There was no way he could miss the fact that she was suddenly wet enough that she’d soaked the center of her yoga pants. But instead of taking that as a yes, he waited for her to make the next move. She had the power here. She could tell him no and he’d walk away—maybe a little bowlegged, but she had no doubts. He wouldn’t try to bully her into doing what he wanted. He wouldn’t demand his due. He wouldn’t guilt her into fulfilling some role he’d perceived for her. It really was her call—and there was only one move she wanted to make.

Balancing her weight on her palms, she lifted her hips.

“If there’s only a short time,” he said, his low voice as rough as his movements as he yanked her leggings off and then tugged her down to the edge of the bed and shoved her thighs apart, “then I’m going to spend as much time as possible right here.”

And when he finally lowered his head to the apex of her thighs, she had already forgotten about Uncle Buckley, the photos, the headline, and everything except for Nash.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

Nash

The annual pre-Christmas decorating extravaganza lunch at Vito’s Diner with his cousins was a Beckett family tradition—one that their grandma had started. Every year, the day before they went to decorate Gable House for the holidays, she’d gather all of the grandkids at the Harbor City diner for bottomless milkshakes and endless baskets of french fries. This being the first Christmas without Grandma Betty, Nash worried things would be a little quieter. He should have known better.

His cousin Morgan blew out a straw wrapper at Bristol, nailing his little sister in the head. “That is the absolute dumbest idea next to the Last Man Standing bet of theirs.”

“You’re full of shit,” Bristol shot back as she crumpled the paper into a ball and launched it back across the huge, circular corner booth at Griff’s younger sister. “Spending New Year’s in Vegas under an alias is a brilliant idea—especially after you agree that the person who breaks character first has to host the family Fourth of July party.”

“Why would you even want to take on an event you know is cursed?” Dixon asked, barely glancing up from the text messages he was getting from his fiancée, Fiona.

Bristol gasped. “It’s not cursed.”

Technically, probably not. However, in reality, the Beckett Fourth of July gatherings at the family beach house in Ocean Side were always a disaster—very entertaining, but always a disaster.

“Do you remember what happened with the fireworks display?” Nash asked, needling his sister enough that he was able to steal an entire fist full of fries.

“One time.” Bristol held up a single finger for emphasis. “All of the fireworks were duds one single time.”