Chapter 32

32

Beck

I can't sit still.

It's two hours before the gala starts.

Two hours until I see Sarah again.

Even more hours until I'm alone with her again.

I thought I'd talked her into coming over last night, but she texted a picture of her bedroom around midnight and said that she and Meda were crawling into bed after her mother's night-before-an-event routine, but don't worry, she was pretty sure her skin survived.

It's not weird to have memorized everything about her bedroom, is it? Pale yellow walls, a lavender comforter on what's probably a king-size bed, flowery throw pillows, with the cat curled up on the right side.

She has a bookshelf next to her bed with an eclectic mix of science fiction and romance novels, all with well-worn spines, but not so worn that I couldn't read the titles when I zoomed in on the picture. And the reading lamp suggests the books aren't just for decoration.

There's a painting—impressionist era—of a child in a straw field, and another of Monet's waterlilies. Very similar to the painting I have in my guest room, which feels like serendipity.

Serendipity .

Sarah.

It's impossible to think of her names without smiling.

Also, those fuckers who posted her picture from paint night in the gossip pages this morning speculating that she sleeps in a custom rocket ship bed with posters of David Bowie in Labyrinth and blueprints for how to get through the toughest Pac-Man levels can rot in hell.

Not that there would be anything wrong with her bedroom however she wanted to put it together, but because they're trying to box her in with one part of her personality.

They keep trying to tear her down.

While my popularity rating keeps skyrocketing like I'm not the reason she's in this mess in the first place.

If she'll let me, I'm taking her to Shipwreck and away from all this once tonight's gala is over.

Except she posted another blog this morning.

This one's about the science of gossip, public shamings, and trolls.

My girl is hitting back . She ignored every last troll comment, but she started tweeting back to people who were talking about actual science stuff.

She's fucking blooming .

And I haven't seen her in too many hours.

Not even Tripp's proposition about the Fireballs yesterday can distract me from thinking about her.

I have it bad. But in the best way.

"You never done one of these before?" Dad asks me while he's flipping through the channels. Mom and Ellie are having their hair and makeup done in the guest room by one of my people, but Dad, Wyatt, and I don't have to get ready just yet. Tucker's hanging with Tripp and his kids and mom tonight, which sounds better than what we're about to do, if you ask me.

Except for the part where Sarah's not there.

"One of what?" I ask Dad.

He looks at my bouncing knee. "One of these benefit dinner things."

I force myself to quit fidgeting. "Oh. Yeah. Tons. Remember, I took Mom to an awards gala two years ago in Milan?"

He smiles. "Said she couldn't understand a damn word anybody said, but the eye candy was spectacular."

"Pretty sure the problem's that he's never had a real date before," Wyatt offers.

"Ah. That makes sense."

I don't argue with them, because they're not wrong.

Not entirely, anyway. I've been on dates.

Tons of dates, especially if you count the ones that didn't end with a woman in my bed.

But none where I felt like the fate of my heart rested on it going well.

And none in the last five or so years where I was willing to risk my heart for the woman who will be on my arm.

I trust her.

I trust her .

That's kinda…huge.

"Your mother said her dress is beautiful," Dad tells me.

"She'd be beautiful in a paper bag," I reply.

Or preferably without anything at all.

And there I go getting stiff as a marble rolling pin again.

After a while, we pull our tuxes on, and Mom and Ellie emerge from the guest bedroom looking like dark-haired angels of mischief. Mom's in a soft blue long-sleeve gown that I should probably be able to tell you all the technical terms for, but women's evening wear, shoes, and purses are three places I refuse to go with my fashion lines.

Both of them have their hair curled and pinned with jewels, and Mom looks twenty years younger.

All of us stare at Ellie expectantly until she lifts the hem of her burgundy gown to reveal she's in flats, because even though she barely has a limp anymore after recovering from her accident, we all know heels aren't her wisest choice.

"Good girl," Wyatt says.

She rolls her eyes, but she also smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek, then wipes the lipstick off. "I thought you were wearing your fancy uniform."

"Didn't want to show up your brother when he needs to look good."

"Oh, or drag the Air Force into it if he makes an ass of himself again. Right. Got it."

"Hush," Mom tells her, though I probably deserved that, and it's delivered with a teasing grin that softens the blow. "Everyone makes mistakes. Like you hating Wyatt for twenty years."

