Chapter 22
“One small truth… One small truth…” I can do that. I can totally do that. Just because I’ve realized that I’m madly in love with the man and it’s all I can think about does not mean I’m going to blurt out “I love you.” I can totally play this cool. I’m sooooo cool.
I do double finger guns as I stand in front of his door.
We speak of this to no one.
The door swings open and—oh. Looks like we are doing this tonight. Dom’s in a dark T-shirt that fits like it was stitched directly onto his chest, sleeves hugging his biceps, jeans slung low. My mouth goes dry.
I swallow. “F-fuck, you’re hot.”
His eyebrow lifts, slow and amused. “You okay there, little mouse?”
Well. Not an I love you, but still an overshare. My cheeks heat. “I meant to say… hi.”
He chuckles, low and pleased, like he keeps a private file of things that fluster Beckett. “Come in.”
The house smells like roasted garlic and rosemary and something buttery that makes my stomach purr. I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen.
“It smells amazing in here,” I say, trying not to sound impressed and failing.
“Potatoes are in the oven,” he says, turning toward the stove. “And I’m about to put the steaks on—”
He spins faster than I expect, and I walk straight into him. I wobble, arms flailing for dignity, but he’s already got me, one arm around my waist, pulling me in, steadying me like it’s nothing.
“Careful,” he murmurs, and because he’s Dom, because he can’t help himself, he dips his head and kisses me.
It’s not the hungry kind. It’s the I’m-glad-you’re-here kind. Soft, lingering, our lips brushing once, then again, until a small, humiliating sigh escapes me.
He smiles against my mouth. “Hi,” he says, like that was our real hello.
“Hi,” I breathe, fingers curling in his shirt so he can’t go far.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes flicking over my face like he’s checking I ate, slept, and didn’t self-destruct today. “Shit,” he says suddenly. “I didn’t even ask if you’d eaten. Or if you were hungry. I just started cooking.”
“Dom,” I say, laughing. “You made me dinner. I’m not gonna complain.”
He shrugs, a little sheepish, which is not a look I see often on Mr. Control. “I just thought… maybe you deserved someone cooking for you for once.”
The way he says it makes heat crawl up my neck. I nudge his chest with mine. “So you’re saying this is, like, a date?”
“Oh, it’s a date,” he says, voice going low. “A very well-fed date.”
“I do like to be eaten,” I say, letting the innuendo hang.
His eyes darken. “Behave.”
“No.”
He huffs a laugh and finally lets me go—well, not really lets me go, more like rearranges me so I’m leaning against the counter while he moves around the kitchen. It’s unfair how attractive he is. He opens the oven, checks the potatoes, before he grabs the plate of steaks and heads outside.
I watch him, following along like a puppy. “You know this is rude, right?”
“What is?”
“Being this hot.”
He tosses me a look over his shoulder. “You showed up in those jeans,” he says. “Don’t start.”
“These are normal jeans, non-spandex.”
“These are I-want-you-to-look-at-my-ass jeans.”
I grin. “Did it work?”
“Yes,” he says without missing a beat, dropping the steaks on the grill, where they hiss. “It always works.”
I bite my lip. “I like when you look.”
“I like when you know I’m looking,” he counters.
Okay, that’s… unfairly sexy.
He comes back to me while the steaks are searing, hands braced on either side of my hips, caging me against the table. He’s not even touching me yet, and my pulse speeds up.
“What were you saying to yourself before I opened the door?”
“Oh, you heard that, did you?”
“The finger guns were cute.” He winks.
Fuck me now. So embarrassing.
“Well, it’s simple. You start by telling someone one small truth. Finn says it helps ease the weight.”
“One small truth,” he says quietly, echoing the thing I promised myself at the door. “Tell me one.”
I blink up at him. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
I swallow. I love you is right there, sharp and bright, on the tip of my tongue.
“I missed you today,” I say instead. “Like… distracting-level missed you.”
His eyes soften instantly, the bossy edges melting. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I pick at the hem of his shirt. “Felt weird not seeing you.”
He exhales as if I just handed him oxygen. “Good,” he says, brushing his thumb slowly over my lower lip. “Because I missed you too. So much.”
That gets me. I lean forward and kiss him again, deeper this time. He tastes like every good decision I’ve ever made. His hand slides around to the small of my back, pressing me closer, and my whole body lights up.
The grill pops behind him, and he pulls away with a groan. “If I burn your steak, you’re never gonna let me live it down.”
“Correct,” I say, breathless.
