“I have an eight-figure investment burning cash until it’s rezoned, and you don’t see me sprinting onto the plane. Though perhaps I should bring you with me to the hearing. No doubt you could charm that prick Whelan and his zoning committee.”
I stiffen. “Who?”
“Zachary Whelan. The head of the zoning commission.”
There’s not enough air in the room, and I pull out of his arms to get a glass of water from the bathroom.
Once I’ve drained it, I turn back to him.
“Harrison… I know Zach Whelan.”
“From what?”
“He was a friend of Kian’s growing up.”
He crosses to me, folding me in his arms once more. My skin prickles with awareness even though my head is a million miles away.
“Then youcancharm him.” He curses. “Dammit, we should’ve figured this out sooner—”
“It’s better I don’t see him. And don’t mention me to him.”
“Tell me you didn’t break his heart.” Harrison smirks. “If I learn you slept with him, I’m going to have to kill the poor asshole, and then I’ll never get my permit.”
“I’m serious.” My fingers dig into his muscled arms, and he frowns.
I don’t think he’s going to let it go, but finally he relents. “Well, we both have reasons to get back, but surely they can wait long enough for me to take you in the shower.” Harrison’s mouth descends to my neck. His teeth and lips send sparks along my nerve endings, making my body pull tight in arousal and distract from the dark thoughts in my head.
“Surely.”
* * *
“What’s in the bag? Weed?” Beck asks when I arrive that afternoon, a paper bag in my arms.
He peers in the top, eyebrows lifting. “Ice cream. Solid.”
We take it to the living room, Beck grabbing two spoons from the kitchen on the way.
“You gonna paint my fingernails too?” he quips, sinking onto the couch.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He peels off the top of the carton of fudge marshmallow and takes a bite. His low groan is half satisfaction, half longing. “That’s good.”
I turn on the TV and navigate to the channel I’ve memorized since spending more time with Harrison.
“You want to watch soccer?” he scoffs. “You’re a terrible wingwoman.”
I say nothing, wait for play to end, and the cameras to zoom in on one of the players at the end of a sequence.
Beck shifts forward, frowning. “Yeah. Okay, sure.” He reaches for another bite of ice cream. “Half a pint of this, I’ll be nonverbal.”
I take the carton from him and scoop a bite of my own. The rich flavors hit my tongue, and I groan.
Beck cuts a look at the screen, a low rumble of laughter escaping his chest. “Shit. That the kid from the boat?”
Ash brings the ball up the field, his expression tight with intensity.
“You have two years on him. Stop pretending it’s a generation.”