Chapter 23 #2
Kind of like Beckett is to me.
Hours pass as I shade and highlight to create texture and depth, making sure the flowers burst off the page.
Barbara leaps up onto the couch beside me, then drops her fish toy onto my pad of paper. It lands with a soft plop. The poor thing has seen better days. There’s a hole in the body, and the fabric is pulling apart, the stuffing spilling out onto my sketchpad.
I survey the orange cat who’s wearing a pitiful look. Her large, amber eyes bore into mine, pleading with me to fix her toy. So I pick up the wounded fish and turn it around in my fingers a few times, assessing the damage.
I sigh, my shoulders sinking. “Because I’m not a monster, I’ll patch your little buddy up. Okay?”
Her ears perk up, then she jumps off the couch.
In the kitchen, I rummage through the drawers, looking for a sewing kit.
It doesn’t take long, of course, because like any good kitchen, this one has a junk drawer.
A drawer in which all miscellaneous objects go to live.
. .and die. This one is overflowing with old rubber bands, loose change, and takeout menus dating back to the early nineties. As well as a small sewing kit.
I flick on the overhead light in the kitchen, readying myself to perform surgery.
Barbara, who is now my assistant, jumps onto the counter next to me.
My home economics class in school didn’t make a lasting impression on me, so I can’t say that I’m any good at sewing.
Still, I thread the needle anyway, pick up the fish, and start stitching.
I have to hold the damn fish so close to my face to make such tiny stitches that I’m starting to get a headache.
When the front door opens and closes, I lower my patient. My eyes take a moment to adjust, but when they do, I discover Beckett standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
Tall. Scruffy. And edible.
Naturally, I’m so distracted that I prick myself with the needle.
“Shit.” I bring my finger to my mouth without looking at it. I’m not in the mood to faint again.
Beckett drops his stuff at the door, and in a few quick strides, he’s next to me, pulling my finger from my mouth and holding it with care as he inspects it.
A tingle shoots up my arm at his soft touch.
Blood or no blood, with the way he’s holding my hand and how his warmth seeps into me, I may actually faint.
He looks tired, with purple circles beneath his eyes and extra disheveled hair, as if he’s been running his hands through it. Even like this, he’s undeniably handsome.
Noticing my staring, he smiles lightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “What’s the matter?”
I return his smile, leaning into his touch. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an aesthetically pleasing face?”
With a shake of his head, he barks out a laugh.
“I can say for certain no one has used those exact words. ‘Aesthetically pleasing’? Did you read the dictionary as a kid?” In one smooth move, he slips his fingers between mine, and instantly, the sting from the needle prick gives way to the relentless thumping of my heart in my chest. Each heartbeat echoes in tandem with the rhythmic swipes of his callused thumb gliding over the back of my hand.
I want to kiss him. Bad.
Would that be weird? We haven’t really spoken much about our night together, but we also haven’t seen one another.
As I consider, his eyes dart from our hands to my mouth, like maybe he wants to kiss me too—
Meow.
Jolting, I glare at the cat.
Beckett releases me and picks up the now repaired toy. “I see you performed surgery tonight.” His grin lights up his entire face. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stitched this thing up. I’m shocked it’s lasted this long.” He tosses the fish to Barbara, who just glares at him.
“Uh. Why does she look like she wants to murder you?”
With a sigh, he checks his watch. “It’s past her banana time.”
“Her what?”
“Every night she gets a piece of banana. If not, she’ll throw a tantrum.” He makes his way over to the fruit bowl and plucks out a ripe banana. Then he breaks a small piece off and holds it out to her.
With my brows pinched together and gaze firmly on Barbara, I ask, “What do you do with the rest of the banana?”
He lets out a weary breath. “I hate bananas with a passion. So I usually compost them. If I can’t compost them, then I eat them. I just try not to gag.”
A laugh bubbles out of me.
He crosses his arms, his shirt stretching over his thick biceps. “What’s so funny?”
This is such a ridiculous fact. And oddly fitting for our whole relationship. . .or friendship. . .or whatever it is we have.
“Bananas are my favorite fruit,” I say, not bothering to temper my smile. “Did you know humans share like 50 percent of their DNA with bananas?”
“Uh. No?”
“Does this mean that you hate 50 percent of yourself? Wow, we need to work on your self-esteem, buddy.” I grimace teasingly.
He rolls his eyes, clearly over my antics. “Just for that, you’re in charge of giving Barb her nightly banana,” he says, pointing the fruit at me.
“Are you trying to offload your parenting duties on me because you don’t like a fruit that shares half of your DNA? I expected more from you, Hart.” I tsk.
“Easy there, Thorne.” He shuffles closer and sets the banana in front of me. “Here. Get your potassium in for the day.”
I wince. “I can’t eat that in front of you.”
“Why?” He tilts his head.
Brows raised, I look from him to the phallic-shaped fruit and back again.
“Oh. Oh. Totally fair. I respect that.”
The poor guy’s cheeks turn so red that I almost feel bad. It’s incredibly endearing. This tough-looking guy, with chiseled features and a body covered in ink, blushes so easily.
The clock behind him catches my eye, and I sigh. “I should probably head to bed. I need to be up early tomorrow.” I slide out of the chair, but before I can go far, Beckett stops me with a hand at my elbow.
My chest flutters at the contact, and suddenly, I don’t feel so tired. And when he speaks five simple words, every cell in my body is reawakened.
“Eat dinner with me, please.”