Everly After by Rebecca Paula Page B

against mine. Him against me. Us, tangled up. His place or mine. I don’t care.
    I meet his gaze and flash a quick smile, brushing away images Beckett without his shirt, his hands on my body, his lips at my neck.
    I never do this. I mean, never. This isn’t my style—to crush and fall for a guy. Not anymore. I don’t care about guys or feelings or kisses or sex. I don’t care. It was never something to care about it. It happened and I went after it when I wanted it, but I don’t care. I never get caught up in fucking messy complications like this. With a guy who cares about me.
    At least, I think he does.
    I hate him for that, too. Who gave Beckett permission to be nice, to think it’s his job to look after me? I never had someone who wanted to be nice to me and do nice things for me. I don’t deserve it, and I don’t know what to do with his kindness. It makes me a little desperate for Hudson truthfully. I understand the way he and I work. But me and Beckett?
    No idea.
    “Everly?” Beckett tugs on my dress, and I realize I’m standing, holding a staring match with the old subway map and the obscene French scrawling over its faded paper. His hands are cages next to my waist, ready to steady me if I stumble over from the swaying car. “Okay?”
    I tuck my hair back behind my ear and adjust my sunglasses. At least he can’t see my eyes. It makes the lie a little easier. “Fine.”
    “We’re getting off at the next stop.”
    He stands up, but I don’t back away. His arm reaches for the bar above, and his tattoo peeks out from beneath his T-shirt. I try to crane my neck without being too obvious, but my forehead knocks into his chest and the two of us chuckle.
    “You can ask, you know.”
    My hand presses against his chest. I’m a terrible friend. Friends don’t feel friends up. They don’t flirt with each other. They don’t spend entire conversations staring at each other’s lips, praying words will turn into kisses.
    I quirk an eyebrow at his smug smile. I can pretend if it means keeping him around longer. Right after I trace my fingers over the ink on his bicep.
    Live and let die.
    Exactly.
     
    Beckett
    We could have walked, but I’m not sure about the awkward quiet between us. It’s easier to take the Metro.
    Well, it’s easier until she runs her fingers over my tattoo. Then the day takes a turn from awkward to fucking intolerable because I’m apparently no better than a prepubescent boy. She walks for the door, but I don’t chase after her this time. I’m hard, and my heart is racing. My skin is burning. If I didn’t have those words etched into my flesh before, I sure as hell do now.
    Live and let die.
    That’s exactly what I should do, but I can’t because this girl is like an addiction to me. She’s gotten under my skin, and we haven’t even kissed.
    We have a short wait for a table at the trendy café I bring her to. Luckily, not too many tourists know about it yet, so it’s mostly on the quieter side.
    “You have a lot of wrinkles on your forehead,” Everly says over her menu to me.
    I run my hand over my forehead. I must be scowling. I guess I make it worse because she laughs and drops her menu. She swats away my hand and then cups my face, using her thumbs to erase my ugly mood.
    It works, too. I mean, it helps that I can see down her dress when she leans over the table. It’s not like I haven’t seen this view before, but at least today I can enjoy it. She’s not bleeding all over my flat now.
    I want to kiss her wrist, but I curl my fingers around it instead, scooping them under the length of red string she’s wearing as a bracelet.
    “He told me it was magic,” she says, trying to tug her hand away.
    I don’t let go. “Who did?”
    “A gypsy. One of those string men who stand on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur.” She lifts up her menu again, biting on her perfect bottom lip.
    “And you fell for that?”
    Everly glances nervously between my fingers resting against her