Chapter 5 #2
“Next week? You’re coming next week? Yeah, of course, as long as you don’t mind a lumpy couch,” he says with an easy laugh. “Or we can cuddle.”
I pause just long enough to feel my jaw clench, then shove the door open.
Fine.
I’ll take it out on the tire.
I don’t remember the last time my house smelled like a real home-cooked meal. Fuck, it smells amazing. Beckett walks in from the laundry room, rolling up his sleeves, hair a little mussed.
“Find everything you needed?” I ask.
“Yeah, thanks. Just switched my stuff into the dryer.” That glint in his eyes is pure trouble. “It was a pretty large load.”
I give him a flat look. “Oh, really? Were you able to fit it all in?”
“Of course,” he says, lips twitching. “At first I thought it’d be a tight fit, but then I realized how deep it was. Had my whole arm in there at one point.”
My brain: the washer.
My body: not the washer.
And just like that, my dick turns to steel. There are endless possibilities of how to shut that smart mouth of his up.
I turn toward the table and stop. It’s set for two—actual plates, folded napkins, two wineglasses, a bottle breathing in the center, and a basket of bread. It’s not very often my table gets dressed up like it’s spending a night on the town.
Beckett sets a plate in front of me with a little flourish.
“Tonight, for your dining pleasure, we have a perfectly cooked honey-glazed salmon, complemented with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus. And because I care about your soul, I also took one for the team and picked up a bottle of chardonnay from Ms. Brandy.”
He pours us each a glass and sits down.
“This looks and smells amazing. You didn’t have to cook just to use my washing machine. I want you to know that, but I’m not complaining.”
“What, you don’t cook?” he interrupts, feigning scandal.
I take a bite, moaning around my fork at how amazing it tastes. I can see a happy smirk on the curve of Beckett’s lips.
“No, I don’t cook. Unless you count making coffee and toast as cooking? I am pretty skilled with the microwave, though.”
Beckett throws his head back in laughter. This weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s almost like… warm and fuzzy… What the fuck!
“I can cook steak,” I say, trying to redeem myself even if it’s only a little. “I’m a master of the grill.”
He leans back, looking out the sliding glass door leading to the back yard. “You mean master of the gas grill?” he says, arching an eyebrow in challenge.
“And my charcoal grill, sitting on the other side out of view.”
“You might have to prove it to me sometime,” Beckett says before taking a sip of his wine, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink.
“I might just have to,” I murmur.
He clears his throat, eyes dropping to the table. “With how pretty this table is, I thought you at least did a little cooking.”
I may not cook, but that doesn’t mean I skimped on the quality of my kitchen table. Every morning, I come downstairs, grab the paper from the front step, sit at this table, and enjoy a cup of coffee.
“Thank you. I made it.”
He chokes on his wine. “You—Dom, you made this?”
“Jeez, don’t sound so shocked.”
“I didn’t mean…” He shakes his head. “It’s stunning. The lines, the grain… brilliant choice.”
“You know wood?” I ask, wiggling my brows, taking another bite just to keep from grinning.
He snorts. “I know kitchen tables. This one’s cookbook worthy. I can see it covered in a winter holiday spread. A turkey framed in the center, with pies all around.”
“I got a large slab of English walnut from a buddy of mine. It took me a while to get it sanded down just how I wanted it, but I’m happy with how it turned out.”
The conversation slips into something easy. It feels nice, sitting down at the kitchen table and enjoying a meal with someone.
Beckett asks me a million questions about the making of the table. I tell him about my technique and some of the other pieces of furniture I’ve made. My favorite is my headboard.
“That sounds gorgeous,” he says, standing to take his plate to the sink. “I’d love to see it sometime.”
I follow, stepping up behind him so my chest brushes his back. “That your subtle way of asking to see my bedroom?”
He rinses the plate and slides it into the dishwasher. “You can tell a lot about a man from his bedroom. Bed made? Nightstand clutter? Does he own a hamper?”
“Yes, I own a hamper,” I say, handing him my plate before heading back to the table.
I clear the table, watching him over my shoulder. “Earlier you said this table would be perfect for a cookbook. That something you’ve thought about? Doing one?”
The light dims in his expression. “I was thinking about it.”
I place my hand on his waist, angling his hips so he’s facing me, and tilt my head in question. “Why aren’t you still thinking about it?” I ask.
He hesitates. “Trusted the wrong people.”
“Is that why you left LA?”
