Pretty Little Mistake
: Chapter 5

“Can you slow down?” My legs struggle to keep up with Beckham’s stride. I’m not that short, at five foot six, but he’s still nearly a whole foot taller, and his imposing presence sends even New Yorkers scrambling out of his way. Which is a true feat, since New Yorkers are not easily scared.

“Hurry up,” he gripes, heading for the coffee shop on the next corner. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

If I took my heels off, I’d be able to go faster, but I’m not that desperate. Besides, the only way I’m removing one is if it’s to bludgeon him in the head with it. It takes a lot to rile me up, but Beckham—excuse me, Sulli—has always known which buttons to push.

He comes to a stop at the crosswalk, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Why are you tapping your foot? Is your suit too tight? Is it cutting off blood circulation to your brain?”

“My circulation is just fine, honeybee.” His eyes widen the moment the old pet name passes through his lips, and for a moment I’m taken back to summers at the cape, running barefoot through the grass, the smell of a bonfire crackling through the air. Beckham gave me the name the summer I was fourteen, because he said I reminded him of honeybees—I was always looking for something sweet, but I could stab you if you looked at me wrong.

Clearing his throat, he ignores me by looking over the top of my head as if I’m so insignificant to him that I don’t even deserve to have something as basic as eye contact.

Whatever. I’m not going to let his hot-and-cold attitude get to me. Before getting this job, I hadn’t seen him in years, and I’m just fine pretending our paths will never cross again.

The crosswalk signals that it’s our turn, and like he can’t help himself, his fingers gingerly cup my elbow to guide me along. A part of me wants to rip my arm from his hold, but for some reason I don’t. He doesn’t release his grip on me until we’re on the other side of the street.

As he holds open the door to the coffee shop, he pauses like he’s going to let me enter first but then seems to change his mind and almost bodychecks me in an attempt to get inside before I do. So much for manners.

There’s a line, which I promptly join by skirting past him, because if I’m expected to get through this lunch meeting with Beckham, then I need caffeine.

He gets in line as well, but not behind me. Oh no, the prick steps up right beside me, his arm brushing mine. Warmth radiates from him, my body flushing from his proximity.

“What are you doing?”

He arches a dark brow at me, eyes narrowed. “Standing in line.”

“The line continues behind me.” I point over my shoulder in case he’s too dense to understand where behind is.

“We’re here together, therefore we order together.”

“We’re not together,” I snap, moving up in line and a bit to my left so that his arm won’t brush mine, but the jerk just closes that little bit of distance I put between us.

“I didn’t say we were together,” he says slowly, looking over the menu despite the fact that I’m almost positive he already knows what he wants. “I said we were here together. Meaning, this is a working lunch.” He angles his chin down in my direction, his icy-blue eyes gluing me in place. At one point in time, light and playfulness danced in those eyes, but it looks as if true happiness hasn’t been in his gaze for a long time. “Doesn’t it make the most sense that we’d order together?”

He has a point, and if it were anyone else, I never would’ve said anything to begin with. But this is Beckham of all people. I know I need to remain professional, but it feels impossible with our history.

Finally, it’s our turn to order, and he waves his long fingers in a gesture that shouldn’t come across as elegant but does.

I order an iced espresso and an avocado toast. He snickers at that, and I swear I hear him mutter “Predictable” under his breath. I would love nothing more than to stomp on his foot or elbow him in the gut, but I don’t.

He gives the barista his order of an americano and a roasted turkey sandwich. Before he can pass his card across, I’m already giving her mine instead.

No way in hell am I letting him pay for my food and drink. I have no doubt he’d find some way to make me feel indebted to him, and I’m not in the mood to play that game.

“I was paying for it,” he says in a gruff voice, his mouth lowered toward my ear as we move out of the way and go in search of a table.

“Well, I did pay for it.”

He lets out a burst of grudging laughter, eyes widening in surprise, like he didn’t mean to laugh.

After sitting down at one of the few empty tables, I cross my feet at the ankles.

