Wreck the Halls: A Novel

December 13

Melody arrived in Manhattan too early Wednesday morning. She stood to the side of the subway exit, debating her options. Kill time by going into Duane Reade and buying eyeshadow palettes she would never wear, sit in a coffee shop and people watch . . . or text Beat. He lived in Midtown, right? Maybe he wanted to get coffee?

Again?

Boring!

She had this fantastic vision of them dashing through the city and committing spontaneous pranks, like Paul and Holly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but Melody was less Holly Golightly and more Holly Gohomeandstaythere.

Although maybe that wasn’t entirely true anymore. After all, she had signed on for a reality show with no idea what lay ahead. She’d taken the steps to stop depending on Trina for monetary support—even if the million dollars was contingent on a pipe dream. The decision was something and something was more than nothing.

Riding high on her burst of positivity, Melody took out her phone and texted Beat.

Wow. She even impressed herself with that text message. It informed Beat she was in the city and looking for something to do, without asking him to commit to an activity.

Not too shabby, Gallard.

Her phone dinged, adding a layer of warm shivers to the ones he’d set loose by calling her Peach. It was there in her phone forever now. She could look at it whenever she chose. Melody tapped the directions button, relieved to find she was only an avenue and one block south of Beat’s gym. Seven minutes later, she pushed cautiously through the revolving door with an expression that dared any Lances to try and sell her a Pilates package.

Not today, Satan.

But as predicted, a smiling jock in a purple polo shirt was already approaching her, straight off the finish line of an Ironman competition. Those weren’t even real calf muscles. They were veiny boulders shoved into skin-tone nylons. “Welcome to Core. Are you a member?”

Run while you can.

“Sorry, I have the wrong address—”

“Mel!” Amid the distant metal clanging and high-energy notes of an “All I Want for Christmas” remix, she heard Beat calling her name and turned.

There he was.

Running toward her through the reception area. In black athletic shorts and no shirt.

Sweating. Sweating all over the place.

Oh my God, she was looking at his nipples. Stop. Don’t look down, either. She had to stop herself from looking at those high cuts of muscle above his hips. Or the rivulet of perspiration dripping off the meatiest part of his left pec. Or that little peek of happy trail. Too late. She saw everything. She’d perused him like the specials menu.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice. Or was he pretending not to?

“Hey, man.” Effortlessly, Beat high-fived Boulder Calves and grabbed her wrist. “She’s with me. Can I bring her in while I finish up?”

“Sure.” The guy took a respectful step backward, out of her orbit. “No worries, Beat.”

“Thanks.”

Beat winked at Melody, guiding her through reception and into a small café that looked more like a nightclub. It was dark, except for the pulsing red Christmas lights surrounding the order window. “Hi,” Beat said to the girl behind the counter, giving her a warm grin—and the phone slipped right out of her hands, followed by a stuttered apology. Beat only smiled wider. “Did I dream this or do you guys make coffee? It’s not all smoothies and bee pollen and protein bars back there, is it?”

“We have coffee,” she said throatily. “No one ever orders it, but we make it anyway.”

“Oh. You’re amazing.” His whole body flexed with the power of his relieved exhale, the smile crinkles around his eyes deepening. “What’s your name?”

“Jessica,” she breathed.

“Jessica.” He nodded. “Could I please get a large one for my girl, Melody?”

“S-sure.” Jessica attempted to hit the right buttons on the register, but she kept having to start over, the color deepening on her cheeks with every failed attempt. “How do you want it?” She winced. “The coffee, I mean.”

“Milk only,” Melody said, giving the girl a look of pure understanding. “No bee pollen, please. Nothing healthy whatsoever, in fact.”

Beat laughed, bringing Melody’s hand to his mouth and brushing a kiss over the back of it, just a casual kicking of the hornet’s nest that was her libido—where Beat was concerned, at least. He had two women completely flustered simply by existing. By being friendly and complimentary and hunky—and most importantly, genuine.

Someone should film this. Danielle was a genius.

Jessica slid the paper cup of coffee across the counter. “Do you have an account?”

“Yes.” His eyes actually twinkled. “Dawkins.”

“I already knew that. I don’t know why I asked.”Content rights belong to NôvelDrama.Org.

Beat picked up the coffee with a laugh and handed it to Mel, throwing his arm around her shoulders. “Thank you for saving the day, Jessica.”

“Any time.”

They left the café area, traveled down a hallway toward the source of the music and entered a gymnasium full of equipment. There were a few nods to Christmas—boughs and holly strategically nestled into corners, but for the most part, this place was all business. And in her kelly green coat and boots, Mel was not dressed appropriately. “How is it?” Beat asked.

“Intimidating. A little smelly.”

“I meant the coffee, Peach.”

“Oh.” She peeled back the tab and took a sip, swallowed. “It’s good! Made with lust.”

He tilted his head. “Huh?”

She studied him closely. “You just put poor Jessica through a second round of puberty. You don’t realize that?”

“What? No.” He shot a skeptical look in the direction they came. “I was just being nice. I’m like that with everyone.”

“I know. You were that way with me when I was sixteen.”

Frown lines appeared on his forehead. “No. That was different. Not every encounter stays with me for years to come. Like ours.” He seemed to realize he’d revealed too much and self-consciously swiped a hand through his damp hair, opening his mouth and closing it again.

“Well,” Melody said, unable to feel the coffee cup in her hands. It could have been burning the skin from her palm and it wouldn’t have registered. “RIP Jessica.”

Beat chuckled, took her wrist again, and led her toward the back of the gigantic workout space. “Come on. I’m forcing myself to do twenty box jumps before I quit for the day.”