“Can we please not talk about LA? I know you’re all worried about me. And I know the only reason you’re hanging around me so much is that Jaxon asked you to.”
That hits like a punch.
“Is that what you think?” I ask. “That I’m only friends with you because of Jaxon?” I can’t deny that in the beginning I was doing a favor for my best friend while he was off falling in love. But I can’t say the same now.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, gaze dropping to the floor. “Is that what we even are? Friends?”
I’ve made a mess of this. Royally fucked up if that’s his takeaway. How could I have been so blind as not to have noticed Beckett questioning the sincerity of my friendship with him?
Beckett chews on his bottom lip. I find myself wanting to kiss away the bruise he’s bound to leave. I cup his cheek with one hand, wrapping the other firmly around his waist.
“Yeah, Beckett,” I say quietly. “We’re friends.”
His eyes flick up, wounded and stubborn, unconvinced.
My thumb traces his lips before pulling the bottom one free. My eyes are hyperfocused on the soft, meaty flesh. I want a taste. Oh, how I want a taste. I wanna know what it feels like to shut that mouth of his with mine. But I also want to kiss the worry away.
“But that’s not all we are,” I add, voice low.
His breath stutters. “No?”
“You drive me insane,” I murmur. “You poke. You push. You say things about your large load in my laundry room like you’re not trying to kill me.”
He huffs out a startled laugh, color blooming in his cheeks.
“Don’t play dumb,” I say, stepping closer until his back meets the counter and there’s nowhere for him to go but into me. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
He tilts his chin, brattiness flaring. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”
“Careful, little mouse,” I warn, letting my fingers tighten at his waist just enough for him to feel it. “You keep poking, I’m going to assume you’re ready for where that leads.”
“And if I am?” he shoots back, eyes dark, voice softer.
There it is—that line we’ve been dancing on for weeks.
I bend my head, hover a breath from his mouth, letting the tension sing between us. “Then you say it,” I murmur. “Clearly. So I know it’s you choosing it. Not Jaxon. Not some game. You.”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and my control wobbles.
“I’m here,” he whispers. “Cooking for you. Doing my laundry here. Torturing you a little. How much clearer do you want, big guy?”
That does it. The need hits like a wave, and I give up pretending I can stand in it.
I lean in and cover his mouth with mine.
His kiss tastes exactly like I thought it would: honey and spices.
I take that bottom lip he was abusing and lick away the tender flesh.
His fingers fist in my shirt, and my whole body lights up, a live wire running from the back of my neck down my spine.
My dick twitches on its way to becoming painfully hard against my jeans.
He tastes like everything.
Fuck. What am I doing?
He asked me if we were even friends five minutes ago because I made him doubt why I’m here, and my answer is to kiss him like I’ve been starving for it. Real smooth. And if Jaxon saw this? He’d probably throw confetti and call it a breakthrough, but that’s not the point.
The point is that Beckett has already been used. Hurt. Taken from. And here I am, the guy with control issues and a fucked-up family tree, pinning him between my hands and calling it a good idea.
I am not the safe choice. I am not the soft landing. I am a bad idea in a black T-shirt.
The thought hits hard enough that my grip falters. Best kiss of my life, and I’m wrecking it in real time.
I force myself to ease back, breaking the contact inch by inch, his breath still mingling with mine.
“Fuck,” I rasp. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. That was a—”
“I swear to fucking God, if you say mistake…”
Steam rolls off him, righteous and hurt, and I deserve every bit of it.
I can’t seem to get a full breath. Shame crawls up my throat. I wanted to show him he matters, but instead, I handed him another reason to question it.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly, and turn away before I drag us both further into this mess.
I take the stairs two at a time, get to the bathroom, close the door with a soft click, and let my head fall back against it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I lean over the sink, turning on the water, splashing my face, like that’s gonna make me see clearly. Shit, it works in the movies.
I don’t regret the kiss. Not one bit. It wasn’t a mistake. The taste of him will never be a mistake. But I need to know that I’m not taking advantage of him. That he’s in the right headspace. And I would feel a hell of a lot better about it if I knew what happened in LA.
Fuuuuuuuck, I could’ve soooo handled this better. What’s wrong with me? Walking away was not the best move.
I splash my face a few more times and dry off with a towel before heading back downstairs to make this right and apologize for walking away.
“Baby, I’m sorry. The kiss wasn’t a…” I trail off.
Mother fucking fuck!
He left.