He kisses my forehead—domestic, ugh—and goes back to the grill, finishing up like it’s no big deal that he just set my entire nervous system on fire.
It’s a beautiful night, so I set the table outside, both of us stealing glances. His jaw’s tight in concentration, forearm flexing as he plates. This is a man who likes taking care of people. Of me.
When he brings the plates over, he doesn’t sit across from me, he sits next to me, thigh pressed to mine, like we’ve done this a hundred times.
I nudge him. “You know, this is really good boyfriend behavior.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re complaining?”
“Not even a little,” I say, unable to hide my smile.
He smirks, takes a bite, then turns the fork toward me. “Eat.”
I do. And yeah… I’m so, so gone.
The meal tastes wonderful, just as I knew it would. He says he can’t cook, but I think it’s more that he just doesn’t. I get it; it’s hard when you live alone. Making a big meal for just one person amplifies the loneliness.
I clear the dishes, rinse them, load the dishwasher, and lean against the counter while it hums to life.
His kitchen isn’t shiny or new, but it’s honest: good light, wide counters, space to breathe.
I could cook here. I want to. I wonder if he’d let me come over and use it whenever I wanted to.
It’s a boyfriend perk, right? The thought of this big grumbly man moving around this kitchen alone tightens something under my ribs.
Out the window, Dom’s on the back patio, setting cushions on the bench he built with his own hands.
He said it was for me, but the way he lowers himself onto it carefully, like he’s easing down into his own thoughts, makes me think it’s for him too.
I can almost see the overlook where he told me about his father.
The bench is another overlook, just closer to home.
A reminder of some of the things on his mind.
I pour two bourbons and head outside. He looks up when I open the door, that small shift in his mouth saying, you’re here.
“I thought maybe you could use one,” I say, handing him a glass before sliding in beside him.
“Thank you.” His palm lands warm on my thigh. Not possessive. Anchoring.
I take a sip and rest my head on his shoulder. “I like this,” I murmur.
He kisses my hair. “Me too.”
We sit like this in silence, just watching nature fly by, before he finally speaks.
“I’ve decided to go to my father’s parole hearing.”
I press a kiss on his shoulder, then tip my chin to look up at him. “Okay.”
He stares ahead, jaw working. “I don’t want him out.
He was… mean isn’t the word. He made everything small.
Me. My mother. The house. Like we needed his permission to exist.” He swallows, thumb brushing once over my leg as if to apologize for the weight he’s letting go of.
“I haven’t seen him in twenty years, and somehow I still feel twelve when I think about him. I hate that.”
I cover his hand with mine. “You don’t owe him anything.”
“I know,” he says softly. “But I owe myself something. I want to look those people in the eye and tell the truth. And then I want to walk out and not carry him around with me anymore.” He drags in a breath. “I, umm… I was going to ask if you’d come. Just… to be there.”
My heart kicks. “Say when and where. I’ll be there.” Never a question, never a doubt. I know I will always be there for this man. I’ll be the person who loves him and shows him how many people he has in his corner.
He nods, and some of the tightness eases from his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Always,” I say. “And Dom? Whatever he did, whoever he was… that’s not you. You’re the man who builds benches to find peace, creates beauty on skin, and kisses me like you mean it. That’s who you are.”
He turns to me, gratitude showing in his eyes. He sets his glass down, takes mine, and sets it beside his, our fingers brushing. The touch sparks straight through me.
“Beckett,” he says, my name a rough edge. “I keep thinking if I let you all the way in, I’ll lose control.”
“You won’t,” I whisper, scooting closer until my knee presses his. “You’ll just have company.”
Something in him loosens; I feel it like a shiver. His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, careful and sure, and I lean into it, covering his wrist with my fingers. The air between us tightens, charged.
The first kiss is unhurried, a seal pressed into a promise. The second lands deeper, heat building low in my stomach, his thumb stroking beneath my ear until my whole body leans toward him. He tastes of something that feels a lot like home.
When we break, our foreheads touch. His breath skates across my mouth.
“So you’ll come with me,” he says, not a question.
“Yes,” I murmur, smiling. “But if you need to hear it again…”
“I do.”
“I will always come with you wherever you go,” I tell him, and he exhales. His hand drags up the front of his shirt, knuckles grazing skin and muscle. The night hums around us, the bench solid at our backs, the bourbon forgotten on the railing.
“Inside?” he asks, voice gone low.
“In a minute,” I say, stealing one more kiss that lands hungry this time, a tease of teeth and promises. “I like the view.”