I will not let this man ruffle me. Getting under my skin is clearly what he wants, and I can’t give him that satisfaction.

Beckham drops into the chair across from me, tugging on the sleeves of his dress shirt to roll them up slightly. We’re the only two people who seem to dress up at the magazine. I guess some habits are hard to break.

His dark hair curls loosely against his forehead, the stubble on his cheeks well groomed. The subtle spice of his cologne reaches me from across the table. I loathe the fact that I like the scent. It’s strong. Manly. Entirely too tempting and suits him all too well.

Beckham Sullivan is a gorgeous specimen of a man—but he’s not the man for me.

He smooths his fingers through his hair and finally looks at me. I wish I knew what he is thinking. This has to be weird for him too. I don’t think either one of us ever expected to see each other again.

There were times initially, in my heartbroken state, when I wondered what had happened to him. Why he took my virginity and ran—not just from me, but from his friendship with my brother and all the ties we shared—but after a while I stopped caring.

But now that I’m faced with him again, I’m wondering the same thing. I’m older now, my heart has healed, and I can acknowledge that the whole thing is rather weird. The Beckham I knew then wouldn’t have taken my virginity for sport, which is what it felt like for so long, so what happened?

I could ask him, but somehow, I know I won’t get a straight answer, and we need to keep things professional anyway, which means focusing on work.

Beckham laces his fingers together, then lays them on the table in front of him.

“Do you have any ideas for this project?”

His lips twitch slightly. “Not really. It’s difficult with no real parameters.”

I know what he means: with no direction other than “something unique that will make people stop and take a look at the magazine,” there are endless ways we could do this.

My name is called, and I move to grab our order, but Beckham is already up and going to get it.

Fine, if he’s willing to get it, then so be it. I make myself comfortable in the chair once more, waiting for the infuriating man of my past to return.

He walks back with a suspicious lack of items.

He sets down one cup and one wrapped sandwich, arching that annoying brow at me.

He doesn’t say a word as he pulls out his chair, slipping into it. After a moment, he finally deems me worthy of his time. “Are you not going to get yours?”

Well played, asshole.

With a sigh, I get up and collect my stuff. For a moment I allow myself to imagine showering him in my coffee. I wouldn’t do it, but man is it fun to think about.

After setting my stuff down on the table gently, so I don’t betray any sort of irritation, I smooth my skirt beneath me and take my seat.

Beckham sips his coffee. Lips set in a straight line, he watches me, and I see the hint of a satisfied grin in his gaze, one he won’t betray by actually showing it.

“We should brainstorm,” I say, reminding him why we’re together.

“We should.”

I wait for him to pull out his laptop, or a notebook and pen, if that’s more his speed, but he does nothing. I know what he’s doing, trying to get me to cower beneath him like some lowly little servant, but I won’t. I’m not the same girl he knew, just like he’s not the same boy I knew.

Instead, I start speaking out loud. If he doesn’t want any notes, that’s fine; I can write down whatever we discuss later.

“We need something interesting, eye catching, something that will gain buzz and make people want to pick up the magazine.” Even though Real Point has an online edition, Jaci has made it abundantly clear that she wants to push print editions, to get people away from electronics. But in today’s bustling world, that’s a hard ask. “Something that could potentially go viral, and not in the way some things do these days where it gets a lot of views for one day.”

Beckham brushes his fingers over his lips, perhaps trying to get rid of any lingering crumbs from his sandwich, though there aren’t any that I can see.

He offers no words, and I want nothing more than to huff in exasperation, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I pick up my toast and take a bite. If he has nothing else to offer, then I’ll just enjoy my lunch and coffee, all while pretending that His Highness isn’t sitting across from me.

After a while, he says, “All you’ve done is state the obvious, not give any good ideas.”

As I gather up my trash, I steadfastly ignore him, even though he tries to keep me glued to my chair with his icy stare.

When I stand, I glower right back at him. “This lunch was . . . enlightening.”

And with that, I leave him behind in the coffee shop, though I can feel his presence hovering mere feet behind me the entire walk back to the office.

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