Redeem Me (Beckett Brothers #2)

10. Ivy

Chapter Ten

IVY

July

In the three weeks I’ve been living with Caelon Beckett, I’ve learnt three things about him. One, he’s a workaholic. He spends every night in his office while I sit on his insanely comfortable couch reading or binge-watching Love Island. Two, he is ridiculously good with his children when he does emerge from his office. Three, he gets up at the crack of dawn to work out. That’s how he maintains his mouth-watering physique.

Perving on my hot new boss in his home gym is my favourite morning pastime, closely followed by googling the ever-living shit out of him.

I’ve got into a routine of waking before six and this morning is no different. The summer sun leaks in through the cracks on either side of the curtains. I pull the bed covers back and creep down to the kitchen to make coffee before the kids wake up, and before Liz comes in to make breakfast for everyone.

As I creep down the thick-carpeted stairs, bare foot, the faint sound of the radio radiates from the gym at the far end of the house. Feeling like the Pink Panther, I follow the noise along the corridor until I reach the gym. The laundry room is next door, so if I get busted I can pretend that’s where I’m heading. So far, Caelon’s always been too engrossed in his weights to notice me. I’m hoping this morning is no different.

I peep inside, hoping to steal a glimpse of my hot boss, but it’s empty. I must have missed him.

Caelon has been mostly avoiding me. We’ve shared a few mealtimes, which would have been awkward if it weren’t for Orla’s incessant stream of conversation. Sometimes I think I feel the weight of his stare, but every time I dare to look up, he whips his eyes away.

The tension is palpable. I wish he’d just chill out for a bit. He must have realised by now it’s not like I’m going to leap on him. Even if I fantasise about doing precisely that each night in bed, knowing he’s only along the corridor from me. I’m only human, and he is spank-bank perfection personified. Throw in the tortured edge, and the big soulless eyes, and he’s my own personal type of kryptonite.

There are two pictures of his late wife in the house; a family photo on the mantelpiece in the sitting room and a wedding photo in the grand drawing room. Isabella Beckett was a beautiful woman. It’s easy to see where the kids get their stunning looks. Both their mother and father could front a Hugo Boss modelling campaign. Which, given I’m forced to live with their widowed dad, isn’t helpful for my ovaries or my unruly hormones. Especially when I know what his hands are capable of. I’ve tried my best not to imagine the rest of him.

Tried.

I’m not even going to pretend that was successful.

But bar these sneaky perving sessions, I’ve managed to keep my head down. I’m doing my best to provide a stable routine for two adorable kids who have clearly had little stability over the past couple of years. Owen’s still taking his time warming to me. Though, the recent swims in the pool are gaining me a few brownie points. So are the yoga poses I’ve been teaching them. Down dog is Owen’s favourite. It’s not a lot, but it’s a start. As are the regular trips to the park and the ice cream parlour. Samuel always accompanies us. Either Caelon is paranoid about the rivalry Dermot mentioned, or he’s paranoid about my abilities to take care of his children. I’m not sure which is worse, but I don’t mind Samuel’s company. He’s funny, easy to get along with, and he always drives, something I’m eternally grateful for because the SUV Caelon mentioned is actually a brand-new Mercedes. I’m almost as afraid of denting it as I am of leaving it unlocked.

I retrace my steps in search of coffee, beating down the silly disappointment swirling in my stomach. There’s always tomorrow. I step into the kitchen and almost jump out of my skin when I see Caelon already there, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of running shorts that sculpt the globes of his ass cheeks to perfection.

He stands in front of the open fridge, peering in with his head cocked thoughtfully to the side. His broad back is bare, revealing an enormous tattoo of a phoenix rising from the flames. It’s shockingly colourful, intricate, and immensely detailed. The urge to run my fingers over every line and curve sets the tips of my fingers tingling.

And don’t get me started on the smooth display of skin, the taut defined shoulder muscles, and the strong muscular biceps which shift and tense as he reaches up for a carton of orange juice.

Holy fuck. He looked hot in a suit in the club. He looks smoking in jeans and a polo shirt; he looks savage in his training gear, but fuck me, half naked, he looks fit to be devoured like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

‘Morning.’ I lick my lips .

He startles. The carton of orange slips through his fingers and hits the ground, spilling all over the tiles.

‘Shit,’ he hisses.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ I cross the floor and tear a huge wad of kitchen paper from where the mount is on the wall. ‘Let me get that.’

‘No,’ he snaps. ‘I’m perfectly capable of cleaning up my own mess.’ He grabs a tea towel and tosses it on the ground.

I stand back, watching as it soaks up most of the juice. When I look up, Caelon’s gaze is focused firmly on my nightie, a white silk slip from Victoria’s Secret. It has tiny straps, dips low in a V at the front, and stops mid-thigh. Basically, it leaves nothing to the imagination. Not that he needs to imagine much. He knows exactly what’s hiding beneath.