"Totally different," she replies with a happy smile.

"Completely," Wyatt agrees, though he'd agree with anything she said if he thought it would get him laid.

Fucker. That's still my sister.

"Are you all ready?" Charlie breezes into my kitchen in a slinky black dress and fancy 'do, phone clutched in her fist. "Our ride's here. Time for Sarah and dinner."

My stomach growls.

My cock might too at the mention of Sarah's name, but thankfully, it's really quiet about it. And I tell it to simmer down, because I'm not getting pictures taken of me sporting a boner on the night I'm supposed to be making the ultimate I'm sorry to Sarah and the world.

My knee's hopping the entire ride. Mom's beaming. Dad's shaking his head and smiling ruefully. Ellie's rambling about how much Tucker would've loved this car, especially with all the buttons next to the seat.

And I'm feeling like a dumbass for using a stretch Hummer to haul around three environmental engineers on our way to meet a fourth.

But it's not like we could take the light-rail.

Okay, technically, we could've. But not without causing a scene.

Made enough scenes this week, and I'd like to put off the air of competent fashion mogul tonight instead of complete and total dumbass.

"Work mode, Ryder," Charlie reminds me quietly when we pull up to the planetarium where she set up this last-minute fundraiser. There's a red carpet rolled out and photographers and video cameras lining the ropes giving us a path inside the glass-and-steel domed building.

"Holy shit," Wyatt mutters. He reaches for his bow tie, but Ellie grabs his hand before he can mess it up.

"Smile for the cameras," she tells him. "They'll love you."

"A few more than there were in Milan, aren't there?" Mom says. She's also shrinking back some.

"It'll be quieter once we're inside," I tell her. "Ellie's right. Just smile. They'll love you."

"Of course they will," Dad agrees.

Charlie climbs down first and steps aside. Wyatt's next, and he waits just outside the door to help Ellie. Cameras flash, and shouts of It's the Ryders! go up in the crowd.

"Are you this popular, or are they all hoping you'll fall on your face?" Dad asks me with a wink and a grin.

"Both," I reply.

I hope I'm not wrong about the reporters inside.

Charlie vetted the media and my team hired extra security for the night. Once we're in the main space for the semi-private dinner, there are exactly four reporters authorized to join us in the building, and since we personally vetted every one of the seventy-five guests—mostly Copper Valley businesspeople, some athletes and musicians, and local politicians, and I bought most of their tickets and just asked them to be here without doing anything other than dressing up for a show and dinner—I know everything will be fine.

I think.

I hope.

This week hasn't exactly been an exercise in smooth sailing, and I know Vaughn's waiting on the final reports out of tonight to decide if the foundation is still on. We invited him, of course, but he couldn't make it.

Or possibly didn't want to be here if I blow it again.

But it feels like the stakes are so much higher than getting to help some kids and reclaim my image.

Because of Sarah.

I hope like hell tonight's not torture for her.

Dad climbs out of the Hummer and helps Mom down, and I can see her blushing all the way down her neck as she smiles at the waiting press.

I follow them all, tug my cuffs down, and flash the smile that landed me my first modeling contract before stepping to Mom's other side and offering her my arm. "Two escorts for the belle of the ball?"

She laughs and tucks her arm into my elbow. "You are such a charmer."

"I learned from the best."

She smiles up at Dad. "I know."

He winks at her, and the six of us head inside past shouted questions about if I've learned my lesson, if Sarah's here, if her parents arranged all this to revive Sunny's career, if I'm paying off the picketers at my factory in Hoboken, how much I'm paying Sarah to date me, how much she's paying me to talk about Persephone, and is it true that I'm selling out to finance a rocket ship to Mars so I can offend all the little green men too?

"Is it always like this?" Mom mutters.

"Usually they're asking him to flash his underwear," Charlie tells her. "So this could be considered an improvement."

"They're just looking for reactions," I assure her as the glass doors part and let us into the cool lobby.

And I do mean cool .

Not only is it ten degrees cooler than the summer evening outside, but it's also just wicked awesome.

The rounded walls are black velvet with stars sprinkled like glitter, and the recessed lights of the ceiling three stories above illuminate an artist's rendition of the solar system in brilliant colors and textured paint that makes you think you could reach up and feel the flames in the glowing sun.

