Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (10 page)

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes this fine morning, Mr. Smith,” she said, sounding far too bubbly considering the ungodly hour as her voice carried across the tree lined street. “What are you doing over there? Do you have house guests? I noticed your lights were on late again last night.” Reaching high above her head, she pushed her chest out and stretched her arms, enjoying the male audience as she warmed up enthusiastically. “Naughty, naughty, Beck. You know a body like yours needs a minimum of six hours sleep to run efficiently.”

Not responding, he glared at Hope and cursed under his breath, gesturing for her to get out of the car. The woman craned her neck, finally spotting her, and Hope had to give her credit. The daggers she threw were obvious to any rival female, but her horse-like smile barely slipped.

It seemed Mr. Man Candy had a desperate housewife jogging around Mission Hills with the hots for him.

Rolling her eyes, Hope threw a few daggers of her own as the woman’s words penetrated her still sleepy brain. “Wait, what does she mean, house guests?” Because house guests implied a house.

“Out of the car, princess. Now.” The endearment wasn’t complimentary.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed. Nobody called her princess. Not if they valued their junk. It was the same as the C word in her book.

And as a general rule of thumb, nobody told her what to do, either. If it had been anyone else knocking on her window, she would have simply started the car and driven away, pissed that she’d have to find a new spot to sleep, yet thankful the police hadn’t been involved.

But it wasn’t anyone else. It was him. Beckett. And he was standing his ground.

Huffing out a breath, she made peace with the fact that she probably looked like the walking dead and opened the door. “Since you asked so nicely,” she remarked snidely, the air shockingly cold on her bare legs.

Her cut off jean shorts and white tank weren’t suited to the chilly coastal morning and the baggy plaid flannel shirt she wore provided no insulation. “And only if I can finish watching Miss America limber up for you, because it’s never too early in the morning for camel toe, you know what I’m saying?”

He didn’t laugh as she’d hoped, but a ghost of a smile crossed his face when he hitched a thumb in the opposite direction of Miss America and strode that way with purpose, assuming she would follow.

And she did, but only to the sidewalk.

Because Beckett—last name Smith, according to the spandex slut—didn’t walk toward a beaten up skateboard or an idling vehicle parked nearby. Nor did he head for the red brick Prairie style house a few doors down, the one with the spiral shaped topiary in the courtyard.

What he did do, as she watched his tight backside with a slackened jaw, was scale the wide front steps of her favorite Craftsman bungalow two at a time. As if he owned the place.

Opening the unlocked front door, he disappeared inside without closing it behind him, giving her a glimpse of creamy white walls, dark hardwood floors and her own personal paradise. Returning less than a minute later carrying two mugs instead of one, he set both steaming cups on the flat porch railing and propped his hands on his hips, waiting impatiently.

Somewhere out there, in the vast and dark unknown of the universe, the God of Irony was laughing his ass off at her.

Hope schooled her astonished reaction, trying to keep it together. This house was the least of her problems right now. It was the man standing on the porch that she needed to be concerned with. Looking extremely put out, he reached for a mug and leaned his fine ass against the railing, folding his arms even as he tilted the cup to his lips. His distrustful green eyes stayed on her, but the irritation was banked. So she’d been caught sleeping in her car. No big deal, right? It wasn’t like she’d been parked underneath an interstate overpass, doling out five-dollar handjobs from the front seat while a drug deal went down nearby. And it wasn’t a crime. Or was it? Holy hell, she honestly didn’t know.

Playing it cool, she walked primly up the steps and helped herself to the other mug, eyeing him like he was a snake ready to strike.

“So. Do you live here?” she asked inanely, filling the silence.

“Yes,” he said slowly, as if she was the village idiot. Glancing pointedly at her car, he added, “Wanna tell me why you’ve been parking there in the middle of the night? If you’re stalking me, you’re doing a shitty fucking job of it.”

Mirroring his stance, she leaned against the opposite railing and sipped the hot coffee, a blend of buttery hazelnut and sweet vanilla that warmed her insides. Jesus, not only was he kickass in the sack, he made a fantastic cup of coffee. Much to her dismay, his ranking on her Fantasy Man Meter inched higher. There had to be something he was bad at. Some annoying habit that could drive a person mad. Maybe he left bread crumbs in the butter or whistled through his nose when he breathed. Maybe he drove under the speed limit or sprayed the neighborhood cats with a hose.

