plan, of course.” Beck scratches at the stubble on his chin. “I think a yearly bonus and or share in profits would be reasonable.”
Matías just gapes. “You’re not serious.”
“Think it over. Then make her an offer and she’ll get back to you.”
“For a silent partner, you sure do talk a lot. Some might say too much.”
“Just looking out for my girl.”
“Which is a clear conflict of interest. You have a duty to your shareholders.”
“What shareholders? It’s just you and me.”
“Exactly. Your loyal business partner needs to be protected from funding the egregious shows of affection that you like to shower upon your better half.”
It’s like watching a tennis match. My head just keeps moving back and forth between them. Much more of this and I’ll hurt my neck. “Are you two finished deciding my future?” I ask.
“For now,” says Beck. “Oh, Grandma has also submitted a request. Well, first she tried to brow beat me into handing over Henry. Then she had a go at me about stealing Smith. Apparently, there’s an old money tradition that you can’t purloin the help. I suggested she embrace the heady reality of twenty-first century capitalism, which went down really well as you can imagine. But then she asked me to ask you for a favor.”
“I’m listening.”
“Seems she’s coming down with a cold. With Giada, Emma, and Rachel away, and Ethan and I busy with the delegation from Amari, she needs someone to represent the Elliot Family Foundation at a charity luncheon tomorrow.”
My brows go up. “She wants me to go? Me?”
“It’s an emergency. But apparently all you have to do is sit there, eat fancy food, sip fine wine, and make a little light conversation. What do you say?”
“Are you sure your grandma wasn’t under the influence?”
Beck thinks it over. “Reasonably so. Yeah. I mean, she wasn’t slurring her words or anything.”
“Chance to get on Catherine’s good side,” says Matías.
“But does she have one?” asks Beck. “This is the question.”
I just blink. “You’re not helping.”
“Sorry.”
“Okay. All right.” All in all, this sounds reasonable and I have no cause to decline. Apart from my innate fear of being judged and/or having to partake in social situations (especially those involving rich people). But I can quash that and get the job done. “I’ll do it.”
Beck pulls out his cell and shoots off a text. “Great. Letting her assistant know and asking for the details. I’ll forward them. Smith can drive you.”
“But if I’m going to stay in Denver, I should learn my way around, right? If you wouldn’t mind lending me a vehicle that is…”
“I thought we discussed this,” he says.
“With both you and me busy, we’re going to need Smith to keep an eye on Henry.”
“You have a point.”
Matías gets to his feet. “I better get going.”
“Hey, how’d you go with the soup tureen?” asks Beck.
“I’ve agreed to surrender the butt-ugly tureen on the basis that she hands over the fertility idol given to us as a wedding present from Lise.”
“My mother gave you a fertility idol?” Beck blinks several times. “I mean, of course she did. Please continue.”
“Apparently it’s meant to manifest abundance or, I presume, a couple of kids. Emma’s already filthy rich and isn’t sure about children. So she doesn’t need it.”
“And you do?”
“Eh. Dunno about the kids,” says Matías. “But abundance, man!”
“Good luck with that.”
“See you at drinks, right?”
Beck pauses. “Right. Yeah.”
“Alice, I’ll call you.”
The door is barely shut before Beck’s hands are at my waist, lifting me onto his lap. The man is strong. Hands cup my face and he presses his lips against mine. We kiss like we’ve been apart for years. Or at least a solid seven or so hours. My tongue in his mouth, mating with his. My fingers in his hair holding on tight. It’s all good and right and necessary. And when his hands wander, slipping under the back of my sweatshirt to meet bare skin…a shiver runs through me from top to toe.
We should never not be kissing, never be out of each other’s reach. What a waste of time normal life is in comparison to being with him. It’s too big to be happiness, yet it’s not just lust, but joy too. Bigger and better words are required to describe how he makes me feel.
But not love. Not yet. Just quietly, that word terrifies the crap out of me.
“I’d like to take a moment to thank you on behalf of my libido for wearing baggy unattractive clothing,” he murmurs.