After another two rounds of soul-shattering sex, I drag Killian out of bed for some fresh air. It’s either that or accept the fact I won’t be able to walk tomorrow—not ideal given I have the biggest interview of my life; something I might have spent years manifesting, but I’ve barely even thought about since we got here.
Thomson and Sterling flank our backs as we stroll through the streets of San Francisco. Sterling looks pissed for some reason, like he’s swallowed a wasp. Thomson, on the other hand, is positively beaming as his eyes dart knowingly between Killian and me. Thomson has made no secret that he’d like his boss to settle down and find some happiness. So would I, but for now, I refuse to analyse this thing between us, and instead focus on enjoying every second of Killian’s attention.
The man is an animal in the bedroom. I knew he would be. His need to take control of my body, my pleasure, is nothing short of primal. Moody, broody, broken Killian, was my favourite Beckett brother long before I discovered what he could do with his mouth, fingers, and every other part of him. I suspect I’m in more danger than I’ve ever been, and not from some crazed stalker—from myself. It would be so easy to fall head over heels in love with a man like him. A man who’s so obviously broken and in need of fixing. I’m innately drawn to the complicated ones, and Killian is not only deeply mysterious, dark, and gifted—he also looks like he was sculpted in the form of a Roman God.
‘You okay?’ He leans in, and his mouth brushes over my ear.
An involuntary shiver slides over my spine. ‘Great, thanks. You?’
He offers a single nod, but his eyes remain focused in front, scanning everything and everyone for danger.
The winter sun hangs low over the bay, casting long shadows across Pier 39’s wooden planks. To our left, Alcatraz rises from the water like something from a gothic novel, all harsh edges and dark promises against the honey-gold sky. The air is crisp but not cold, thick with the scent of fresh sourdough mixing with salt spray and coffee from the waterfront cafes. I pull my jacket tighter around me. The outfit I picked out—a white blouse, denim skirt and tan knee-high Louboutin’s—is cute, but not practical. If Killian’s darting glances are anything to go by, it’s worth it.
Sea lions bark in the distance, their raucous chorus competing with the cry of circling gulls and the gentle clinking of yacht rigging. A street performer’s guitar carries on the breeze, and for a moment, it feels almost normal. Like we’re just another couple enjoying the sunset.
I take my phone out and snap a few photos.
‘Don’t even think about putting them on social media,’ he says darkly.
I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence.’ I flip the camera so it’s pointing at us and hold it high in the air.
He immediately steps back. ‘I don’t do photos. And I definitely don’t do selfies.’
‘Please, for me?’ I step towards him again. He sighs but doesn’t move away.
‘Smile.’ I give him a perfunctory nudge in the ribs and while he doesn’t exactly smile, he loses the grimace. I snap three quick pictures. Thomson sniggers from behind.
I push my phone back into my jacket pocket and we resume our strolling. ‘It’s easy to forget everything when we’re half a world away, isn’t it?’ Tourists mill around us, also snapping photos of the bridge peeking through the late afternoon haze. I soak it all up, especially the sensation of Killian’s hand which has returned to my lower back, guiding me through the crowd.
‘I never forget anything,’ Killian admits. ‘Photographic memory.’ He taps the side of his head.
I’m not surprised. His intelligence has always been obvious. He listens hard, speaks rarely, although he seems to have a lot more to say around me lately. ‘That must be really helpful.’
‘It can be.’ He shrugs. ‘Sometimes it can be torture. Like when I had to go through your relationship history, including photos of every man who ever touched you.’ He growls and goosebumps pepper my skin.
I love his possessiveness.
Love how he hates the idea of any other man touching me, because I detest the idea of him with another woman. My mind wanders to Sarah, the dead girlfriend. He hasn’t so much as referenced her since that night in St. Barths and, even though curiosity is eating me alive, I wouldn’t dream of bringing her up.
‘There’s only one man I want to touch me.’ I give him an appreciative look from my peripheral. ‘And he happens to be my moody, broody bodyguard.’
