling, only glancing up when I hear him enter the kitchen.

When I see him, I’m hit with a wave of lust and longing powerful enough to knock me over. Beck strolling into my kitchen wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt with wet hair is something I want to happen more than just this once.

Emma and Cressida keep arguing in an overdone attempt to act casual, and Beck saunters over to my side. “You’re cooking?”

“Mm-hmm.” I set aside the last peeled potato and make eye contact with him. He holds my gaze as I probe, trying to get a read on his current mood.

Nothing.

I can’t discern a damn thing.

We just stare at each other. Unfortunately, Beck has one of those faces that looks better the longer you stare at it. I get lost in those azure depths, so adrift I startle when Anne says my name.

“Saylor?” she repeats.

“Yeah?” I tear my gaze away from his.

“The timer just went off for the chicken.”

I grab the potholders off the counter and pull the pan out of the oven. Juice bubbles and crackles in the bottom of the dish, and the surface of the meat is crispy, cooked to a perfect shade of light brown. I grab the meat thermometer from the drawer to check, but I already know it’s done. Once I confirm it is, I transfer the chicken onto a plate, fill the pan with potatoes, and stick it back in the oven. Then, I start on the salad.

“Can I help?” Beck asks quietly.

Without looking at him, I slide a cucumber his way. “Chop this.”

He does, and the rest of dinner is ready shortly thereafter. We all sit down, and my three housemates sure don’t have any shortage of things to say. They chatter about such a range of topics I can barely keep track.

One minute I’ll tune in and it’ll be about bunnies as pets, the next high-waisted bikini bottoms. I’m at a loss for the connection between those two. Dinner is good—if I do say so myself—but I’m barely cognizant of what I’m tasting. I’m hyperaware of Beck sitting a foot to my left. He mostly seems amused by the endless commentary.

We finish eating, and Cressida offers to do the dishes.

“It’s fine, Cress. I know you want to watch the show. I’ll clean up.”

“What show?” Beck asks, speaking for the first time since we sat down at the table.

“Twenty-Five to One!” Emma exclaims. “Have you seen it?”

I snort and Beck glances at me. “What is it about?” he asks.

“It’s a reality television show about finding love,” Cressida replies.

“Filled with unnecessary drama and toxic personalities, and fueled by too much alcohol,” I add.

“Do you watch it?” Beck questions.

“I mean, sometimes. If it’s on…” I hedge.

“She watches it,” Emma confirms, and I glare at her.

“Okay, let’s watch it,” Beck states.

I glance at him. “Seriously?”

“Why not? I’m definitely not playing Clue with you again.”

I fight the smile, I really do. But I don’t win. “Okay, let’s watch it.”

We all migrate into the living room. Cressida plops down on the recliner. Emma takes a seat on one side of the couch. Beck settles on the opposite end. I take a seat closer to Beck, but toward the middle. Then Anne comes out. I’m surprised. She’s never watched before. Then again, Adler Beck’s never been in our living room watching it before. Her presence means I have to scootch farther down the couch.

Closer to Beck.

Our thighs press, then our sides, then our shoulders. Acute, self-conscious awareness pulses through me, and it’s ridiculous. Absurd. I’ve been a lot closer to Beck than this, but somehow being pressed against him in front of my friends feels more intimate.

The show starts with an elaborate montage replaying last week’s most scandalous events.

“That’s the guy they’re all fighting over?” Beck whispers to me incredulously as the new episode starts.

“Yup,” I reply. “Not your type?”

Beck chuckles, and I lean a little closer to feel his chest vibrate. “Nope. Yours?”

“I prefer blonds.”

“Karl will be disappointed.”

I laugh softly. “Are he and Sophia still dating?”

“No idea. I made my opinion about him pretty clear. He’s not exactly a popular topic of conversation.”

“It’s sweet that you’re protective,” I say quietly.

“Is it? Because I made my opinion clear after he spent brunch staring at you. Because he spent brunch staring at you.”

I look up at him. He’s staring at the television screen. “Yeah, it’s sweet,” I murmur. I look away, back at the screen, which is currently depicting a hot-air balloon ride over a field of wildflowers. “This is even more ridiculous than the helicopter last episode,” I say at a normal volume.

“I thought you weren’t watching last episode,” Emma replies from the opposite end of the couch.

“I just wanted to see if Madison ended up getting on it,” I respond. “I mean, who plans a helicopter ride for a woman afraid of heights?”

“He didn’t know she was afraid of heights,” Cressida defends.

