Page 57 of The Encore Effect

“Just for tonight.”

It might not be what she wanted, but it was more than he’d given her in a long time. An acknowledgment, at least, that there was something simmering beneath the surface. Something that required closeness, comfort. That there was some part of him that still belonged to her. Something deeper than wanting, something closer to needing.

She climbed into bed and flipped back the sheets, an invitation. He took his time removing his shoes, putting them in their place by the end of the bed, shedding his vest and shirt button by button. A belt buckle clattering against the bedside table. The swish of dress pants discarded. The rustle of sheets as he climbed into bed beside her.

Kat grabbed the television remote. “Want to watch something? I’m not ready to go to sleep yet.”

“Whatever you want,” he said.

He tucked his head against her chest, wrapped his arms around her waist as she clicked through the channels, finally landing on some made-for-TV romantic comedy.

“Thank you,” he breathed against her skin.

“For what?”

“For this.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, a punch to the gut. What were they doing? She’d let him bandage her scrape and kiss her knee, place his hand on her thigh beneath the table at dinner, kiss her in the crowded ballroom of a charity fundraiser. They still hadn’t talked, hadn’t resolved anything, and he was still holding back, even now, even lying in her arms. But, God, how she wanted him to be there—in her arms, in her bed, in her life. Even with the screaming silence of the things they weren’t saying whirling around them, she’d choose this every time. Choose him.

And what did that say about her? What if this was all he could give her? What was the point of those years apart if they were going to repeat the same mistakes? If he still wasn’t ready to let her in?

She didn’t know. But she knew how to wait for his shoulders to relax, for his breathing to even out. She memorized the tattoos that covered his skin, the ones he’d added in their time apart, and waited for the telltale rise and fall of his ribs as he fell asleep in her arms. Waited for his soft puffs of breath against her chest to break against that ball of dread in her stomach, the edges fuzzy and ill-defined.

A wisp of worry about Jackson, about the depth of Beckett’s silence.

A tuft of fear that she was no more in control of her feelings for Beckett than she was in control of this tour.

A swirl of resignation that she’d do it all again. That for this man—with his broody stares and smiles that felt like gifts, this man she’d never stopped loving, no matter how hard she’d tried—she’d do anything.

Including wait.

“What time is it?” Kat asked in the darkened hotel room as she yawned awake beside him.

Beckett glanced at the bedside clock. “Three.”

“Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He smoothed her hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, pressed the naked lobe between his thumb and forefinger where her earring should be.

Kat scooted closer to him beneath the covers, nestling herself beneath his arm, her cheek resting on his chest. He cradled her close, relishing the slow glide of her fingertips over the wings of the owl on his chest.

He didn’t deserve her like this, soft and open, patient. But he was too selfish to extricate himself from whatever magic had begun weaving itself between them, gossamer string and Scotch tape holding them together. A fragile foundation, but more than they’d had in years. More than he ever thought he’d have again.

He didn’t deserve her, but he was too greedy to let her go.

“It might help to talk about it,” she offered into the darkness. The hesitation in her voice was a slash across his skin, a stinging reminder of all the ways he’d failed her in the past. The ways he was still failing her.

“Not this.”

Her fingers stilled. It was the first time he’d even acknowledged that there was a this to not talk about, and he felt the moment she clocked it.

“Not yet,” he added.

She lifted her head to look at him, and he skated his thumb along the line of her jaw, the moonlight through the hotel curtains casting her face in shadow. The corners of her mouth turned down, and he felt those gossamer strings between them pull taut, strained. He drew his thumb over her red-painted bottom lip, pressing in the plush pillow at the center.

Her eyes darted between his, calculations scrolling behind her eyes. “Remember how I told you I have the name of an orthopedist in every city?” His brow furrowed, but he nodded, unsure where she was going with this. “I also have the names of substance abuse counselors,” she said softly. “One in every city.”