Pretty Little Mistake

I pinch my eyes shut as the plane dips toward the ground back in New York. Lennon grips my hand despite my protest that I’m fine. When the plane lands and taxis to the gate, I pull my hand out of hers. I can’t have her getting any ideas after this weekend.

It was just sex.

Easy. Simple. No strings.

Sure, it’s on me for crossing that line, but that’s why I’m going to make sure to reestablish it. When it’s time to deplane, I grab my bag from the overhead compartment. Slinging it over my shoulder, I spare Lennon a one-second glance before joining the queue to leave. In that split-second look, I can see her confusion but also her acceptance. That almost pisses me off, which I have to question. Why would I want her to fight me on this?

It’s not like I want a relationship with her.

I try not to grumble as people take their time getting off the plane. I’m desperate to put my feet back on the actual ground.

Hustling through the airport, I refuse to look back to see if Lennon is somewhere behind me. I need to get to my apartment and forget she exists.

Until we both show up for work tomorrow.

Outside, I head for a taxi. I had planned to drive to the airport, but after the grief Lennon gave me, I decided it would ultimately be easiest if I just took a car and got dropped off. I’m almost home free when I hear my name somewhere close behind me.

“Beckham.”

I should keep moving, carry on with my mission to get out of here as fast as possible, but my feet suddenly stop moving.

“Beckham.” Her voice is closer this time. I close my eyes, steeling myself. “Turn around.”

Stupidly, I do. She glowers at me, somehow managing to look intimidating despite being so much shorter than me. “Just because I licked your pussy doesn’t make us friends.”

I wait for the gasp, the rear back, even the slap of her hand against my cheek. It’s the only reason I said it. I want her to hate me. It’s easier that way. At least for me. I’m not allowed to have this—her—so the best thing I can do is push her away. If she hates me, then it means she’ll stay away.

But Lennon likes to surprise me, so she does none of those things.

“And just because your cock was in my mouth doesn’t mean I like you, but we do work together, and we need to get along for this project. That means you need to work with me, not against me. That’s what this whole weekend was about.” She tilts her chin upward slightly, like she’s daring me to contradict her. “We don’t have to be friends or fuck buddies to do that.”

I narrow my eyes on her. “And you think you can do that?”

She smirks at me. “Are you implying that you’re so great in bed that there’s no possible way I can control myself around you?” She looks me up and down. “That’s a lot of faith you have in yourself.”

She’s trying to get under my skin, and it’s working. “You weren’t complaining about those multiple orgasms, were you?”

She shakes her head roughly, pressing a hand to her forehead like she needs to steady herself in order to deal with me. I might be offended if I weren’t so amused.

“All I’m asking is, when we go into work tomorrow, be civil. I love this job, and I won’t let you drive me away from it.”

I rear back. That’s what she thinks? “I’m not trying to get you fired or make you quit.”

“Oh?” she challenges. “Is that so?”

“We have history,” I begin with a sigh, struggling to find the words. “And I’ve let that overshadow things.”

She crosses her arms over her chest in a challenge. “You think?”

“I’ll do my best to be . . . cordial,” I say, settling on the word.

It doesn’t appear at first that my statement is going to appease her, but then with a breath, she lets her arms drop. She gathers her hair back and secures it in a ponytail. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then she pushes around me and steals what was going to be my taxi. A slight smile is plastered on her lips when she looks at me through the window before the car pulls away.

Sure, there’s a whole line of other waiting taxis, but we both know that’s the one I was going to get, and she beat me to it.

That sneaky little devil.

Cheddar starts yowling before I even open the door. When I finally do, he’s standing there with a disgruntled look that seems to say, How dare you leave me? Give me treats.

He walks toward the kitchen, tail twitching.

I follow, because I am nothing more than my cat’s lowly servant. After dropping my bag onto the floor, I open the cabinet that houses his treats. Cheddar, as chunky as he is, hops onto the counter, meowing like he’s afraid I haven’t heard him.

I shake the treats into the palm of my hand and give him one and then another. I put the bag away and scratch him behind the ear, lightly scolding him. “I’ve told you not to jump on the counter.”

He blinks his large, yellowish-green eyes at me. We both know he runs this house and merely lets me live here, so with a sigh I walk away from the fight I know I won’t win.

I hear his feet plop onto the floor a moment later.

After grabbing my bag again, I unpack and sort out my things between what will need dry cleaning and what I can wash myself. When I was first looking for an apartment, one of my must-haves was an in-unit washer and dryer. Sure, I can pay to send my stuff out, but I don’t want to. I guess it’s this stubbornness I have, to remind myself that at my core, in my very DNA, I’m not a Sullivan. I wasn’t born into the family—to the money. I was a kid from foster care who got lucky. I’m still lucky. And I don’t ever want to take that for granted.

That’s why, after I get the laundry going and drop off the rest for dry cleaning, I go to see my dad.

It’s also why, even though I shouldn’t, I tell him more about Lennon—how she lights my world on fire, and how I know if I’m not careful, she’ll burn me with it.

I smell her before I even hear her. Her perfume isn’t that strong of a scent—it’s soft, almost skin-like—but it’s all her, so it’s no surprise when I look up from the photos I’m editing from the Chicago trip to find Lennon standing there.

Her dark hair is pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, a few stray hairs framing her face. The dress she has on is a soft pink color, and dammit if it doesn’t look gorgeous on her. It has a high neck, but that does nothing to stop my treacherous mind from straying to dangerous thoughts. About what it would be like to unzip it from the back, kissing her neck and down her spine as each smooth inch is exposed.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

“Oh.” She startles like she seemingly forgot where she was. “This is for you. Brendan brought everyone coffee,” she says like she doesn’t want me to think she got it for me, “so I said I would deliver it to you.” She crosses my small office, holding out the cup.

I look at the cup, then my desk, and back again when she doesn’t get the message.

She gives an annoyed huff but sets it down on the surface.

“Thanks.” My tone implies I don’t want to be bothered, but she doesn’t seem to get the memo.

“What are you working on?”

With a sigh, I nod my head for her to take a peek at my desktop.

She bends over me, her scent even stronger than before. I inhale because I can’t get enough and, apparently, I’m a masochist.

“Wow, these are looking great.”

She turns her head, smiling at me. A smile shouldn’t make you feel anything, but I . . . I feel something, and that something leads to me grabbing the arms of my chair, fingers digging into the leather.

“Thanks.”

Is that the only word I’m capable of saying?

I was worried about her being the one to act differently after this trip, when in actuality I should’ve been concerned about myself. My pants grow tighter—and Jesus fucking Christ, I’m really getting a boner right now, all because she’s so close. Talk about inconvenient.

I scoot closer to my desk, and she takes that as a signal to step away, just like I had hoped.

“I’m too busy to get together for lunch today,” she says, walking toward the door. Her pencil skirt hugs the curves of her ass. “That’s what I wanted to let you know.”

“Who said I wanted to get lunch with you?”

She rolls her eyes, exhaling a disgruntled breath. “To talk about the project—we still need to brainstorm ideas, or have you already forgotten in that pea-size brain of yours?”

I fucking love her sassy tongue.

I—what?

No, I most certainly do not love one fucking thing about this woman.

“Tomorrow, then?” I suggest.

“It’s a date,” she jokes, sticking her tongue out. She flashes me the finger before she’s gone, a soft peal of laughter carrying behind her.

I bury my head in my hands—and then I bury myself in my work, refusing to let my thoughts stray to Lennon.