“Well, maybe he should know that about the person he’s supposedly falling in love with,” I retort.

“Like her allergies?” Anne comments beside me. I don’t think anyone else hears, but I scowl at her anyway.

The hot-air balloon lands in the field, and the couple disembarks to discover a picnic that’s already been prepared. “Seriously? How unrealistic,” I grumble.

“Saylor! I can’t hear what they’re saying,” Emma complains.

I sigh as I settle back into the soft cushions. I watch as the lead and his current date make contrived conversation, biting back more sarcastic comments. And then Beck’s left hand settles on my knee, and I lose all sense of what’s happening on the television. I glance over at him, but his attention seems to be on the show. His thumb traces small circles on my skin, and zings of arousal shoot up my thigh.

I bite my bottom lip and shift closer to him. His right arm slides down my back, dipping underneath the hem of the crewneck sweatshirt I put on after my shower. I’m not wearing anything underneath besides a bra, and he discovers that.

Rough callouses scrape against my lower back as his palm drags across the skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I arch against him involuntarily, and Anne’s pretty much got the center of the couch to herself. I’m partly on the cushion, mostly on Beck’s lap. He keeps rubbing his hand against my skin but doesn’t venture any farther north.

It’s an innocent touch, but there’s nothing virtuous about the wetness pooling between my thighs. Beck’s eyes don’t waver from the television, which makes it even hotter. Either he’s completely oblivious to the effect his touch has on me, or he’s actually paying attention to the show.

After a few more minutes, Beck’s hand stills. It remains on the small of my back, searing into my spine and radiating heat through my whole torso. Once I get my libido under control, I snuggle closer so my head is resting on his chest.

I stopped paying attention to the show a long time ago.

Now, I’m focused on nothing but Beck. I slip my hand underneath his shirt, and he inhales sharply. I revel in the knowledge that I’ve still got some power over him, too, as I close my eyes. I block out the sound of the annoying commentary on the television and focus on the sensation of being held by Adler Beck.

The next thing I’m aware of is whispers.

“… leave her down here?” Cressida’s voice.

“She spent last night on the floor. This is an upgrade.” Emma this time.

I open my eyes and glance to the right. Beck’s already looking at me. “Hey, sleepy. You missed some drama.”

“He sent Madison home!” Emma exclaims.

I sit up and stretch. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“The hot-air balloon girl,” Cressida supplies.

“Guess there are worse things to be known by if you’re on a dating reality television show,” I comment, standing.

“I’m going to bed,” Anne says, yawning. “Practice earlier kicked my ass.”

“Imagine how terrible it would have been if we lost yesterday,” Cressida comments, heading toward the stairs after her.

Emma follows.

It’s just me and Beck in the living room.

“Ready for bed?” I ask.

“You obviously are,” he replies.

Except I’m not. I’m tired, sure, but the hunger I repressed earlier is suddenly raring back to the surface. I don’t act on it now, though.

I head toward the stairs, and Beck follows. The upstairs hallway is empty, and I enter my room, shutting the door behind us.

I yank my pink sweatshirt over my head and swap out my sweatpants for a pair of sleep shorts, feeling Beck’s eyes on me the whole time. He strikes just as I’m pulling a tank top out of my dresser.

“Do you know what I’ve spent the past hour thinking about, knowing this was all you had on underneath?” he asks, pressing up behind me.

I push my hips back against his. “Maybe you should tell me.”

Soft kisses trail along my shoulder, and I moan when he reaches my neck. Loudly. Desire floods me, so potent and all-consuming I can’t think straight.

Warm hands slide up my stomach, and I buck back against him as they reach my breasts. “I was thinking about doing this,” Beck murmurs against my neck, before sucking on some of the sensitive flesh.

I’m so close to coming from that alone it’s embarrassing. I struggle, trying to turn around so I can touch him more. His arms pin me in place. “Beck,” I whimper, rubbing against him. I roll my neck so I can see him better, and he responds with a blistering kiss.

I was overwhelmed before; I’m drowning now. Sinking through ecstasy and euphoria. His tongue is urgent, seeking immediate entrance and plundering once it’s granted.

Beck kisses me urgently, fervently, fiercely. I squirm, still desperate to touch him. He still doesn’t let me. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Skydiving,” he responds, and I get it. This sweeping, exhaustive feeling feels a lot like I imagine jumping out of a plane might. The inability to think about anything else. The overwhelming sensation. But just because I can conceptualize it doesn’t mean I’m ready to leap. It’s not an athletic undertaking I can train for.