There's a compass designed into the marble floor, and the ladies' shoes click-click-click subtly amidst the murmur of the distinguished guests who could make it on such short notice.

Wouldn't be here at all if there hadn't been a wedding cancelation. The bride's a former Sweetheart though—that's what the Bro Code fan club was called back in the day—and she agreed to let us take over the venue on the stipulation that she get to attend.

Easy enough.

I greet the other last-minute stragglers, then cast my eyes upward again, scanning the cantina lofted on the second floor at the top of a staircase that hugs the curve of the wall.

My daughter will accompany you, but only if she's allowed to make an entrance in style , Sunny said during negotiations for how tonight would go down.

Fuck.

Not even a week ago.

Charlie needs another raise for pulling this off.

Ah, there's Sunny at the top of the metal stairs now, in a butter-colored gown that hugs her trim figure. Judson's at her side, his head twisted to say something to the woman standing behind him.

I can make out a trail of golden fabric, but I can't see Sarah.

That has to be Sarah.

Unless she's backing out.

But because she doesn't want the attention?

Or because I was the dumbass who shouldn't have told her how much I want to kiss her the other night?

I do want to kiss her. And strip her. And make love to her.

And I wanted to be there in her bedroom with her last night, or to have her in mine.

But if she's not ready, I can wait.

I'll wait a fucking century if I have to, because she orders food for me and posts blogs that tell off trolls who don't realize they're being told off, and she sasses bouncers who call me an asshole even when I deserve it, and she has no idea she's gorgeous and strong and a fucking inspiration for just being her .

Judson steps aside, and every thought, every breath, every heartbeat stops.

Complete, full, no question stops .

Swear on my underwear, even the earth stops breathing.

I lock eyes with those gorgeous brown orbs, hidden behind layers of mascara, but still there , looking for reassurance, and fuck me with a hand beater, when her rosy lips tip up in a tentative smile, I'd sell off every last one of my lines and homes and buildings and buy her a first-class ticket to Mars if that's where she wanted to go.

Or Saturn.

Or to the scoop in the Big Dipper, so she could try drinking out of the well of Space.

I swallow hard when Wyatt nudges me. "Think you're supposed to go get her, not gawk at her, dumbass," he mutters with a grin, and my feet start working again.

Mom gives me a little shake from the other side, and I realize I forgot I'm still holding her hand in my elbow. I let her go, and I head toward the stairs to meet my date.

"Hurt her and you'll only wish you were dead," Judson growls as he and Sunny greet me at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'm really falling in love with this growly thing," Sunny murmurs to him. "Will you talk to me like that in bed tonight?"

I try to focus on them, because I'm supposed to smile ruefully and shake their hands and thank them for being here with us tonight, but Sarah's still waiting, and I can't take my eyes off her.

Her thick dark hair is pulled high in a fancy twist, with a few expertly curled ringlets hanging loose. Her gown—she's wrapped in golden lace, all of her curves on display, with two thin straps over her shoulders. Sunny's clearly gotten to her with the makeup, and the dudes up in the International Space Station can probably see her lashes from there. And the rose on her lips—of course it's perfect.

But it's her eyes that have me completely captivated.

Big, dark orbs of apprehension mixed with anticipation.

They're even more uncertain up close.

"Hi," I breathe when I reach her.

"I really hate that your underwear is so comfortable but you refuse to do that kind of magic to the monstrosities known as women's shoes," she says through a fake smile, and even though I know she's probably already in need of some TLC on those poor feet of hers, I can't help smiling even bigger.

"I'll put research and development on it first thing Monday morning." I brush a kiss to her cheek, close to her ear, and whisper, "I missed you."

"I miss me a little bit right now too, but I missed you more. Let's let all these people take your picture so we can go eat. Someone I know has me obsessed with food now."

"I don't think they want my picture," I tell her honestly, which earns me a pursed-lip, straight-laced, don't be ridiculous eyebrow arch that I've watched photographers spend hours coaxing out of female models. "If your feet hurt that bad, I could carry you."

"Don't you dare. This dress is so tight it'd probably split and flash my Slimzies at every last reporter down there."

I tuck her arm into my elbow and lead her down the curved steps. "Why so tight?"