Studying him, she tried to spot a flaw. Besides his personality that was, because Lord knew, the man could use a few pointers in the communication department, pillow talk included.

His jean-clad legs were spread straight out in front of him, his ankles crossed in a deceptively relaxed pose, and for the first time, she noticed his feet were bare. His shirt was a long sleeved, black Henley, the thermal kind with a waffle texture that inspired a compulsion to run your hands across it. She knew from experience it hid a spectacular chest.

Wait, what did he say? He thought she was stalking him? “You think I’m stalking you?”

He did that brow thing again. “I wanna know how you found me.”

She wrinkled her nose skeptically. “First of all, you must think pretty highly of yourself.” Because he didn’t need to know just how rocked her world had truly been that night. “And second, and this is important, so listen up,” she said with emphasis, leaning forward so he didn’t misunderstand her. “You never told me your name.”

The reminder made her feel cheap and she sat back casually, as if he’d merely been a blip on her radar, taking a burning sip of the hazelnut coffee. The fact that he’d poured it for her did little to soothe her bruised pride.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he ran a hand through his tousled hair and set his mug down, looking out toward the empty street. “It’s Smith. Beckett Smith.”

Hope barked out a laugh. “God, that sounds pretentious. Unique, yet anonymous. Like it should be said with a British accent and a raised pinky while drinking Earl Gray tea.”

He snorted. “My mother would love that. And technically it has ‘the third’ after it.” He made air quotes. “I was born eight minutes before my brother, so he got the normal name. Unlucky is the word I always think of, but pretentious works, too.” He eyed her again. “I told you mine, now you tell me yours. Hope what?”

“Holy shit, there’s two of you?” She digested that information, wondering how anyone could stand that much... Beckett... at one time. The female applause must be deafening. Looking toward his front door, she whispered, “Is he in there? Can I see him?” Oh, the hotness.

He laughed without humor. “No and no. Now why the hell are you sleeping in your car, Hope with no last name who’s not stalking me?”

Taking another gulp of coffee, she wished for one of Bridget’s handy, anxiety killing blackberry brandy shots.

“I like your tree,” she said. Because in her mind, it was just that simple.

Meeting his gaze, she collected her thoughts, knowing he wanted a better explanation. “I’m in between apartments right now and sometimes I need a place to stay. If my best friend’s couch is occupied for the night or he’s got a case of the ass and won’t let me camp out on the floor, then I’m left with my car.” Shrugging, she looked away from his searching eyes, the stilted confession more embarrassing than showing perverted strangers her plumped up cleavage.

Purple jacaranda petals littered the hood of her car, the weight of the rare rain too heavy for the delicate blooms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him follow her gaze. “And the dealer calls that color spicy tomato.” Because she felt like that needed to be said.

“How exactly does someone find themselves,” he rubbed the stubble on his cheek, his tone indicative of his snooty name, “in between apartments?”

“When one gets fired from their job, that’s how. Now if you’re done with the third degree on something that’s not your business, I’ve gotta run.” Tapping her bare wrist like the face of a watch, she set the mug down, close to tears for no good reason. Hitching up her chin, the manners Rosa instilled in her kicked in. “Thank you for the coffee. It was delicious.”

Jesus, she thought, with a barely suppressed sob. Now who sounded snooty?

“Hope, wait.” He reached for her before she made it to the edge of the porch.

She stopped, but pulled her arm away before he grabbed hold. Not because she didn’t want his touch, but because she so badly did. A girl didn’t easily forget how safe it felt to be held by a man like this one, surrounded by his strength. And seeing him again, having to disclose the sorry state of her life, scratched below her tough surface. No longer able to deny her grim reality now that she’d spoken it out loud to someone other than Val, Hope felt the crushing weight of despair bear down on her.

“Just wait,” he said again, firmly. Jade eyes drilled into her and she nodded, biting her lip to keep the maddening tears at bay. “Stay put. Okay?”