“I’d rather do this,” I suggest, gyrating against his very obvious hard-on.

Strong arms drop, and I’m finally able to twist around and look at him. All the emotion has drained from Beck’s face, leaving behind nothing but that same stoic expression that blocked the June sun on Kluvberg’s field. “That’s not the best idea.”

He walks to the right side of the bed, sliding under the covers before I have the chance to blink more than twice.

Excuse me, what? Call me vain or a sex goddess, but that’s never happened before.

Never.

The fact that it happened with Beck makes it that much worse.

I swallow the painful lump in my throat and turn off the light before slipping under the covers myself, making a point to scooch as far away from the other side of the bed as possible.

The thin cotton sheets and down comforter prove to be an ineffective barrier against ravening thoughts, however. I don’t know how long I lie on the mattress for, but it’s not long enough for endless pondering to wear my brain out.

I finally slip out of bed and head downstairs. Anne has an extensive tea collection, so I might as well try a cup.

At this point, I’m pretty sure the only thing that will knock me out is a few shots. But I’ve got morning practice, and I made a vow that Adler Beck would never interfere with my performance on the soccer field.

An oath that was far easier to keep back when I’d done nothing but beat him in a shootout.

I’m filling the kettle with water when a familiar timbre sounds behind me. “What are you doing?”

“Making tea,” I respond, turning the tap off with a little more force than is strictly necessary. The hardware wobbles its way back into place. Another thing for our landlord to never get around to fixing.

“You’re a light sleeper?”

“Not normally,” I respond, flicking the burner on and setting the full kettle atop the flame. I grab a mug and pull out the drawer to scan through the packets of tea. Anything to keep from making eye contact with Beck.

He catches my meaning. “I can sleep on the couch. My flight’s in a few hours, anyway.”

“It is?” My eyes dart to his azure ones, and I’m snared in his gaze, dammit.

“Yeah, it is,” Beck confirms.

“Guess I should be grateful you’re giving me more than an hour’s notice this time.” I shut the drawer. Hard. The whole kitchen is going to be in shambles by the time I brew myself a mug of glorified plant water.

“Fuck, Saylor.” Anger stirs in the blue depths I can’t look away from. “You can’t act pissed when I show up and when I say I’m leaving.”

“I wasn’t ‘pissed’ you showed up, I was surprised,” I retort. “Now I am pissed.”

“Because I wouldn’t fuck you?” Beck snaps.

“Because you say one thing and act the opposite!”

“At least I say things. You give me nothing at all!”

“That’s not true!”

“You left Germany without saying goodbye. You hardly said anything when I told you I wanted a relationship. You called me drunk and then didn’t answer a single one of my calls.” Beck ticks off my mistakes, and I can’t deny a single one of them.

“Don’t you get it? You weren’t supposed to mean anything, Beck!”

“Yeah, I got it,” he sallies.

“But you do.” I finally lay my cards down. “You mean a lot. So much it scares me.” Some of the anger finally retreats from his face. “I don’t want you to leave tomorrow.”

There’s a glimmer of affability. “That’s nice to hear. But…”

“You have to leave anyway,” I finish.

“Yeah. I do.”

“I want to believe you,” I inform him. “That you want this. That this can work.” Suddenly, it seems important he knows that.

“So believe me,” Beck says simply.

“I—It’s not that—” I start, but Beck doesn’t let me finish.

“You don’t walk on the field knowing you’re going to win, Saylor. You earn it. Fight for it. That’s all I’m asking. For you to try.” I open my mouth to speak, but he keeps talking, so I close it. “I know it’s a lot. I know people care where I go, who I sleep with. And I get that it would complicate your life, and I wish it wouldn’t. But…” He pauses, and I watch him teeter on the precipice. “I care what you think. I think about you the way other people think about me.”

It’s such a ridiculous metaphor I’m tempted to laugh, but I can’t. The words are too raw.

Too echt.

Too real.

Worming their way inside of me and gnawing away at my doubts and insecurities.

“Then why wouldn’t you…” My voice trails off when Beck rounds the edge of the island, caging me against the butcher-block countertop right next to the boiling kettle I should probably turn off.

“It seemed like sex might mean something different to me,” he tells me. “Might mean more.”

Emboldened by his honesty, I offer up a little of my own. “It wouldn’t,” I admit.

Beck’s face stays blank, but there’s a tic in his jaw that suggests it might take some effort to appear that way. “Earlier, what you said about being friendl—”

I know where he’s going with this. “I kept thinking about you,” I whisper.

