Wreck the Halls: A Novel

Melody took Beat’s borrowed jacket and hung it on her coatrack, studying his face as he saw her apartment for the first time. Having him there didn’t feel real. Especially after running six blocks in disguise to ditch two pissed-off producers and avoid a mob of people who knew way too much about them. The direction in which Melody’s life was headed remained unclear, but she was allowing herself to settle into this state of limbo. The unknown.

It wasn’t scary when her best friend was beside her.

Right. Best friend.

She could still feel his fingers clasping her chin. I’m not pretending. You know that, right?

He’d been referring to the implication that they would die for each other.RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

These were big feelings, big declarations. Big things happening under the title of friendship that she wasn’t sure belonged there. Or maybe she and Beat had their own category of relationship that wasn’t discovered yet. Was that arrogant? Maybe. She was really leaning into the whole jock vibe, apparently.

“It’s exactly what I pictured,” Beat said. Was his voice deeper than usual?

“Which is to say . . .”

He hummed while choosing how to respond, his steps carrying him into the living area. “Everywhere I look, there’s something that feels like you. That string of yellow yarn holding back the curtain. Colorful ceramics, but simple white flowers. The fuzzy sock sticking out from between those couch cushions, your nightshirt on the coffee table.” He ran his index finger along the back of the piece of furniture in question and cast her a sidelong look. “You fall asleep on this couch a lot, Mel?”

She was still watching that sensual finger where it dragged side to side on the leather. Her leather. Up and back on the seam. “Every night, actually. I finally gave in and bought a huge couch. It takes up too much space, but it doubles as a bed.”

“I fall asleep on the couch every night, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He was using his thumb on the cushion seam now, raking it up. Down. “The attic at Trina’s house was the first time I’ve fallen asleep in a bed in years.”

Words spoken so casually about the night they’d had sex were like a velvet punch to the belly, followed by a long, slow twist. “Imagine that.”

Beat’s thumb dug into the cushion hard. “I do, Peach. All the time.”

The air was growing thicker by the second, Melody’s pulse traveling lower, lower, to a dangerous region of her body. It would be so easy to pretend she hadn’t set a boundary between them in New Hampshire. But she had and she would be doing herself a disservice by ignoring it. “Beat . . .”

“Something feels different tonight, Mel. Different from in the attic or any time before.” A line ticked in his cheek, his gaze more intense than she’d ever seen it. “I have no right to ask. You can tell me to fuck off right now, but . . . I want a lot more than friendship with you.”

Was the ground moving or was that her imagination? “What changed between now and then?” she managed, barely able to hear over the pounding of her heart.

“I don’t know exactly.” Beat swallowed. “I can’t stop thinking of the way you looked at me, back in the park. When you tackled me,” he added wryly, before sliding toward serious again. “Maybe I’ll never be unguarded like that with my friends. With anyone. But I loved being that way with you. Just . . . open. Exposed. There’s no judgment. No guilt. And I think that’s because you’re the good part of me I’ve been missing. You’re the one who gets me. I just want you to have all of me.” His chest lifted, plummeted, lifted again. “God knows I want all of you.”

Heat seared the backs of Melody’s eyelids. There was a monotone ring in her ears, the kind she imagined would hit her during a flight-or-fight ultimatum. This man standing in front of her held half her heart in his hands. She’d given it over the first time they met—and he was completely and utterly worthy of it. He was. But she had to protect the half still in her possession. The one she’d healed through years of therapy and self-acceptance.

“We’ll take it slow,” she whispered.

He made a gruff sound, his grip tightening on the back of the couch. “Thank you.”

Oh God, she needed to do something with her hands. She was going to stretch and twist the hem of her turtleneck to the point of no return. They wanted very much to reach for Beat, stroke the whisker growth on his cheeks, warm the wind-reddened skin of his neck, reacquaint themselves with the dips and swells of his pecs and abdomen. But they would move too fast if she did that. The next time she touched him, she didn’t want to feel rushed. She needed to know it was right.

“Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I can make us sandwiches.” Melody waited a moment, then brought up the subject that had been riding on her shoulders since the snowball fight. “We can eat while you tell me why you need the Applause Network’s money.”

Beat was already nodding, as if he’d expected her to go there. Yet she couldn’t help but notice the way his expression became momentarily hollow. “Yes.”

She took a step in his direction. “Whatever it is, we can handle it.”

Those nods turned into headshakes. “There’s nothing for you to handle, Mel.”

“Let me be the judge of that?”

Beat wanted to argue, that much was plain, but he followed Melody in silence to the kitchen instead. He pulled out a chair at the breakfast bar and watched as she removed fixings from the fridge—ham, cheese, mayo—and whole grain bread from the pantry. Having this man watch her make sandwiches was a new experience, to say the least. The butter knife felt awkward in her hands. Her fingers tingled, along with the backs of her thighs. She could feel him wondering where the tops of her stockings ended and that intuition caused her to drop the knife twice before successfully cutting the sandwiches in half.

After plating the snack, she settled it on the counter in between them.

“I love watching you do . . . Jesus, everything,” he said, his teeth sinking into the bread. Chewing. “I want to hate every single person watching your daily life on the live stream, but I understand the obsession. You move like everything you’re doing is new. Like you’re experiencing it for the first time and want to get it right.”

Her sandwich was paused halfway to her mouth. “Example?”

