Chapter 5
Istop in the middle of the living room and bounce once on the worn, too-soft carpet. It squishes under my heel in a way that irritates me. Mental note: replace it. Add it to the list of things I keep meaning to fix when I’m not… pacing like a caged idiot.
I start again. Down the length of the couch. Past the window. Turn. Repeat.
Why am I pacing?
Successful question. Hard pass.
I cut through to the kitchen, then into the laundry nook. The detergent and dryer sheets sit on the top shelf. I pull them down and line them up on the machine, so Beckett won’t have to dig around. It’s a stupid detail, but my brain has apparently decided this is life-or-death.
Check my watch again.
Back to the kitchen. Countertops, wiped. Sink, empty. Stove, clean. Trash, tied. I open the fridge, then close it again. He doesn’t need to see a mess.
Beckett’s cooked for a full room, cooked for all of us crammed into one place, but he’s never cooked just for me.
There’s a flutter in my chest that absolutely does not belong to me.
I push it down. Way down. Concrete, rebar, three feet of dirt.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m about to have him here… alone.
I do another lap of the living room. The house is quiet. Too quiet. I don’t know why I’ve never noticed it before. It feels… hollow. Old, like everything is covered in a fine layer of dust. It’s not, but you know what I mean.
I check the time again.
Have I mentioned how much tardiness pisses me off?
It’s disrespectful. That’s the line I’ve always used.
But this doesn’t feel like annoyance, it feels like worry sliding under my skin.
Beckett was arguing with that Lucas guy on the phone.
Now he’s coming to stay. That doesn’t sound like “safe, stable ex-colleague.” It sounds like trouble.
What if he shows up and won’t leave? What if Beckett’s too tired, too worn down, to shove him out?
My jaw tightens. I can still see the version of him who came back to tell Finn that his mom had passed away.
It only took one look at Jaxon to see the concern etched across his face as he took in Beckett’s appearance.
He’d lost weight, had bags under his eyes, and his shoulders looked like they were holding the weight of the world.
Not to mention the way he sank into the hug with Jaxon. It was a dead giveaway.
What we don’t know is what made him pack up and move back home, leaving his dream of being a fancy chef behind. And this Lucas guy? Who the fuck is he?
Tonight would be as good a time as any to get some information on this mystery man from Beckett’s past.
I scrub a hand over my face and force myself to sit. My leg bounces. I get back up.
Lucas… What kind of name is Lucas?
This isn’t like me. I don’t spin stories, don’t chase what-ifs. I fix what’s in front of me and keep moving. But Beckett’s not just some guy from Jaxon’s past anymore, and the idea of him opening that door to someone who hurt him…
Yeah. No.
Tonight’s as good a time as any to ask a few careful questions, to listen instead of hovering like some overbearing bodyguard. Get the truth about California. Figure out who Lucas is.
Headlights reflect through the living room windows, and I sigh in relief… until I get a closer look… What the fuck?
Panic sets in, making my heart rate kick up. I’m out the door and to the driver’s side before Beckett even gets out of his car. Nausea curls in the pit of my stomach, and my hand shakes as I reach for the handle.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a rush, opening the driver’s side door in haste. The sound of scraping metal is like nails on a chalkboard.
Beckett runs his hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. “Cement barrier won.”
I crouch down, not caring that I’m in his personal space. “What happened?” I ask again, this time turning his chin from side to side so I can get a closer look at his face, then feeling around his head.
“I’m fine. I promise,” he laughs, batting my hand away. “As I was driving over the bridge on Spruce Street, I got a flat tire, which sent my car careening into the cement barrier. I was able to limp it the rest of the way. The steering is okay. I just don’t have a car jack.”
I flip him upside the head.
“I know, I know,” he says before I lean back to get a glimpse of the driver’s side tire. The rim is all mangled, and half of the tire is missing.
“Head inside, and I’ll grab the groceries.” I hold out my hand to help him out of the car.
“Oh my God, Dom,” he groans, slapping my hand away again. “I can walk and carry a few bags of groceries.”
“Beckett,” I warn.
“What?” he asks, that smug little smirk tugging at his mouth. He enjoys riling me up, I’ve noticed. For months now, his favorite game has been “Poke the Dom.”
“Don’t argue with me. Inside.” I leave no room for discussion, giving him a gentle nudge toward the door.
“Wait, at least let me carry my laundry. Bossy motherfucker,” he mutters, carrying the laundry basket inside.