I lean on a kitchen unit and fold my arms across my chest in a feeble attempt to conceal my bullet-shaped nipples.

‘I was in the gym.’ He points to his torso in explanation.

‘I came down looking for…’ What did I come down looking for again?

‘Coffee?’ He heads towards the fancy machine in the corner.

‘Exactly. I need a coffee.’ But I’ll take anything else that’s on offer too…

He examines the row of capsules and snatches up a white china cup. ‘How do you like it?’

Heat flushes my neck. Does he realise what he just said? Is he trying to give me heart failure? Or is he oblivious to the fact I’m more attracted to him than I’ve been to any other man in my life?

When I don’t answer, he turns his attention from the coffee pods to me. Dark, bottomless pools dart over my thighs, roving up over my chest, before meeting my gaze.

‘Strong? Steaming hot? Sweet?’ he probes, and I swear he’s biting back a smirk .

For a second, I see a glimmer of the man I met in the bar that Saturday. That surliness is still there, but there’s a hint of fun beneath his cold exterior just dying to burst out.

I shrug, forcing nonchalance even though my mouth is watering at the sight of him. ‘Strong, always. And I’m sweet enough already,’

‘Don’t I know it,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘How are you settling in? Orla adores you.’ His tone is almost begrudging.

‘Okay, I guess.’ I shrug. ‘It was quite a shock, realising you were my new boss.’

‘You don’t say.’ He loads a capsule into the machine and hits the start button. ‘I never bring women home, ever. Then suddenly you turn up with a smile the size of the sun, and your suitcase.’ He skims his hand over his stubble. ‘I thought Dermot put you up to it as payback for me coming on to you.’

‘It was just a mad coincidence.’ Though, I don’t believe in coincidence. ‘As if I’d admit to my overprotective big brother what went down seconds before he arrived.’

‘Good job. He’d probably cut my cock off and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine,’ Caelon murmurs grimly. The coffee machine begins to spurt, and a delicious aroma floats through the air.

‘Yep. Then he’d cut you into tiny pieces and feed you to the sharks.’ I’m not joking.

Dermot insisted I join him for dinner the last two Sundays, once at a fancy à la carte, and once at our parents’ house. His weekly interrogations are grating on me. Have I thought about college? What am I going to do with my life? Blah blah blah. The list goes on.

‘Good job it’ll never happen again then,’ Caelon says gruffly .

‘Good job.’ My mouth agrees, but my lady parts scream otherwise.

Of all the men in the world, why does the hottest guy to lay his hands on me have to be my new boss and my brother’s best friend? And if that wasn’t enough, he also happens to have more issues than Playboy magazine.

The coffee machine stops. Caelon picks up the espresso and hands it to me. My fingers graze his. The heat of the cup has nothing on the hot, prickling sensation of our skin touching. He jumps back like he’s been scalded. Good to know I’m not the only one suffering.

He turns his back to me, studying the coffee capsules like they’re the morse code. ‘You’re good with them, you know.’

‘Orla yes. Owen’s still making his mind up.’

‘He’s never warmed to any woman other than his mother,’ Caelon admits.

I pause for a second, unsure whether to comment or not. As usual, my mouth wins the battle against my brain. ‘I’m so sorry about your wife. And I’m sorry I was so fucking insensitive in the bar the first night.’

‘Don’t be. I don’t need your pity.’ His shoulders go rigid as he shoves another capsule into the machine and slams the lid down hard.

I flinch. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

He sighs and his back relaxes slightly. ‘Look, it is what it is. We do the best we can without her.’

‘Want to join me on the patio for a few minutes?’ I gesture towards the sun streaming through the window. I’m dying to get to know him a bit better. It might be overstepping, given that he’s my boss, but considering we live together, and we’re already sort of intimately acquainted, maybe it’s okay?

His jaw sets in a fine line. Shit. I did overstep. My fucking mouth again. I’m his employee, not his friend .

‘Sorry, Tranquil, no can do.’ He shakes his head.

‘Tranquil?’ I squeak.

He’s given me a nickname. Surprise rises in my chest.

‘You nicknamed me Tortured, so I nicknamed you Tranquil. You brought the kids tranquillity. I see you teaching them yoga. You’re a good influence on them. There have been fewer meltdowns. They’re more Zen or whatever.’

He’s teasing me. ‘Zen? You think I’m some sort of hippy or something? Yoga reduces cortisol levels, therefore reduces anxiety.’

‘Relax, I didn’t mean to insult you. If anything, I’m grateful.’ He pats my arm in what I think is supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but in reality, it sets my skin on fire. ‘I’d better clean up the orange juice before Liz comes in and kicks my ass into next week.’

‘Okay.’ I take my coffee outside and sit on one of the plush wicker armchairs overlooking the pool. The cool air does nothing to help the fire blazing over my skin.

Tranquil. Huh. I suppose I’ve been called worse.