Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Joey
I love my bed.
With my eyes closed, I pull my fluffy blanket up under my chin, nestling into the warmth and relishing the comfort of sleeping in on a Saturday after a shit week of work.
I’ve dozed off again when my chest constricts, making it hard to breathe.
Weird.
It doesn’t feel like an oncoming asthma attack and this pressure is. . .warm and. . .rumbly? That can’t be right. I crack open one eye, my vision blurry, and find a ball of orange fuzz perched on top of me. It takes my sleep-addled mind a moment to register that the fuzzball is actually Barbara.
Eyes widening, I gasp, and the orange loaf of a cat zeroes in on me, her deep amber eyes piercing into my soul, and meows.
Judging me. Per usual.
“You know how to open doors?” I murmur. “Do you speak human? Perform witchcraft while your dad isn’t home?”
Barbara stands and casually pads away in the direction of my bedside table.
I turn over, keeping my focus on her as she strolls across my blanket. “What are you doing?”
The demon looks at me over her shoulder, then at my phone on the nightstand and back again.
Eyes locked on mine, she swats my phone off the table, sending it clattering to the floor.
“Did we know each other in a past life?” I hiss. “Have I wronged you somehow? What is your deal?”
With a parting glance, she gives me a farewell meow and saunters away, slipping through my bedroom’s partially open door.
Sunlight breaks through the curtains, streaming into my room. Shadows from the windblown trees dance across the wall, hypnotizing me.
When I hear rustling in the kitchen, I lean over the side of the bed and collect my phone to check the time. Then, groggily, I push the covers off and sit up. The moment my bare feet touch the cold wooden floors, I wince. I hate when my feet are cold. Almost as much as I hate being too hot.
My body wasn’t made for extreme temperatures. Dry heat, extreme winters, and torrential rain are not for me. I need a nice not-too-hot-and-not-too-cold temperature. Preferably with low humidity, partly cloudy skies, and maybe a dash of a gentle breeze.
I slip my frigid feet into my slippers, then pull on an oversized sweater and wander to the kitchen.
Yawning, I rub my eyes as I turn the corner. “You should’ve told me Barbara knows how to open—what the hell is happening in here?”
I pull up short, taking in the muscular, tattooed back that belongs to my roommate, who is currently making pancakes.
Beckett looks at me over his shoulder, shyly smiling.
That single adorable look is almost enough to make me faint. My brain is getting a workout, drinking in every detail of this man.
Beckett is shirtless, his gray sweatpants riding low on his hips. The man is all smooth skin, taut muscle, and ink, the tattoos on his arms bleeding into other in places I’ve never seen.
I wonder where else he has them. . .
And the black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose? They frame his emerald eyes like they’re works of art.
Between his shy smirk and the dark lines of intricate tattoos winding around his toned body, the vision before me is borderline pornographic.
For me, at least.
“Hey,” he says, flipping a pancake. “Thought I’d make pancakes. Is that okay?”
Correction: The vision is pornographic. There’s no borderline about it.
Maybe the universe actually listened when I begged for a small break.
And wow, did it deliver.
The aroma of pancakes and maple syrup fills the air, causing my stomach to growl.
I drop my head to my abdomen, and when I look up again, Beckett is looking at me, brows raised. And, mortifyingly, my stomach releases another embarrassing gurgle.
His responding chuckle fills me with ease. “I’ll take that as a yes. Sit.”
“Should you be cooking without a shirt? Won’t things, like, I don’t know, splatter? Burn? Potentially injure your erm. . .chest?” My choppy words tumble out of my mouth as I respectfully objectify this man in my head.
“I was reading the newspaper earlier, and Barbara hopped up on the island and dumped my coffee on me. Sorry, does it bother you? I can grab another shirt.” The tips of his ears have gone bright red. It’s incredibly endearing.
I bite back a smile. Under no circumstance do I want him to put his shirt back on. I’m usually not the biggest fan of receiving gifts, but this is a gift I’ll gladly accept without question or hesitation.
I wave a dismissive hand. “I’ve seen bare-chested men before. Some I wish I could burn from my memory if I’m being honest.” I shudder as I recall a rather unfortunate experience at a music festival a few years ago, but I shake off the memory quickly. “They don’t faze me one bit.”
That’s a lie. Because this chest? Consider me fazed. Especially when he’s adding strawberries to the pancakes.
As I slide onto the chair, I eye his full coffee mug longingly. I used up the last of my coffee a few days ago and keep forgetting to pick more up, meaning I’ve gone roughly four days without caffeine.
At this point, I would commit unspeakable acts for a cup, but looking at the empty basket next to the coffee machine, it looks like Beckett is out too.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about nurse Beckett since we moved in together, it’s that he needs caffeine in order to make it through his shifts.
Can’t blame the guy one bit.
“Coffee?” he asks, catching me still gazing at the mug on the counter.
Sheepishly, I duck, then dart a look at the empty coffee pod basket. “Oh, no, that’s okay. I don’t want to be a burden and—”
He rounds the island and sets his mug in front of me. “Here. Take mine.”
I shake my head forcefully. “No.”
He tilts his head to the side, cocking one very handsome brow. “Take it.”
I swallow thickly, mesmerized by his determined green eyes and his deep commanding tone. “I’ll buy you more,” I blurt out as I wrap both hands around the mug.