Standing back, I survey the damage. It’s hard to see everything in the fading light, but it’s bad.
I’ll pull it into the garage later, where I can get a better look at it.
Hopefully, he has a spare, but who knows, since he doesn’t even have a jack.
If I can get the tire changed, then he can make it home, and tomorrow I’ll call Frank at the shop, see if he can rush a rim and tire.
When I’d first seen his car limping into my driveway, the front end chewed up, a sharp panic had clamped around my chest. I haven’t unpacked why. Haven’t unpacked why I was out the front door before I realized I was barefoot, the cold pavement biting at my feet.
Sighing, I grab the groceries out of the back seat and head inside.
Beckett’s at the kitchen sink, staring out the window when I set the bags on the counter.
“You have the perfect yard for a garden,” he says.
I grunt and step beside him, following his line of sight.
The yard’s a decent size, even with the workshop out back.
Flat lot, white picket fence. It came with the house—save the commentary.
The grass grows like a damn jungle, so the soil’s good.
Not that I’d know; I’ve never planted more than a hardware store fern.
Beckett’s frame sags, while his eye holds a faraway gaze. “I’ve always wanted a garden, but I’ve never had the space. California is so fucking expensive, getting a place with a yard was never an option… Oh, shit, I forgot,” he says, and I startle at the sudden change. “I got you something.”
Beckett starts pulling the ingredients for dinner out of the bags.
“You got me something?”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal, really. I just saw it and thought of you,” he says, holding out his hand to reveal a magnet.
“What do a cowboy, a chef, and a Dom have in common? They must whip it and whip it good.”
I groan.
“Get it? It says Dom and whip.”
“Are you even old enough to know what song that is?”
“Wait, what? It’s a song?”
“Oh God, shoot me now,” I say, looking toward the ceiling.
Beckett barks out a laugh, and I bite back a smile. “I thought it would be perfect to display on your refrigerator. You know, in case people are wondering how old you are.”
“You little shit.” I grab at Beckett’s shirt, but he quickly moves out of reach. Then the chase is on. “Come on, little mouse, you know I can catch you,” I say, stalking his way.
His laughter echoes off the walls, the sound hitting something deep in my chest. For a simple moment, he brings the house alive.
Beckett dodges around the table, dragging chairs into my path like that’s going to stop me. It doesn’t take long before I’ve got him caged at the counter, his back to my chest, my hands braced on either side of him.
I’m playing with fire. I’ve been telling myself not to go there with Beckett. He doesn’t need someone who’s deeply stuck in his ways, with a control complex and a track record. Plus, I don’t think me shoving my dick in Beckett’s ass was what Jaxon had in mind when he asked me to keep an eye on him.
But my body doesn’t care about any of that.
My hips selfishly push against Beckett. He lets out a whimper that goes straight to my dick, and every logical reason why this is a bad idea goes up in smoke.
A strangled groan floats from my throat, and my cock thickens against his pert little ass.
I give one last roll of my hips, enough to make us both feel it, then force myself to step away like I’ve just grabbed a live wire.
“Where are your keys?” I ask, voice rougher than I’d like.
He blinks, dazed. “Wha—what?”
“Your keys, Beckett.” I hold out a hand. “I’m going to change your tire so you can get home.”
His eyes narrow. “You motherfucker.”
“I don’t think you understand what you’re playing with,” I say, taking a slow step back toward him. “We’ve been doing this cat-and-mouse thing for a while, but you need to be sure it’s what you want.”
He swallows thickly before straightening his shoulders. “What the fuck? I’m not a kid, I’m a grown-ass adult.”
“I should hope so,” I murmur, letting my gaze drag over him. “Considering the things I could do to you.”
His eyes burn, the challenge and hunger mixing. I lean in, close enough that my breath skims his ear.
“Could you handle it…” I ask softly. “If I decide that every time you fall apart, it’s going to be with me? For me?”
He sucks in a sharp breath.
The shrill sound of Beckett’s cell phone cuts through the air, causing him to jump and me to let out a deep chuckle. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone and keys.
“Sorry, I need to take this,” he mutters, fumbling his phone and fishing his keys out of his pocket with the other hand. “Hey, Lucas, what’s up?”
The name hits like ice down my spine.
I take the keys from him, with a little more force than necessary, and turn away. I’m at the door when his words catch up to me.