She sighs, eyes on me. "Because I loved it," she confesses. "Apparently I have some of my mother in me after all."

"I have a tailor?—"

"Beck. My mother is Sunny Darling . This dress has been through six tailors. Even my Slimzies has been altered."

I can't stop smiling. "I mentioned I missed you, right?"

"I missed you too," she whispers again with a soft smile, and boom .

My heart implodes with happiness, then builds itself back up again to fist-bump my stomach. "I'm going to ask you out on another date," I inform her, "but this time, I'm not going to start it with a really bad post on social media."

She finally laughs, then grimaces. "Did you hear that? Or was that my imagination?"

"What?"

"I swear I just popped a seam."

"Where?"

"My back."

"You know if I lean back and check it out, there will be a million pictures of me checking out your ass all over the tabloids tomorrow. Not that I don't want to check out your ass—I totally do—but my PR team would kill me, my mother would disown me, and Ellie would die laughing, at which point Wyatt would find my cold lifeless body and bring it back to life to kill me again for killing my sister."

Her nose wrinkles while she laughs again. "You are utterly insane and I really, really missed you."

"You had important work to do. Like that blog post. Which was excellent, by the way. I had Ellie translate the big words for me."

"Beck."

"Okay, okay, I read it and understood every word. Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold."

"I like you more than I like your reputation."

We get to the bottom of the stairs, and I catch Charlie's eye and manage to communicate a request that she check Sarah's back seams while my parents hug her and Judson gives me the we're heading out to the pasture for me to put a bullet in the back of your brain and bury your body amidst the tumbleweeds glare, which has to be for the cameras, because we're at least two thousand miles from the nearest tumbleweeds.

Though definitely not that far from the nearest pastures.

Huh.

"You certainly clean up nice," Sunny tells me with a bright smile. "And what are your intentions for my daughter after this evening's over?"

"Ice cream," I reply without hesitation. "We're going out for ice cream."

We're among the last to arrive—as planned—so I'm not surprised when Charlie gives me the keep moving, slowpoke head jerk. Along with a thumbs-up indicating Sarah's dress is fine.

We pair up and head through the exhibits toward the tilted dome theater. Sarah pauses as we make our way through the winding hallways, sometimes pointing out a particular moon on Jupiter painted on the walls, and sometimes, I'm pretty certain, just to catch her breath, and I have to wonder just how tight that dress actually is, and if she's going to be able to sit in it.

Copper Valley's mayor, who's straggling behind enjoying the artwork, does a double-take and gawks at Sarah.

So do two pro soccer players and the quarterback for Copper Valley's football team when we finally enter the theater.

"They're waiting for me to fall on my face, aren't they?" she whispers as she accepts a flute of champagne from a server.

"Not a chance." I squeeze her hand. "They're wondering how a dumbass like me got the most gorgeous woman in the room."

She snorts softly. "Uh-huh."

"Too bad for them, they don't know I got the smartest, biggest-hearted one with the worst taste in dates too."

That gets a smile, and also causes a guy in a tux to trip over his date's chair as he tries to get to an open seat.

Sarah stops and glances at him. "You okay?"

"Ergalaaargh," he replies as he stares into her eyes.

"You need a paramedic?"

" Sit down , Jeremy," his date hisses. "And stop staring at her boobs." She mutters something about implants as I nudge Sarah along our path toward the front of the room.

Her brow furrows. "Did I miss something?"

"You are so fucking adorable," Ellie declares with a grin.

Which doesn't help Sarah's confused expression.

But my whole family is clearly falling in love.

As they should be.

I gesture her into the front row, greeting familiar faces behind us because that's what I'm supposed to do, before I take my spot beside her. When she glances at the dark curved walls around us, I decide I'm putting a planetarium theater exactly like this one in my place if it'll make her smile again.

Shit.

I don't have it bad. I have it baddest .

And that's before she slips her hand in mine and squeezes when the planetarium show starts with the livestream of Persephone pacing in her enclosure at the zoo. "I forgive you for making me wear Slimzies," she whispers.

"Next time my tailor's in charge of your dress," I whisper back.

"I don't think so," Sunny murmurs on my other side.

