After securing a white silk robe from the closet, she knotted the tie at her waist and swung open the bright blue door.
Beckett was a far cry from the vest-wearing suits she’d dated here and there in the last several years, but he made an impression in all the right ways. He gave off a badass Walker, Texas Ranger vibe, a reminder of the Chuck Norris show she’d watched as a kid with her grandfather. Not that Beckett looked like good ol’ Chuck, but damn. She’d noticed Beckett’s swagger the first time on New Year’s Eve at Jesse and Ella’s wedding.
At six feet, probably two inches, and she’d guess even taller with his cowboy boots on right now, Beckett smoothed a hand over his five o’clock shadow, wordlessly studying her. Taking in the sight of her from her bare feet on up to her beach-wavy blonde hair.
She was guilty of the same, cataloging every inch of the man before her.
A white tee hugged his broad shoulders and muscular biceps, and she knew if he turned around, his ass would look oh-so fine in those well-worn jeans. Were they Wranglers? Weren’t those a cowboy-type brand?
Beckett fidgeted with his black ball cap. She had a feeling he was far more comfortable wearing a cowboy hat, but he’d draw a lot more attention to himself donning one of those at the resort. And she doubted attention was what he was going for, given the circumstances.
“Hi,” he finally managed, breaking the silence first. Sydney had to blink away the salacious thoughts that’d popped into her head courtesy of the fictitious world she’d happily lived in beneath the bedsheets last night.
“I was hoping we could start over.” He cleared his throat and, likely inadvertently, let his gaze flick down to her chest before meeting her eyes once again.
“Oh?” She leaned into the doorframe, keeping the door propped open with her shoulder. “I thought we got off to an excellent start.”
“Yeah, see,” he began, closing his eyes for a brief moment, “I can’t tell if that’s sarcasm or not, but I reckon it is.” That Southern drawl of his had her stomach doing a weird little flip. “But I do apologize for seeing—”
“My breasts?” she tossed out. “I wouldn’t have been topless on a beach if I weren’t comfortable with my body. And now I’m naked beneath this robe, so we’ve come full circle.”
Beckett reached for the brim of his black ball cap and tipped it as if that were a gentleman’s way of saying I’m sorry.
“Let’s just not make it a habit of you seeing me partially clothed, and we should be all set.” She stepped back into the room, and he caught the door with his palm before it shut. “Oh,” she began, arching a brow, “was there more you wanted to say?”
He looked over her shoulder, his eyes landing on her bed as if being alone with a woman unsupervised was somehow against the rules. Were they on that Bridgerton show Mya had been talking about? Not that Sydney had watched it, but she could imagine what life was like for a woman in the 1800s and thanked the universe she hadn’t been born then.
“You don’t smell like cherries.”
Sydney’s gaze fell to the hardwoods beneath her bare feet, hating that her thoughts had landed on Alice and how she’d hijacked Sydney’s favorite cherry-scented perfume. Memories of that woman and everything she’d taken from her, including their friendship, pummeled their way through her mind all over again.
The news from Levi on Friday was far too fresh. But she’d never let that interfere with her job and safely extracting Jesse from the cartel. She’d learned to bury her thoughts and feelings when need be, which was ninety percent of the time. Give or take.
When she looked up, she wasn’t expecting to see his full lips curving into the slightest of smiles, one that had crinkles forming around his brown eyes. “You have a good memory and an excellent sense of smell.” She left the entryway to snatch her new bottle of perfume from the vanity and came back to find his palm still propping the door open, but he’d yet to cross farther into her suite.
She shook the little bottle of Tom Ford, Black Orchid, between them. “I used to wear a cherry-scented one. I decided I needed a change.” She had no clue why, but instead of handing him the bottle, she offered her wrist as if he might want to sniff her.
What did they put in those mimosas? Maybe it was the combination of the drinks and the sun? Because this was not like her.
Beckett lifted her wrist to his nose and closed his eyes, breathing her in. When their gaze met once again, the look in his eyes was raw, almost primitive. Like a man doing his best not to succumb to . . . desire?
With his eyes locked with hers, and his hand still wrapped around her delicate wrist, she’d swear his thoughts were becoming as derailed as hers. It was as if he were mentally untying her robe to part her thighs to check if she was wet for him.
It’s that book. And maybe the mimosas, she rationalized, remembering a scene from chapter thirteen. The sheriff had asked the woman if he made her wet, and she’d been stubborn and defiant and told him no. And to call her bluff, he asked her to touch herself. Prove it. She’d boldly lifted her skirt and caressed her sex, but when she removed her hand, her fingers were coated in her arousal. Within a minute, he had her on her back and was inside her. Pounding her hard.
“It’s nice.” Beckett freed her wrist and stood upright, his gaze cutting away from her as if feeling guilty for having dark, erotic thoughts given his brother-in-law’s situation.
Or maybe it’s just me with those ill-timed thoughts.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said as she turned and tossed the perfume bottle onto the bed.
“And what’d you expect?” Cold-hearted with bone-chilling icy walls? Dangerous and deadly with a bow? She rattled off a few more possibilities in her head as she waited for him to respond.
“Well, Jack warned me you’d be pissed I ruined your weekend. I guess he was giving me a hard time.”
“I’ve had a few mimosas. It’s entirely possible the me you expected will show up once I have some food in my stomach to counteract the alcohol.” She was only partially kidding. She really had no clue why she’d allowed her guard to slip even for the few hot seconds they shared as he breathed in her perfume, even if it was one-sided.
“I should let you get to it now.” His focus landed on the bed again. “You know, get dressed.”
“Sure.” She nodded and started for the en suite, assuming he’d leave without another word. But when she looked back, he was still standing there, eyes on the floor as if there was something else he wanted to say or ask.
“Jesse will be okay,” she noted in case that concern dominated his thoughts, which was more than likely the case. “I wouldn’t be standing here so calm if I didn’t believe he could handle himself.” And that was the truth—no sugarcoating needed, not that she knew how.
“If your son’s father was in danger, and he wasn’t the greatest person on the planet . . . would you do the same? Would you try to help him?”
Ah, the pieces of the puzzle were coming together.
Beckett said McKenna’s mother was a con artist, so he was likely questioning the sincerity of Cora’s request for help. Was he being conned again? How many times had this happened before? And why’d she leave him and McKenna in the first place?