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Authors: Louisa Edwards
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it.”
Skye gaped again. “Excuse me?”
“I’m assuming our teams both get through to the final round—that dickhead Larousse is a one-trick pony who’s already played out his entire act. So it’ll be down to an East meets West matchup, in the end.” Beck crossed his arms over his massive chest. “If your team wins, I’ll give you your no-fault, no-strings, no-fuss divorce.”
Skye’s thoughts scattered like a bucket of chopsticks dumped on the floor. Groping for a rational response, she managed, “And what do you get if you win?”
He shrugged. “I’ll still give you the divorce, but I’ll want something in return.”
Narrowing her gaze on his impassive face, she said, “Like what?”
A spark ignited deep in his dark brown eyes, sending a too-familiar shiver straight down Skye’s spine. Beck leaned forward until his forehead almost rested against hers, his presence warm and overwhelming.
“One last night with you.”
Chapter 7
Skye goggled at him. He couldn’t be serious.
“You can’t be serious!”
Beck straightened to his full, more than impressive height. “Why not? If I remember correctly, sex was never one of our problems. Why shouldn’t we enjoy one last night, for old times’ sake, before we vacate each other’s lives for good?”
Because I’ve got a boyfriend , Skye though frantically. But now, more than ever, she couldn’t say that.
She knew Beck. In this mood, he’d stubbornly do the opposite of whatever Skye wanted, just to prove he could. She understood where that impulse came from, but it didn’t make him any easier to deal with now.
“Because we’re getting a divorce,” she tried, instead of the truth. “And I’d rather have a clean break.”
“Guess you’d better plan to win the RSC, then.”
“I haven’t agreed to this stupid bet yet,” Skye reminded him.
“You will,” he said, in that simple, egoless way that always drove her bananas. He really wasn’t being arrogant or commanding. He was just telling it like he saw it.
And the worst part was, he was almost always right.
“You’ll agree,” he continued, “because either way, you get what you want. It’s a good deal, and you’re too smart not to take it … unless you don’t think your team can beat us.”
“God, you’re infuriating,” Skye said, shaking her head. It wasn’t like she couldn’t see what he was doing by challenging her, rousing her competitive instincts and bringing them into the negotiations, but still. It was working.
She took one last stab at talking them both out of it. “Are you really gonna make a bet that relies on someone else’s skill?”
He frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“From what I’ve seen, if the East Coast team makes it all the way to the finals, it’s most likely to be Max or Jules who goes into that final cook-off. Not you.”
A glimmer of hope shone through. She definitely had him there—Jules Cavanaugh was the East Coast team leader, and out of everyone on the team, Max had the most competition experience. Either of them was a more probable choice than Beck.
“Of course it won’t be me.” Beck’s impassive dismissal killed Skye’s last hope like a hand flipping a light switch. “I was hired on at Lunden’s Tavern less than a year ago. I’m not the guy. Doesn’t matter, we’re a team. Their win is my win.”
“So…” Skye floundered a little, having a hard time reconciling this team player in front of her with the fiercely independent loner she’d married. “You’d trust the outcome of our bet to someone else’s cooking?”
His eyes shifted away from her, fixing on something in the distance out over the bay—or maybe on something deep inside, that only Beck could see. “I learned how to function as part of a group a long time ago. It comes down to trust. My team knows I’ve got their backs. And I know they’ve got mine. We’re going to win.”
He zeroed in on her face again, this time with an intensity that singed
Skye gaped again. “Excuse me?”
“I’m assuming our teams both get through to the final round—that dickhead Larousse is a one-trick pony who’s already played out his entire act. So it’ll be down to an East meets West matchup, in the end.” Beck crossed his arms over his massive chest. “If your team wins, I’ll give you your no-fault, no-strings, no-fuss divorce.”
Skye’s thoughts scattered like a bucket of chopsticks dumped on the floor. Groping for a rational response, she managed, “And what do you get if you win?”
He shrugged. “I’ll still give you the divorce, but I’ll want something in return.”
Narrowing her gaze on his impassive face, she said, “Like what?”
A spark ignited deep in his dark brown eyes, sending a too-familiar shiver straight down Skye’s spine. Beck leaned forward until his forehead almost rested against hers, his presence warm and overwhelming.
“One last night with you.”
Chapter 7
Skye goggled at him. He couldn’t be serious.
“You can’t be serious!”
Beck straightened to his full, more than impressive height. “Why not? If I remember correctly, sex was never one of our problems. Why shouldn’t we enjoy one last night, for old times’ sake, before we vacate each other’s lives for good?”
Because I’ve got a boyfriend , Skye though frantically. But now, more than ever, she couldn’t say that.
She knew Beck. In this mood, he’d stubbornly do the opposite of whatever Skye wanted, just to prove he could. She understood where that impulse came from, but it didn’t make him any easier to deal with now.
“Because we’re getting a divorce,” she tried, instead of the truth. “And I’d rather have a clean break.”
“Guess you’d better plan to win the RSC, then.”
“I haven’t agreed to this stupid bet yet,” Skye reminded him.
“You will,” he said, in that simple, egoless way that always drove her bananas. He really wasn’t being arrogant or commanding. He was just telling it like he saw it.
And the worst part was, he was almost always right.
“You’ll agree,” he continued, “because either way, you get what you want. It’s a good deal, and you’re too smart not to take it … unless you don’t think your team can beat us.”
“God, you’re infuriating,” Skye said, shaking her head. It wasn’t like she couldn’t see what he was doing by challenging her, rousing her competitive instincts and bringing them into the negotiations, but still. It was working.
She took one last stab at talking them both out of it. “Are you really gonna make a bet that relies on someone else’s skill?”
He frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“From what I’ve seen, if the East Coast team makes it all the way to the finals, it’s most likely to be Max or Jules who goes into that final cook-off. Not you.”
A glimmer of hope shone through. She definitely had him there—Jules Cavanaugh was the East Coast team leader, and out of everyone on the team, Max had the most competition experience. Either of them was a more probable choice than Beck.
“Of course it won’t be me.” Beck’s impassive dismissal killed Skye’s last hope like a hand flipping a light switch. “I was hired on at Lunden’s Tavern less than a year ago. I’m not the guy. Doesn’t matter, we’re a team. Their win is my win.”
“So…” Skye floundered a little, having a hard time reconciling this team player in front of her with the fiercely independent loner she’d married. “You’d trust the outcome of our bet to someone else’s cooking?”
His eyes shifted away from her, fixing on something in the distance out over the bay—or maybe on something deep inside, that only Beck could see. “I learned how to function as part of a group a long time ago. It comes down to trust. My team knows I’ve got their backs. And I know they’ve got mine. We’re going to win.”
He zeroed in on her face again, this time with an intensity that singed
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