Before I can ask if she means there won't be a next time, or she's fighting me over the rights to dress Sarah, the zoo curator steps to the front of the room to welcome us all, to thank the Friends of the Zoo for putting together tonight's event, and to give a special welcome to one very dedicated blogger for bringing Persephone to the attention of so many people around the world.

The lighting in the theater is low so that we can all see the video of Persephone pacing in her habitat, but I can easily make out Sarah's cheeks light up with that unique blush.

She gets a round of applause so long that she starts shifting and mutters something about her damn dress.

The curator doesn't mention her parents. Or me. Or Charlie, who basically ran the Friends of the Zoo this week to pull this all together.

Which is how it's supposed to be, because tonight's not about me , or Charlie—who clearly never sleeps—or about anything other than Persephone, and Sarah.

When the applause dies down—seriously, it reminds me of back in the day when the guys and I would finish a concert and there were demands for an encore—the curator smiles at Sarah once more. "And we hope we'll be seeing many, many more of your very enlightening videos. Solo, I mean. Without the aid of a camera hog."

Everyone chuckles, Sarah smiles and blushes harder and hides it behind a sip of champagne.

We're treated to a twenty-minute show about the big bang theory—sung to rock music, because dude , that's way more awesome than somebody talking—and then we're led into a conference space that's set up for a formal sit-down dinner.

We take our time getting to our seats, mostly because everyone in the room wants to talk to Sarah.

About Persephone. Or something on her blog. Or about how gorgeous she looks tonight, which is the only thing she wrinkles her nose at.

Like she doesn't believe it.

I'm starting to get pissed.

Not because she doesn't believe she's pretty, but because nobody ever noticed before she slathered on the makeup and shimmied into Slimzies.

We finally make it to our table and I pull out her chair for her.

"No," she says suddenly, turning to me with a spark of mischief in her eyes that once again robs me of the ability to breathe.

It takes me a minute to find my voice. "No, what?"

"No, I don't care how tight this dress is, you may not have my single chocolate truffle for dessert."

"Arm-wrestle you for it," I reply instinctively.

" Beckett ," my mom hisses from across the table.

I snap straight and turn to her, because I could be seventy-eight and that tone would still scare the shit out of me. "Ma'am?"

"How many of these fancy dinners have you been to and you still put your elbows on the table and offer to arm-wrestle ladies for their desserts?"

"To be fair, Michelle, we raised him," Dad says.

While leaning his elbows on the table.

And eyeing Mom's—what the fuck ?

He's eyeing Mom's dessert.

"Why's there only a single truffle for dessert?" I ask.

"I'll scalp your truffles if you don't quit staring at my daughter's chest," Judson growls.

"Excuse you, he was looking at her eyes ," my mom snaps.

Judson blinks once, then twice, then slinks back in his chair. "Begging pardon, ma'am."

"We should come to these things more often," Ellie says to Wyatt, who chokes on his water and vehemently shakes his head no .

Sarah slides me a grin.

I grin back.

And slide my hand under the table to squeeze her thigh, which I can't do very well, because holy shit that dress is really fucking tight.

"Hands to yourself, Beckett," my mother says.

I point to Wyatt, who's undoubtedly touching Ellie under the table.

"They're engaged," Mom replies primly.

"Don't even think about proposing just to touch me," Sarah says under her breath.

My mind instantly snaps to the reminder that I need to prove myself in the bedroom, and suddenly, I wish I'd planned this whole week better.

Sarah pats me on the thigh under the table. "But you can think about that," she adds softly.

My mom beams at her.

Even though, yes, Sarah's touching me under the table.

And I'm certain my mom knows it.

Actually, I'm certain that's why my mom is beaming at her.

Gotta love moms and their double standards. Especially since it means I get to hold Sarah's hand while she inches it up my thigh.

"Serendipity," Sunny says sweetly to Sarah, "while he cleans up nicely, you don't know where his leg has been."

"The lady has a point," my dad agrees.

" Christopher ," my mom hisses.

Ellie and Wyatt snicker some more, and as the servers roll into the room with domed dinner plates, I just grin.

Because this is as normal as normal gets. And when I need these people to have my back, they're right there.

And Sarah's drawing circles on my leg with her thumb, and yeah.

This moment?

With my family and the woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with, no matter what I need to do to win her over?

This moment is fucking perfect.