He wanders away and tends to the pancakes. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Spine snapping straight, he spins around. “Why are you apologizing?”
Why am I apologizing?
“I. . .” I inhale, then hold the air in my lungs. “That’s a good question. I’m not sure.”
He returns to my side and hovers over me. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Josephine.”
His reassuring voice causes butterflies to take flight in my stomach.
As he goes back to skillfully flipping pancakes and moving around the kitchen like he’s spent a million Saturdays doing this, a dull ache hits me in the chest.
The scene unfolding before me is a perfect storm to trigger a flurry of emotions that I’m woefully unprepared for. His comforting laughter and the way he leaned in to reassure me just now makes me wonder if there is hope for someone like me.
The always too much girl.
Suddenly, the air in this kitchen feels thick with unspoken possibilities. My heart thrashes in my chest and my hands tremble as I set the mug on the island again. If he keeps going like this, I’m afraid I’ll get too attached and end up disappointed once again.
Despite this fear, this unique kinship we’re forming is a breath of fresh air. The dormant parts of my soul are slowly waking in his presence.
He sets a plate with a stack of strawberry pancakes in front of me, then goes back for the second plate.
Rolling my lips to fight off a smile, I look up at him. “How did you know I like strawberries in my pancakes?”
“Easy,” he says, the single word rolling off his tongue. “There are two boxes of strawberry waffles in the freezer.”
“Wow. Nice to know I’m as easy to read as a coloring book,” I remark with a sly smile.
Brows pinched, Beckett studies me. “You can’t actually read coloring books.”
“Well, uh, yes,” I stammer, warmth creeping up my neck and into my cheeks.
“That’s why they’re easy to read. Because you can’t, you know, read a coloring book.
You need crayons. . .or markers. Really any kind of coloring medium.
It’s all about preference with coloring books.
” I suck in a breath, mentally chastising myself for stumbling into this ridiculous monologue.
“Actually.” I clear my throat. “The joke isn’t that funny now that I think about it.
Ignore me. Please.” Head lowered, I cut into the pancakes and shove a piece into my mouth. Anything to stop myself from talking.
I keep my eyes laser-focused on my plate, chewing the incredibly delicious pancakes. All the while, I can feel Beckett’s attention on me.
Across the room, he exhales slowly, his voice softer than I expect. “I’ll never ignore you.”
That hits me straight in the chest. His words nearly knock the wind out of me, and I have no clue how to respond to that. So, naturally, I stuff my mouth with another forkful of pancakes, putting my chipmunk cheeks on full display.
Chuckling, he turns around and picks up his own plate.
“When do we have to be at the coffee shop?” he asks as he slides into the seat across the kitchen island from me.
I take a sip of coffee to wash down the unusually large panic bite I took, then straighten myself up in my seat. “It starts at seven, though we should probably get there a little early. My sister may combust and she’ll need me there to tell her to keep her eyebrows in check.”
Another one of those delicious chuckles. “That bad?”
“Oof. One unimpressed arch of her brow is enough to make a grown man cry. It’s why Louis won’t set foot into her store.” I shiver at the thought of being on the receiving end of one of her looks.
“Good to know.” He nods thoughtfully. “Do you. . .want to ride together or separately?”
“Together. It’s the first open mic night in the history of Hemlock, so I’m sure parking will be a nightmare.”
“Ever been on a motorcycle?”
I freeze, and as I imagine sitting on the back of his bike with my arms wrapped around his muscular torso, clinging to him as the world blurs by, my pulse kicks up.
Part of me wants to play it cool and say yes. But the more logical side reminds me that he’ll likely catch me in my lie when I fall flat on my ass while trying to get on the back of his bike. “Can’t say I have.”
He angles forward, a flicker of what I swear is hope in his eyes. “Are you interested?”
Am I interested? What a silly question. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to say yes. But I don’t want to come off too eager. Typically, I’d say something akin to “Hell yeah. Let’s go. Right. Now,” which may scare a shy guy like him off.
“Of course I’m interested,” I say, my tone nonchalant as I pick up my coffee.
His skin warms as he smiles down at his plate. And when he looks up at me, those big green eyes bore into my soul. “Wonderful. Be sure to wear jeans and a pair of boots.”
Like this, he’s more handsome than ever—smiling, hair mussed from sleep, shoulders loose with ease. Morning stubble shadows his sharp jaw like soft pencil shading. Framed by the morning light spilling through the large window behind him, Beckett could be mistaken for some kind of celestial being.
On the outside, he looks like he could be the president of a motorcycle club.
On the inside, though, lives a gentle, thoughtful soul.
While many people strive to possess that type of kindness, he doesn’t have to try.
He simply is. He holds an air of quiet confidence that speaks louder than his words.
My chest tightens with a quiet glow. Our interactions are always easy like this. It’s peaceful yet terrifying at the same time. I’ve never seen myself settling down, but for the first time, the possibility of a different future unfolds in front of me.
Except this is all temporary, like a gust of wind that stirs the leaves but is gone as quickly as it came.
My heart sinks. I only feel this way because it’s been so long since I’ve felt truly understood, since I haven’t felt pushed aside like an afterthought.
There are likely thousands of men in the world who could ignite these emotions within me.
He may be the first, but he surely won’t be the last.
Right?
It’s reality, yet a shadow of a doubt lingers in the depths of my heart, softly whispering that Beckett may be the only one whose soul is capable of touching mine.