“Like settling into a seat on the plane. Studying the survival manual, figuring out what each button does, testing out five sitting positions until you find a comfortable one.”

“You’ve been watching me closely.”

A small, humorless laugh escaped him. “Some might say too closely.”

“Not me,” she whispered. “I like knowing you do.”

Beat’s hand fisted on the breakfast bar. “Come here, Peach,” he ordered gruffly. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Talk first,” she forced out. “I’m not going to be distracted.”

His gaze traveled down the front of her body. “Your nipples say otherwise.”

“Beat.”

“Okay.” He raked a hand down his face, appearing to gather himself. Gather courage? When he let the hand drop, several seconds passed without him saying anything. “Mel, I need the network money because I’m being blackmailed.”

That last word clattered into the kitchen like a falling drawer full of silverware. It was the last thing in the world she expected him to say. Maybe because this man was the most wonderful being alive, in her eyes, and she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to cause him harm, whether physical, emotional, or financial. “Blackmailed?” She braced her head in her hands, trying to keep her racing thoughts from melting out of her ears. “By who?”

A snowplow rumbled by on the street, the room taking its time descending back into silence. “My biological father.” He blew out a sharp breath. “Oh shit. That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. My dad . . . Rudy. He isn’t really my dad. And he has no idea.”

Weight pressed down on her sternum. “Yes, he is. He is your dad,” she said firmly, somehow knowing that sentiment was important for him to hear, but there was so much more to unpack. “Help me understand. Your biological father is blackmailing you,” she said slowly. “If you don’t give him money, he’ll inform the public?”

“Yeah,” Beat said, voice rusted through. “Mel . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s been going on for five years,” he rasped. “The amount of money he wants gets bigger every time he resurfaces.”

“Five years?” Moisture flooded her eyes, her legs beginning to tremble. “Oh my God. How are you living with the . . . the stress of this?”

“I live with it, so they don’t have to.”

“Meaning Octavia and Rudy have no idea? You’ve just been shouldering this all alone?”

He just barely inclined his head.

She felt dizzy. “Where has the money been coming from until now?”

“My own. The money I earn working for the foundation. Cashing in savings bonds, selling stocks. I won’t touch Ovations money, Mel. I won’t fucking touch it.”

“I know you won’t. Of course, you wouldn’t.”

He slowly let out a breath, as if relieved by her belief in him. “Until this year, my own funds were enough, but like I said, the amount escalates.”

“Beat. You have to tell your mother.”

“No,” he said emphatically. “After this life she’s given me, I can handle this one goddamn thing for her. I can stop her being dragged by the press, like they did to you. Being adored is her lifeblood. And my dad . . .” He closed his eyes. “Imagine finding out the wife you’ve been worshipping for over three decades cheated and your son isn’t really your son? I can protect them from that pain.”

“It’s not your job, Beat,” she said in a shaky voice. “You won’t be able to sustain the increasing demand for money forever. Or the stress is going to kill you. Please.”

His eyes remained closed for a breath. “For now, can telling you about this be enough?”

No, she wanted to scream out of fear and frustration. “It can be a good first step,” she said, overruling the urge. “I’m glad you told me.”

A touch of tension left his bunched shoulders. “I’m glad, too.”

She curled her fingers into the hem of her skirt and squeezed. “Who is he?”

“No one of consequence to you, Mel.” His tone held a note of warning. “If you think I’m being unreasonable by protecting my parents from this, you don’t want to see how I’d react if this bullshit came anywhere near you.”

The flash of malice in his gaze gave Melody some idea. She had no choice but to refrain from pressing the issue. For now. She needed him to continue to confide in her. Needed him to be comfortable opening up to her so she could help him. Patience was key. If he’d told no one, not a single person in five years of suffering through the constant blackmail, tonight’s progress was big enough already. “Do you want a drink?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring it in.”

With a weary nod, Beat stood, braced his hands on the breakfast bar for a moment, and watched her beneath drawn-together brows. Then he pushed off and went toward the living room, sinking down onto the couch. Melody retrieved a bottle of whiskey from her cabinet, which she’d actually bought for a cupcake recipe, eons ago, and poured him a glass. After some thought, she poured herself one, too, and carried both into the living area.

Her stocking-clad feet didn’t make a sound. That was probably why he didn’t hear her coming. Probably why he crushed her nightshirt to his nose and inhaled roughly, making a low sound, before doing it again. Desperately taking in the scent of her, no idea she watched from the space in between the kitchen and the living area, her pulse accelerating, a sandbag dropping low, low, low in her belly.

Knowing she had to make her presence known soon, Melody took a step—and the floorboard beneath her foot creaked. Beat dropped the nightshirt guiltily, raking a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, as if knowing he’d been caught.

Melody set the drinks down on her coffee table and sat down beside him.

She only survived five seconds without looking sideways at him, cherishing the way the lamplight highlighted and shadowed his cheekbones, rejoicing in the way he looked in her apartment, among her things. And then she urged him down onto the couch so he was lying on his side. After a few moments of studying him—savoring his quickened breathing, the expansion of his pupils—she followed suit, lying on her side in front of him, her back to his chest.

When his forearm wrapped around her hips and drew her closer, slowly, and she felt his physical reaction to holding her so intimately, she admitted to herself that going slow might have been ambitious. With Beat finding the courage to confide in her, the night had become them against the world. She’d never felt more connected to another person in her life . . . and she couldn’t help wanting to get even closer.