Page 71 of Changing Lanes

So much for taking a break.

CHAPTER 17

Paige

We’re just finishing some takeout on our balcony that overlooks the pool and some high school when Beckett eyes me suspiciously, asking, “So, you do eat meat?”

Marc watches through thick lashes as he pulls out a cigarette.

I take one final bite of my egg roll, my pork egg roll, and say, “Occasionally.” Mainly when it’s on sale.

I swear they both release a shared breath.

Okay…

Standing from the patio table, I stretch while also trying to ignore the way Beckett’s gaze caresses my legs at the same time. It’s difficult, to say the least.

I busy myself stacking the empty containers into a pile before grabbing the entire heap and turning for the sliding glass door. As Beckett rushes to open the door, our shoulders brush on my way inside, sending a thrill down my arm like I’m still in middle school and my crush just bumped into me in the hallway.

“You got it?”

I nod, grimacing.

We interacted with such ease this morning and all day at the shop when he’d find excuses to touch me and tease me but now it’s awkward. Or maybe I’m the one that’s awkward, I don’t know. It just feels…different between us.

Roommates. We’re roommates and that’s how roommates are. They’re comfortable around each other. They talk openly, laugh freely, and fantasize about ripping the other’s clothes off with their teeth. Or…no? I don’t think that’s how these things work. I definitely don’t feel that way about Marc. Don’t get me wrong, I would not kick that man out of bed—like ever—but I’m not actively picturing him there either. Not like Beckett.

No, nothing like Beckett. And I wouldn’t exactly say I feel comfortable right now. More like I’m uncomfortable not having his strong, skilled hands on me constantly.

Shit.

Marc stays behind to smoke outside while Beckett follows me into the kitchen, helping with the mess. Things only get worse from there. So much worse.

The sudden lack of conversation is louder than if we were screaming at one another. Instead of respectful and calm, the silence filling the kitchen is aggressive and charged. Charged with budding flowers of longing, desperately seeking nutrients to sustain them. Every grazed body part, every sharp inhale, they’re all feeding the Franken-plant of need blooming between us.

Am I the only one feeling this?

After putting the last utensil in the dishwasher, I straighten to find myself caught between two rock hard biceps as Beckett cages me in against the counter, my back to him. Our spacious kitchen instantly feels microscopic and I step to the side to escape but he follows, keeping our bodies practically sealed together. I spin, my hands lifting to his chest and feeling his heartbeats pounding wildly beneath my fingertips. I freeze for a moment, enjoying the unsteady rhythm. My own heart performs a similar tune when he’s pressed this close and I wonder if it’s as noticeable.

I hope not.

Raising an eyebrow, I drag my eyes up to his. With the goo on my forehead now dry and making the skin around the area stiff, I probably look more like a pirate gazing into the horizon. So not sexy.

“What’s going on?” And why are you pressed against me like a magnet to a fridge? Although, obviously he’s the fridge in this scenario.

Beckett shrugs casually even as his heart continues its rowdy melody, saying, “Just wondering what you’re up to tonight.”

He’s crowding me but in a good way—in the best way—and the longer we stand like this, like it’s natural for us to touch and gaze and want, the harder it is to deny how much I like it. How much I like him.

“If you’re worried about finding me in your room again, don’t. Whatever I do from now on, it won’t lead me there.” At least that much is true. I cannot do that again.

Instead of pumping his fist in victory, an expression deceptively similar to disappointment crosses his face.

Hmm. I don’t believe that. My private nurse is more the naughty variety than anything and he’s probably just wanting to skip to the sponge bath portion of his self-imposed role already.

Needing some of that personal space I sacrificed by falling asleep in Beckett’s bed, I slip under his arm, skirting around him as he follows my body stiffly.

I shouldn’t even spend time alone with him anymore. We’re like those religious nuts that require chaperones while they’re courting. Except we’re not courting. Or religious. We’re just horny and stupid and bound to make a mistake neither of us can come back from. And so, we need supervision. At all times preferably.