Promise(30)

STOP.

I don’t stop. I think more. I heard him take a deep breath as though the contact between us latched onto something painful inside of me that he felt as well.

STOP STOP STOP

This is not me. I’m not that girl, the one that turns from lead to liquid at the touch of a man.

I lean forward, tapping my feet faster, and I see Beckett sitting at one of those massive tables covered in notebooks and what looks like letters. I think they are letters because each one has an envelope stapled to the top.

Maybe it’s fan mail. Maybe he’s some secret porn star, and I should be going all fangirl over him.

But, there are other stacks of odd-sized papers without envelopes. They are all set in absurdly perfect stacks at absurdly perfect distances from each other. He’s got some OCD stuff going on.

This place is as organized as a barracks. I thought I would do some cleaning earlier when I put Mr. Fitzgerald in the shower, but there’s nothing to clean. Even the cement floor is sparkling.

He’s got one letter or whatever it is to his right, there's a notebook open in front of him, and he’s drawing or writing in it. The notebooks are larger than the kind you take to school, and I raise my head and squint to try to get a better look.

They aren’t notebooks, after all; they’re sketch books. And, he’s sketching.

I can’t help the little, ironic giggle that comes out.

Maybe because he doesn’t look like the sketching type. If you took a picture of him and regarded it objectively, you would immediately think gym rat or jarhead.

That’s completely unfair, but I know how people decide who you are at first glance. And, that is what you would think, looking at not just his size but his face and the presence of him. The force that surrounds him.

When he speaks to me, there is a protective sort of kindness that comes through. Something about him makes me want to step closer even as something else about him pushes me away.

I look over as Mr. Fitzgerald lets out a groan and adjusts himself in the wine colored lounge chair. The little apartment is as neat as a pin, and I think of the chaos back in my own room at Bruce’s apartment.

I can’t stop tapping, so I cross my legs. I’m pretending there is not an enticing pressure growing between my thighs. When I look back up to see what Beckett is doing, I practically jump off the chair because he’s leaning in the doorway watching me.

“Jesus! You scared the crud out of me.”

He must have a freakin’ stealth mode because I only looked away for a second and damn if he wasn’t here without a sound.

He busts out that gleaming smile and that chipped front tooth catches my eye again.

How can a tooth be sexy? God, I’m a mess.

I slip my hands over my forehead and down the sides of my hair in an attempt to push it behind my ears when little, sharp tugs remind me I’ve got it tangled up in a bun on the top of my head.

He’s smiling bigger now.

He is clearly amused at the way I pulled my own hair because I couldn’t freakin’ remember if it was up or down.

#pathetic

In the awkward moment of silence, my stomach decides to let out a croaking, painful growl. It’s always done that. And usually at the most horrifying moments possible.

I let out a little whimper, closing my eyes for a second and shaking my head.

My arms dart around my waist in an attempt to muffle further embarrassment. I am acutely more aware of my extra muffin’ top that curls over the waistband of my jeans.

He reaches to the top of the door frame with both hands and stretches, pushing his chest forward while he lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a painful sigh. His left eye closes a bit more than his right when he smiles, and I find his face, scars and all, fascinating and stunning.

The vivid white of his t-shirt stretches over his chest and then tightens around his center. I hate that I notice the indentations around what must be the world’s most perfect set of abs. If I can see them through a t-shirt, what must they look like without?

STOP

Visions of Brat Pitt’s body in Fight Club flash through my mind. He’s that guy. Sleek but hard with just enough of everything without being too much. More cut than bulked.

Only, he’s better, bigger, and as far as I know, he’s not a psychotic vision of himself that exists only inside his own head.

My stomach roars again.

“Oh. My. God. I’m so sooooorrrry. I didn’t plan very well.” I look anywhere but at him. “Since your Dad is asleep, maybe I can run down the street? I think I saw a Subway a few blocks down.” This is not really a neighborhood where I would feel all that great about running down the street, but I didn’t think to bring anything else to eat after I left Windfield.