He kisses me, shoving me against the counter and then lifting me atop it. I yank his shirt off, anxious to feast on the abs I was stroking earlier. We’re racing along faster than any speed limit would allow.

I rake my fingers through his soft hair.

Trail my fingers down his neck.

Dig my nails into his shoulders.

Bite on his bottom lip, spurring his own perusal along…

“Holy shit!”

Beck pulls away just enough so I can see Cressida standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wide-eyed and blushing. Wearing a matching pajama set patterned with penguins.

“Uh, hey,” I say. “What are you doing down here?”

“Just getting some water. Wasn’t expecting to walk in on a porno,” she comments, strolling over to the fridge and opening the stainless steel door. I jump down from the counter and turn off the burner, pouring the scalding water over the packet of herbs.

There’s a pounding sound on the stairs—Emma’s trademark.

“Put your shirt back on,” I hiss at Beck. He grins, completely unrepentant.

“I thought I heard—oh my God!” Emma appears in the kitchen and focuses on—no surprise—Beck’s admittedly impressive torso.

“Good night!” I call out, grabbing my mug in my left hand and one of Beck’s in my right. He glances back at the kitchen as I tug him toward the stairs. “If you hook up with any of my housemates, we’re never having sex again,” I inform him.

“That’s what you got out of our conversation? That I’m looking to hook up with someone else?” Any affability leaves Beck’s face.

“No. I just—I don’t know,” I admit, trying to pull together my scattered thoughts as we reenter my room. “I think…”

I didn’t have any impressive lines cued up, but Beck doesn’t wait to find out. In seconds, he’s pulled off my tank top and yanked down my shorts, walking me backward until I have no choice but to lie down on the comforter. I’m expecting him to plunge right into me, but he doesn’t.

It’s a continuation of the torture from earlier.

He kisses me. His tongue and lips assault my breasts, my neck, my chest. All while rubbing his massive erection against my inner thigh. Teasing me.

“Beck, please.” I let him hear the desperation in my voice. It’s not like he can’t tell I’m a wanton, writhing mess beneath him.

“Do you want me, Scott?” He’s never called me by my last name in bed, and the sound of it falling off his lips is surprisingly erotic.

“What the fuck does it seem like?”

There’s a flash of humor in those perfect blue eyes, but it’s extinguished like a doused flame. One hand slides between my thighs, and my hips jerk upward from the additional stimulation. If this were anyone else, I wouldn’t capitulate.

“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone,” I tell him, laying myself bare in more ways than one.

Beck unrolls a condom and then thrusts inside of me. I barely have the presence of mind not to cry out, muffling my moans against his shoulder.

Thoughts flee like dandelion pappuses in the wind. All that remains is sensation.

I’m aware of everything and nothing.

Thoughtless and overstimulated.

There’s the heat of his skin. The ripple of his abdominal muscles against my own stomach. The thick hair my hands are raking through.

I’m close, feeling trickles of ecstasy, when he slows, pumping into me at a leisurely pace. Languidly. I clench my inner muscles and feel the muscles in his back ripple as he responds.

He slides out of me, teasing me with the bulbous tip of his cock, and I let out a throaty gasp. Then he plunges back inside, and I’m over the cliff. Liquid hot pleasure courses through me as I light up like a supernova.

I watch Beck’s face tighten and then relax as he finds his own release.

He drops onto the comforter beside me.

“I want to try,” I whisper when I regain the ability to form a coherent sentence.

“What haven’t we tried?”

I smile, flipping over so we’re chest to chest again. I rest my chin in the groove between his pectoral muscles. “Plenty, but I’m not talking about sex.”

I feel his chest rumble with laughter. “What are you talking about?”

The words are playful, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity that tells me what I need to say.

“I want to be in a relationship with you.” Beck doesn’t say anything, just studies my face, peering so closely I’m sure he can see every pore. But that’s not why I’m shifting uncomfortably. That’s happening because I know there’s more I have to say. “I mean it. I’m not going to run. I’ll answer your calls. This is me jumping out of the plane, okay?”

Beck studies me for a little while longer. Finally, his expression changes. It’s not triumphant or indifferent. He looks hopeful, and I decide that’s perfect as I twist so I’m half-splayed atop him.

“Okay,” Beck says softly.

Hope never hurt anyone.

As long as you remember: hope isn’t always reality.

“Okay then. We’re in a relationship.” The words sound foreign, but not strange.

“Okay then,” Beck repeats.

I can’t see his face, but it feels like the emotion radiating from it is happiness.

Or maybe that’s just me.