He presses his palm into the window by my head. Our thighs press against one another, no other parts of our bodies touching. “I’m not letting the woman who is about to be my fiancée fly coach when I own a private jet.”
“Plenty of people fly it every day.”
He grinds his teeth, fire in his eyes. “Plenty of people aren’t you.”
Fuck.
No.
The way Beck looks at me right now makes me want to agree to anything he says. There’s concern, but also determination. I know without a shadow of a doubt that this is a battle I won’t win. It doesn’t matter anyway. Right now what I want to battle is my heart, because it liked him saying “plenty of people aren’t you” a little too much.
“Go pack, Margo.”
This close to him, I marvel at how his porcelain skin doesn’t have a trace of any facial hair. I wonder if he freshly shaved this morning, or perhaps it doesn’t show well because he has blond hair. In my head, I’m already creating a mental list of the things I need to pack and what I’ll leave behind for my friends. But I don’t want him to know that. Pushing his buttons, getting him riled up and seeing that muscle in his jaw tick is much more fun.
“No.”
He smacks the glass next to my head, making me jump. Tearing himself away from me, he tosses his door open like it’s the thing that’s pissed him off. I don’t have time to even gather my thoughts before he’s ripping my car door open. His large hands catch me underneath my armpits, saving me from falling flat on my ass in front of both him and Ezra.
Even after I gain my footing Beck leaves one of his hands on me. It trails down a few inches until he’s holding me by the bicep. I try to yank it free, but his fingers keep their firm grasp.
“Let go,” I demand.
Instead of listening to me, he tightens his fingers, pulling me in the direction of my apartment building. “After you,” he growls, completely calm and collected no matter how many times I try to pull my arm from him.
Finally, I yank hard enough to get my arm free. But looking at him from the corner of my eye, noting the smug look on his face, I wonder if he let go because he didn’t want to deal with me fussing a second longer.
“You’re not coming with me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but then you started acting like a child, so now I’ll be coming in and helping you pack so you’ll be ready to catch a flight. Tomorrow.”
His tone makes it obvious there’s no reason for me to argue, but it doesn’t stop me from trying one last time.
“You can’t make me,” I bite.
He bites his lip, quirking an eyebrow at me. “Margo, I can promise that you’re coming with me tomorrow one way or another. If it means I have to throw you over my shoulder to get you to New York, then I’ll do it. Even if you’re kicking and screaming.”
The two of us stare at one another, our chests heaving as we both refuse to back down. Finally, I break eye contact, my eyes searching for Ezra. I’m hoping that I’ve made a quick friend in him and that he’ll back me up, but I’m out of luck. He’s got his phone to his ear with a wide smile as he talks to somebody on the other line.
Letting out a loud groan, I stomp toward my apartment. I don’t have to turn around to know Beck is hot on my heels. His angry stare is like a brand on my neck, scorching and making me more annoyed with each step closer to my front door.
“I’m tired of you bossing me around,” I mumble, reaching into my pocket for my keys.
“Get used to it,” he clips.
Margo isn’t shy about making her feelings known about the unexpected departure tomorrow. I’ve been sitting on the edge of her bed, taking in the mess that is her room, as she loudly packs her bags. She can’t do anything without adding some theatrics to it.
Her bathroom door slaps the wall as she flings it open, a large toiletry bag in her hand.
Even when she tosses the bag in her open suitcase, it’s thrown harder than necessary. She walks to her closet, flicking through the clothes on the hangers. The hangers make loud scraping noises on the rod as she looks through them, occasionally pulling clothes off the hanger and tossing them onto the bed.
“You know packing all of this isn’t necessary,” I note, picking up a sweater that seems to have seen better days. I hold it by the collar, noting the fraying threads scattered throughout the worn knitting.
Margo turns around, giving me a dirty look. I’d never tell her this, but the look is far more endearing than it is intimidating. “I need clothes to wear.”
I pull at one of the loose threads of the sweater. “We’ll go shopping in New York. You can’t wear this to work.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t have money to buy anything at any of those fancy stores in New York.”
Throwing the old sweater on the bed, I take a deep breath. My fingers pinch the bridge of my nose as I think about what I want to say without offending her. I have to tread lightly. I know Margo enough to know she’ll put up a fight if I tell her I’ll buy the clothes for her, even though I have more money than I know what to do with. I’m not going to allow her to show up to work in clothes that are obviously old, the fabric now more itchy than it is comfortable. “I’ll buy the clothes, Margo. I have accounts with multiple stores where you’ll find what you need. Just please make it better than…that.” I point toward the discarded sweater.
“I’m not your little project to take pity on and dress up all nicely to impress whoever you want me to impress.”
My phone has already rung countless times during the twenty minutes I’ve sat here as she’s determined what to pack. My patience is wearing very thin. Her comment is just about sending me over the edge of what I can handle. I don’t see the point in her taking the time to pack some of these things when she’ll never wear them because I’ll just buy her all new stuff. It seems pointless. Standing up, I close the distance until I’m backing her into her tiny closet. She attempts to run away from me until her back is hitting her clothes. I stare down my nose at her, impressed by the defiant look in her eyes. “You’re not, and never will be, my little project. I didn’t mean it that way and you know that. You’d just rather argue than allow me to do one thing for you.”
She opens her mouth to do what I’m learning she does best—argue—but I put my palm over her lips before she can do so. “So, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to pack the things you need. The things I can’t buy you when we get to Manhattan. Sentimental shit or whatever. You can leave whatever you want here, to give to your friends or keep for whenever you visit. Truthfully, I don’t give a fuck what you do with it. And then we’re going to leave here. We have a few places we need to be today; you can tell your friends you’ll have a goodbye dinner with them or fuck, even breakfast with them tomorrow, and then we’re getting on the jet tomorrow afternoon. Understood?”
I feel her angry sigh against my palm. Her breath is hot against my skin. My mind can’t help but wonder what her breath would feel up against far more intimate parts of me. My cock stirs in my suit pants at the idea. I remove my palm from her lips. “And for the record, you could wear a paper bag and impress anyone.”