He backed away slowly, like she’d bolt the second she had the chance, and headed into the house, leaving the door wide open again. Hope faced the street and didn’t dare turn around. What lay beyond that threshold wasn’t something she needed to see. It would only make the ache in her chest worse. But she did as he asked and stayed put, rays of vapory blue light peeking through the clouds as the sun tried valiantly to rise, chasing the damp gray dawn away. The rapid beat of feet sounded in the distance and Hope squinted, watching as Miss America made her way back down the sidewalk, toward the massive two-story on the opposite side of Lark Street. Her fake boobs barely moved even though her pace was steady and Hope waggled her fingers in a spunky wave, hoping to convey the fact that she had firsthand knowledge of Mr. Smith naked and aroused.

She grinned when the woman’s steps faltered, wishing she had the guts to shout,
yeah, that’s right, bitch. Naked and aroused. Now move along.

“I have a room.” From behind her, the man in the middle of her silent cat fight spoke with a resigned voice. He walked to her side, but kept his distance. “You can rent it if you want.”

She looked at him, then at the door. Then him again. And nearly peed her pants. Did he just say what she thought he said? “You mean... in there?”

His smile was wry. “I know it’s not the Four Seasons or the front seat of an orange Toyota, but it has a bathroom and a bed.” Her brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her, sarcastically adding, “Not mine.”

As if she’d say no to sharing his bed. She had the staunch willpower to refuse chocolate mixed with peanut butter if it meant she looked better in a bikini, but refuse a spot in Beck’s bed? Not a damn chance. Not even a saint could say no to that.

He held out a piece of paper and she took it automatically. Looking down, she scanned the generic single page lease agreement and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Is this really necessary? Can’t I just tell you a little bit about myself?”

“That’s what the application’s for.”

Taking the pen he held out, because apparently the guy thought of everything, she hesitated. “I don’t really have references.” Or a current address.

“Complete it to the best of your ability,” he said, a touch of formality in his tone, before taking up his spot against the railing again.

Alrighty, then. Knowing this was a bad idea, she wrote her name and cell number down, skipping over the address portion, pausing before she filled in her employer information. Biting her lip, she wondered just how much truth Beck really wanted.

“Keep in mind you have to sign that document, which makes it illegal to knowingly falsify any information. Punishable by California Penal Code, section four-seventy.”

Okay, so it seemed he wanted
all
the truth. “Are you a cop?”

“Hell no, I’m not a cop,” he said, indignantly.

“Is that true with drivers licenses, too? This penal code you speak of?”

“Don’t fuck with me and just fill it out, okay?” He gave her a long, questioning look. “How old are you? You’re over twenty-one, right?”

She lifted a brow. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late to be asking if I’m legal?” And bringing up the topic of their heated sexual copulation was the very definition of fucking with him.

Hope laughed at his distressed look. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to jail. I could be in real trouble though, because I lied to the DMV about my weight.” Looking back at the paper, she continued to fill it out as she spoke. “Shaved a good five pounds off. Okay, seven. Do you think the next time I get pulled over, the cop will say, ‘out of the car, ma’am,’ ” she mimicked, in a manly voice, “ ‘and step on this here scale, nice and easy now.’ ” Hope laughed, her eyes bright with humor. “If I had pizza for lunch, I’m going to prison for sure.”

“I can’t tell you how badly I hope that happens,” he said, seriously.

“You’re only saying that because of the potential for lesbian activity.” He actually laughed, filling her heart with warmth. “Finally. I was beginning to think you were dead inside. Now I know what it takes to make you laugh. Girl on girl jokes.” And she’d gladly tell him a thousand more if it meant she was on the receiving end of that panty melting smile. It enhanced the creases at the corners of his eyes, but took about decade’s worth of seriousness off his handsome face.

Signing the bottom of the form with a flourish, she handed it to him with trepidation and leaned back against her side of the porch. She watched him zero in on her job description.

“You work at Club Kitten?” His brow wrinkled when he looked up. “You really got fired from the Vistancia?” She nodded and he went back to the form. “And your job title is... cocktease waitress?”