‘I’m not moody or broody.’ He scoffs. ‘I’m serious. One of us has to be.’
‘Given half the chance, I could get serious.’ I’m dancing around the edges of a subject I swore I wouldn’t bring up—at least until we get back to Dublin.
‘You don’t know what you’re asking for, Avery.’ His words are weighted with warning.
‘I know what serious means, Killian.’ I scowl. ‘And the funny thing is, I have a doctorate in psychology, yet some people will never take me seriously, because of my career choices, but I won’t always be a glamour model.’
He halts abruptly, his head whipping round to face me. ‘You won’t?’ The full force of his focus blisters my skin.
I glance down pointedly at my boobs, which are hidden beneath a tan leather jacket. ‘The likelihood of magazines wanting to pay me for shots of these bad boys in ten years’ time is slim to none.’
His expression falters slightly, but he rapidly rearranges his features. We resume our stroll towards the back of the pier, leaving the main bustle of tourists behind us. The Golden Gate Bridge stretches across the horizon like a ribbon of burnished copper in the late afternoon sun, its towers piercing the whispers of fog that roll in from the Pacific.
‘But I’m okay with that…’ I continue. ‘Glamour modelling was only ever meant to be a stepping stone, anyway.’ I shrug.
Killian slows to a stop again, this time beside some wooden railings. ‘Was it? I thought you loved it.’ He turns his entire body into mine so we’re face to face, toe to toe, hip to hip—an unusual break in his constant surveillance of our surroundings.
‘I love the opportunities it affords; travel, new locations, parties, and, of course, it pays well.’ I shrug. ‘But it’s exhausting. And to be honest, at some point, I’d like to be taken more seriously, which is why we’re here.’
‘ELEGANCE?’ There’s a question in his tone.
‘Yes. ELEGANCE isn’t just another magazine shoot. It’s the difference between being seen as a glamour model and being taken seriously in fashion. It’s exclusive, prestigious. The kind of models who shoot for ELEGANCE become the face of Chanel and Dior. One editorial could change everything for me. Open doors that have been closed because of my past. It’s my chance to be known for more than just looking good in lingerie.’
Killian’s dark eyes narrow. ‘You want to transition out of glamour?’
‘Yes.’ Why is he looking at me like I’ve got two heads? ‘Is that so hard to believe?’
‘If you could do any type of modelling, what would you pick?’ His voice is strained, raspy, like he’s asking me something so much more significant, but I have no idea what.
‘I thought I was the one who asked the questions around here? Speaking of which, you owe me two from yesterday.’ I lean closer so our chests are touching.
‘Answer the question, and I’ll give you four back today.’ An intensity blazes in his pupils.
‘Deal.’ I don’t even have to pause to think about it. I know what I want. ‘If I’m going to continue modelling, and that’s a big if, I’d choose Bridal couture.’
Kilian coughs, maybe to mask his surprise.
I lean against the railing, watching a seagull dive towards the water. ‘When my dad left, my mother threw herself into wedding planning. Turned her heartbreak into a thriving business. The house was filled with bridal magazines. I’d spend hours flicking through them, watching these ethereal women floating down aisles in clouds of silk and lace. They looked… regal. Untouchable. Pure. The opposite of everything people assume about me now.’ I pull a face. ‘Vera Wang doesn’t hire glamour models. Neither does Elie Saab or Oscar de la Renta. But if I could get into ELEGANCE? If I could make that transition? Those doors might finally open. Plus, I’d like to merge my modelling career with something more momentous. Maybe a column or a “Dear Avery” advice page or something. I want to do something meaningful.’
His eyebrows rocket upwards—the most surprise he’s shown since I’ve known him.
Apparently I’ve genuinely caught him off guard. For once, that laser-focused gaze actually wavers, like he’s recalculating everything he thought he knew about me.
‘Do you want to get married?’ He blurts, rubbing his thumb over his jawline.