“Sounds hellish.”

“That’s because it is.”

“Why do you do it?”

His thumb brushed over the tiny veins in her wrist. “A little torture can be fun.”

Melody wished she could see his face when he said those words, because his tone of voice was kind of . . . funny? Or was she imagining it? “Can’t you just doomscroll like everyone else?” His laugh made her pulse skip. “The only torture I occasionally endure are jeans.”

“Until today.” Beat clapped and rubbed his hands together vigorously. “You’re going to box jump with me, right?”

“Oh my God, I’ve been bamboozled. It’s you. You’re Lance.”

“Only kidding.” He turned in a circle, searching the immediate area. Melody didn’t realize what he was looking for until he was pulling a leather bench in their direction. “Place for you to sit. I won’t take long.” He hung his head a second. “I just realized how weird it is that I’ve dragged you in here to watch me box jump. I swear it wasn’t my intention to make you my audience, I just thought it would be a good chance to plot our strategy for the confessional.”

She took a seat on the bench and crossed her legs, her skin flaming when he openly watched the move, the fingers of his right hand flexing at his side. “Strategy. Yes.”

Now she sounded like Jessica.

“Obviously, we don’t want to embarrass Octavia and Trina,” he said, after a moment. “We can give their fans some intrigue without any big reveals.”

“Cagey, but friendly. Engagingly evasive.”

“That’s exactly it.” His expression was one of mock surprise. “Have you done this before?”

“Only about a million times.”

“Sounds like torture,” he quipped.

“Maybe I’ll follow your lead and see if I can make torture fun.”

His smile remained in place, but his eyes changed. Darkened. If he wasn’t shirtless, she never would have noticed the way his stomach hollowed, ever so slightly, but he was sans shirt. And she happened to be sitting eye level with that slow contraction of his abdomen, the thick slide of muscle that coincided with his deep inhale. Everything inside of her turned jumpy. It was like someone plugged her into a charged outlet and shot every single one of her nerve endings into a chaotic dance. The whole scene must have been showing on her face, if her hot cheeks were any indication. Distract him. Distract yourself.

“Maybe I will try box jumping?”

That blurted pronouncement sent his dark eyebrows sky-high. “Really?”

Melody shot up from the bench, set down her coffee, and started to unfasten the buttons of her coat. “Is there a miniature one?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“But you can do it,” he said encouragingly. “I’ll spot you.”

“Spot me? I’m right here.”

God, he had such a dreamy smile. “I mean, I’ll help you if something happens, Peach.”

“Something probably will,” she warned.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head adamantly. “You’ve got this. You’re going to nail it, Mel, just not in those boots.”

“Barefoot is better?”

“Better than boots.”

Grumbling a little, she reached down to unzip the sides of her leather ankle boots, trying and failing not to stare at his happy trail while she was down there, but it was so very sexy and unattended. Not landscaped, but not abundant. A tease. An amuse-bouche of hair. “Are you okay down there?”

“Not as okay as you are down there.”

“What was that?”

“I think I better jump on the box now.”

“Right.” He circled around behind Melody, putting both hands on her hips and guiding her to the spot in front of the box. From up close, it looked a lot larger than it had from five feet away. In fact, it looked insurmountable.

“I think I might have overestimated myself.”

“That’s the fear talking.”

Melody groaned. “Are you sure you’re not Lance dressed in a Beat suit?”

His grip tightened on her hips and pinwheeling sparks lit up in front of her eyes, her toes curling into the cushioned gym floor. Were those his thumbs pressing into the small of her back, massaging gently? Or were those the hands of God? “It’s all in your legs,” Beat said, his breath warm against her ear, the right side of her neck.

That wasn’t very reassuring since her legs were currently made of pudding. “Okay.”

Another firm molding of her hips, then they slipped upward to do the same to her waist and God, she wished more than anything she was wearing one of those cool crop tops, so she could feel his hands directly on her skin. “I’m going to catch you if you don’t make it. But you are going to make it.”

“What if I fall forward, instead of backward?”

“You won’t, but I’d catch you, either way.”

“You’re assuming I have so much faith in someone I haven’t seen in fourteen years?”

A few seconds slipped by. “The faith is there, though, a little. Isn’t it? Kind of like how I knew you would show up for the meeting. Show up for . . . me.”

Melody closed her eyes, grateful he couldn’t see her face. “Yeah.” She swallowed. “Okay, Lance. Count me down.”

“Three, two . . .”

She dug down for every ounce of power and strength in her body—and it turned out, she didn’t have very much. Not physically, anyway. She jumped as high as she could, but her toes missed the ledge of the box by a couple of inches and she went flailing backward, landing with her back against Beat’s chest, her feet dangling off the ground.

“I didn’t make it on my first try, either,” he offered.

“Yes, you did,” she said on an unsteady exhale.

“Fine, I did. But my form sucked.”

“No, it didn’t.”

He settled her down on the ground, his fingertips immediately attacking her ribs—tickling her so unexpectedly that she spun around on a squeal. “Jesus, Mel,” he growled through his teeth. “Would you just accept my comfort?”

“Fine. Fine!” She was laughing. At the gym! “I’ll get it next time. Your turn.”

With a final squeeze of her side, Beat went to complete his box jumps while Melody plopped herself down on the bench and watched him move like an effortlessly graceful animal, all smooth skin and muscle pops and flashes of that reassuring grin. She’d always believed in her heart of hearts that being around Beat would make her feel normal. More comfortable in her own skin, like she’d been that day at age sixteen.

But as she left the gym heading to the Applause offices with Beat at her side, the reality of that seemed too good to be true.