Page 65 of The Encore Effect

“Both.” Jackson broke the eye contact with Beckett, hastily scrubbing his hand over his head, making a mess of his hair.

“See? Now kiss and make up so we can get out of here. I’m starving,” Zach said.

“Sorry,” Jackson mumbled, his eyes darting anywhere but Beckett’s, a familiar twitchy energy returning to his posture that set Beckett’s teeth on edge. Jackson pointed a finger at Beckett as he walked backward toward where he’d dropped his jacket earlier. “But you’re coming out with us when we get to St. Louis.”

Beckett blew out a breath and rolled his head on his shoulders, willing the tension in his neck to go away. “Fine.”

“You hear that?” Jackson asked, turning to the rest of the band with a grin, as if he and Beckett hadn’t been at each other’s throats moments before. “All bets are off in Missouri.”

“One beer,” Beckett said.

Jackson’s smile widened. “We’ll see.”

“About what?” Kat asked as she appeared in the doorway to the green room.

She leaned against the open door, her walkie talkie held loosely in one hand, hair tumbling over her shoulder. She looked tired, her eyes only half open, and she stifled a yawn behind her hand as she shifted her weight on her heels. Suddenly, it was like the bands around his chest had loosened, like he could suck in a full breath for the first time since Jackson had started goading him.

Goddamn. Just the sight of her, all sleepy and adorable, and he could feel the tension and anger melting away, replaced by something softer. Warm.

He wanted to kiss her, wrap her up in his arms and carry her back to their hotel room, spend the rest of the night between her thighs until they were both too tired to move. She arched an eyebrow at him, a hint of amusement tilting up the corner of her lips as though she knew what he was thinking. She probably did. She usually did.

“You want to come out for tacos?” Logan asked, sidestepping her question. “I think we need to blow off some steam before we head back to the hotel.”

“You guys go without me. Take Gideon. And no more than two rounds tonight, got it?” she said in that stern schoolteacher voice of hers that drove him out of his mind.

“Yes, Kat,” Nico, Logan, and Zach chorused.

She laughed, a light tinkling sound that drew him to her, like she’d captured him on the end of a line and was slowly reeling him in. As he approached, laughter danced in her eyes, melting into something heavier when his hands landed on her hips. He tugged gently, pulling her away from the door and towards himself.

“You going with them?” she asked, tilting her chin towards the rest of the band as they gathered their things. He shook his head. “You coming with me?” He nodded, pressing his lips together to hide his own smile. “Lucky me.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Beckett opened the door to their hotel room, Kat following behind him. The ride from the arena to the hotel only took a few minutes, but it had been mostly silent. He suspected she was as unsure as he was about where they went from here, though there was one thing he was sure of: it started with them talking.

Which, honestly, was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to strip her out of those dark jeans hugging her ass, rip open the silky cream-colored blouse she wore and bury his face between her breasts. He wanted to make her come half a dozen times before he even thought about broaching the processing she’d mentioned earlier.

But he knew how that story ended. Sex had always been easy between them. They’d spent the last six months of their relationship fucking instead of talking, and look what that had gotten them—ten years of silence. He couldn’t do that again. It would have to be different this time. And that meant keeping their clothes on long enough to talk about the hard things.

Kat stepped out of her heels and sat on the edge of the couch at the foot of their bed, rubbing the arches of her feet. Kicking off his own shoes, he took a seat next to her, patting his lap. “Come here.”

“Really?” She turned sideways on the couch and tentatively placed one foot on his thigh.

He sighed and gripped both of her ankles, hauling her feet into his lap. The mirror mounted on the opposite wall framed them perfectly, a picture of domesticity that sent a pang of longing through him. “Why do you wear those shoes if they hurt your feet so much?”

“They’re professional,” she said on a low groan, dropping her head back against the tufted sofa arm as he dug his knuckles into her arches.

“You’d still look professional in sneakers.”

“They make my ass look good,” she said.

“Your ass always looks good.”

She smiled softly, reaching out to trace her fingertips down his bicep. It was such a simple touch, and yet it made his heart skip a beat as she traced the edges of the flower petals on his skin.

“How’s your knee?” she asked quietly.

“Fine,” he answered automatically. He shook his head, exhaling deeply. Talk, you idiot. He glanced at her as he continued massaging her feet. “Fucking hurts.”