he probably wasn’t the type to go free-climbing up one of the highest peaks in the Rockies, without even the thought of a harness. The bartender was one hundred percent nonthreatening. Not like Beck, whose flick of a single eyebrow offered a whole menu of dangerous options. The bartender did have kind eyes, and Allie liked the flannel shirt he wore. He seemed nice. Maybe after Beck, nice was what she needed. Though, her body rebelled at the thought. Her body didn’t want nice.
“I couldn’t,” she said, laughing self-consciously.
“Why not? I bet he won’t think you’re boring. Because you’re not. You will knock his socks off.”
“No, I won’t!” Allie laughed.
“I dare you.” Mira’s red lips slipped into a devious grin. “I double dare you.”
“Mira. Come on. We’re not in third grade.” She didn’t need to prove anything. She knew who she was. But she also knew that the one weekend she’d spent with Beck had kept her head spinning for two months straight. Nothing quite seemed normal.
“No, and hold that thought—my boss wants something.” Mira nodded over to a dark-haired man in his forties who was signaling her. “Probably wants to make sure we have extra bottles of his favorite champagne. I’ll be right back. Meantime… Get on that bartender, would you?”
Allie was tempted. She glanced over at Channing, who was practically rubbing herself on Beck like a cat.
Why the hell not? How did she even know if she didn’t like “nice” until she tried it? Maybe the cure for Beck was to hop into bed with his exact opposite. And she was no coward. She wasn’t going to let Beck run her out of the bar. That would mean he won.
“Well, then.” Allie took a deep breath and slipped off her new glasses, putting them in her pocket. “Looks like I’m going to do this.”
“Atta girl,” Mira called over her shoulder.
BECK SAW ALLIE move from the corner of his eye. He was only half listening to Channing. She loved talking about herself, and while she found the subject endlessly fascinating, Beck most certainly did not. He wanted to head right back to Allie. She looked tired. Worn down. Had he done this? Guilt pricked the back of his neck, feeling like the scratchy edge of a clothing tag he’d forgotten to cut out. If he didn’t know better, Allie looked heartsick and he hated himself. He knew she couldn’t handle casual, but he’d gone in anyway. It was just that…he couldn’t resist her. That was the problem.
If he were truly honest with himself, those two days with Allie in that snowbound lodge had blown his mind. He couldn’t even say that if he had to do it all over again, that he’d do anything differently. Afterward, he’d spent weeks dreaming about her petal-soft skin, and the fact that he’d never in his whole life had a woman so attuned to him, so willing, so completely focused on the moment. Plus, he practically sneezed and she came. Once, twice…and again, and again and again. And none of them faked. That was the amazing part. They were one hundred percent real, just like Allie herself. Most of the women he took to his bed seemed to be only there to star in their own personal porn, acutely aware of which angle looked best for them, as if performing the whole thing for some imaginary audience, but Allie wasn’t like that. Allie was carefree, completely authentic. Because of that, she was the sexiest woman he’d ever met.
But he’d crossed a line he’d promised he’d never cross with her. She’d been one of the few women he’d managed to be friends with and he’d gone and let a little wine and a blizzard get in the way of his good judgment. All he’d been trying to do was minimize the damage afterward. He thought if he made himself scarce it would somehow be easier. Sure, for him, but also for her. She could recover and they could both pretend those two days never happened. Maybe, even, after a little time, they could be friends again. Because what was he going to do? Settle down? Ask her to marry him? Have two kids?
Marriage, kids, a picket fence—those were never going to be in his future. He had too much Beck blood in him. Becks didn’t do families. Or when they did, they did them all wrong.
He’d disappeared for her own good, but it looked like she’d done a lousy job of recovering. And it was all his fault. It didn’t look like she was thriving. Sure, she was as gorgeous as ever, especially with the new hair—yellow and red like a single flame—and those sexy AF librarian glasses. God, they made her look razor sharp and…so delectable. But the faint circles under her eyes told him she wasn’t sleeping, and her too-slim hips told him she wasn’t eating enough. Beck knew that when she was stressed, she didn’t eat. Like during her busy time at work last year when he’d have to practically force-feed her dinner, because she fretted so much about her deadlines that she forgot she needed food to fuel her. Who was making sure she ate now? Her cheekbones were sharper, her waist thinner than usual. She needed to eat, that much he knew. He wanted to scoop her into his arms and take her to the nearest burger joint and watch her gobble down a large order of fries. The instinct to take care of her burned in him.
That was why they’d made such good friends. He wanted to take care of her. But now they’d slipped into bed together and everything had changed. He’d known it would, but he’d crossed the line anyway. He was a fool.
She moved like the model she should’ve been: tall, elegant, lean. Just watching the bar light catch those fire-engine red highlights of hers made him want to put his hands in that messy bun and tug it down, unraveling the silky strands with his fingers. He remembered the feel of her waves in his fingers, soft but strong, and the feel of her thick lips on his. He recalled, too, her sheer lace underwear—and garter belts. She might be a buttoned-up accountant on the outside, but peel off that first layer, and any man was in for a surprise. Her lingerie had matched perfectly—a shock since the blizzard had taken them both by surprise, and they’d ended up stuck at the same lodge by sheer accident. He had wanted to study it and rip it off at the same time. He wondered what she might be wearing beneath that tight cashmere sweater. Red lace? God, he hoped it was red.
His groin tightened at the mere thought.
Stop it, he told himself. He wasn’t crossing that line again. It was best for her. He knew that even if she didn’t yet. He’d plowed through a couple of rebound trysts since then, but he’d had to choke them down, force himself. Liam Beck had never been the kind of guy who had to force himself to oblige a willing woman, and yet, lately, sex had become a chore. In fact, he hadn’t even touched another woman in a full month. Because the more women he took to his bed, the more he realized they were nothing like Allie. He’d been through enough plain cotton thongs and mismatched sports bras and fumbling awkwardness to last a lifetime. They all seemed immature somehow, even though none was more than a couple of years younger than him. Even Channing, with her corset and plunging cleavage, seemed just like a girl playing dress-up.
Allie, on the other hand, was a woman. Complex, grown-up, sexier and infinitely more dangerous. He watched her glide through the crowd, the men and women parting to let her to the bar. She was tall, lithe and graceful as she leaned in to get the bartender’s attention. Not that he needed a signal. He dropped everything and scurried over to get her order, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her. Of course. She was gorgeous, that auburn hair and delicate pale neck. She was a knockout, not that she knew it. Her power over men always came as a surprise to her. Not to Beck.
He frowned as he watched the bartender’s eyes light up as he bathed in her attention. He remembered the feel of being the focus of those clear green eyes, and the feeling, too, of truly being seen. He noticed their conversation dragged on longer than should be right for a quick order of drinks. The man laughed, too, at one of her jokes, he assumed, and then Beck wondered with a shock if she were flirting with him. The dad-bod bartender? The one with the patchy beard? Looked like he couldn’t grow any in on the middle part of his chin. Was she serious? He was maybe a three, and she was most definitely a nine. Was she doing this to get his attention?
If