‘Is that a proposal?’ Laughter bursts from my lips. ‘Because if it is, you’d want to make a bit more of an effort.’
‘No, it was categorically not a proposal.’ He deadpans. ‘I was curious about the obsession with the wedding dresses—other than the ethereal part.’
‘Relax.’ I grip the lapels of his suit jacket and pull him closer to me. ‘I was fucking with you. Thankfully, it isn’t the eighteen hundreds. One night together doesn’t mean you’re obliged to make an honest woman out of me. I’m not sure I even believe in the concept of marriage.’
‘Why?’ He continues to stare at me like I’m a riddle he can’t quite work out.
‘That’s two questions you’ve asked me. If you want me to answer, I’m going to need five back.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ he huffs, but his hand reaches up to my hair, tenderly smoothing it back from my face.
‘Take it or leave it.’ I feign nonchalance, but inside my heart is beating double quick. I’m stupidly flattered he’s so interested in more than just my body.
‘I’ll take it.’ He nods solemnly. ‘Why don’t you believe in marriage?’
‘You’ve seen my files. My father ran off with his PA when I was a kid. Broke my mother’s heart. I mean, look at her now, she’s in flying form and she looks amazing, but yet she’s never been able to commit to a man properly again after that. It’s one thing dating younger men and cruising around with the MILF number plate, but she never had another serious relationship. She never put herself in line to get hurt again. And that speaks volumes to me.’
‘What’s your relationship with your father like?’ Killian probes.
I arch an eyebrow at him.
‘I’ll give you another question back.’
‘A fair exchange is no robbery, I suppose.’ It’s a battle to keep my lips from lifting into a grin. I’m dancing inside. Actually dancing. It’s one type of intimacy to have sex, but this conversation is next level. And for once, it’s him initiating the deep and meaningful discussions.
‘You overheard our phone call. Our relationship is stilted. He tries. He paid for my private schooling. When I was a child, he made a point of sending me cards and presents at Christmas and on my birthday. He calls every few weeks to check in. It’s kind of awkward.’
‘I can’t imagine you feeling awkward around anyone. You’re the most confident woman I’ve ever met,’ Killian muses.
‘He struggles with my… occupation.’ I confess. ‘You know I have a stepbrother, Sebastian. I’m sure you came across him in my files. My father seems to have a better relationship with him than me. Maybe it’s the fact that he raised him, maybe because he’s a guy he can relate to him more. I don’t know. I’ve never particularly bonded with him. Tessa tried to make an effort with me over the years, but I just can’t have any type of relationship with her. It feels disloyal to my mother. Tessa knew Dad was married. She’d met my mother at loads of corporate functions and still had no problem sleeping with her husband.’ I struggle to articulate my feelings towards my stepfamily.
‘You have trust issues.’ Killian announces with a hint of surprise in his tone.
‘I do not!’ My quick denial speaks volumes.
‘That’s why you picked psychology.’ Mirth lights his eyes. ‘So you’d have a head start reading people. Analysing them. It’s why you project this brazen confidence, which is a self-defence mechanism, by the way.’
My mouth drops open. ‘Hey!’ I poke a finger into his rock solid pec. He’s not entirely wrong. ‘Leave the psychoanalysing to the person who’s qualified. Speaking of which, it’s my turn to ask the questions.’
‘Fine. But can we go for a coffee or something?’ He glances around. ‘We’re quite exposed here.’
‘No, we can’t go for coffee, but we can go for a cocktail.’ I fall into step beside him, hoping he’ll put his hand on my lower back again.
He doesn’t.
But he does put a protective arm around my shoulder. I lean into his warmth and inhale his scent. ‘Fine, but let’s find somewhere quiet where we can relax.’
Thomson fires me a knowing wink from his position five feet away and mouths the words future Mrs Beckett.
I shake my head and grin. I’m still not sold on the marriage idea, but I am totally sold on Killian Beckett.
