23
Penny
“For fuck’s sake,” I hiss while attempting to retrieve the wooden spoon I just dropped on the floor for the third time in the past two minutes.
It took six days for my pulled muscle to improve, and even though my doctor cleared me to get out of bed and move around as long as I ‘took it easy’, the twinge in my pelvis whenever I try to push it makes it impossible to simply bend and pick up a spoon, and my foot cramps like a bitch every time I attempt to grab the handle with my toes. To top it all off, my blood pressure has only slightly lowered, and I’m still feeling disgusting after having to fast and then down a whole bunch of overly sugary drinks in between getting stabbed in the arm yesterday.
Fucking glucose test .
“I give up,” I groan dramatically, collapsing onto the kitchen island, and placing my forehead on the cool granite countertop.
Today was the first day Beckett left me unattended, and I jumped at the opportunity to do something for myself, and now I feel like I shouldn’t have even bothered getting out of bed.
“Pen?”
Speak of the bloody devil. Should have known he’d only stay away for half an hour.
Beckett’s voice echoes through the house, followed by the sound of the front door closing behind him. I don’t care enough to move, given I’m comfortable right here, so I just wait for him to come to me.
“Shit, are you okay?” He rushes to my side the moment he spots me, places his hand on my lower back and begins to rub it in slow, soothing circles. He’s gotten far too comfortable touching me since I moved in here. I get that he had to, to help me move to begin with, but now it’s become a habit. “What’s all this?” he asks, bending so that I can see his face. “Just because you can move around doesn’t mean you should be in here cooking.”
He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away what I’m sure is flour from my cheek, and I narrow my eyes at him, not impressed with his chastising tone. “I’m fine . I just dropped my spoon.”
His lips twitch as if he’s fighting a smile. “I see,” he says, shaking his head before bending down to retrieve the bastard of a utensil sitting on the floor by my foot. “If you were hungry, Love, you should have just messaged me. No need for you to be in here-”
“I’m a baker. I bake . I wasn’t hungry. I was trying to get some shit done for the café. I need to make a bunch of cakes, muffins, cookies and a caramel slice to get them through the next few days. Evie and Molly can handle making the sandwiches and wraps just fine, but they’re hopeless in the kitchen. Plus, I’ve seen all the messages from our customers asking why none of their favourite cakes have been available.”
He scoffs and places the spoon down beside me. “I just stopped in there to check on everything and they’re fine. The cake display was fully stocked.”
My frustration has me straightening a little too quickly, and I wince in pain as my muscles contract. “Not with my cakes!”
I understand they needed to outsource some things when I was on complete bedrest, but now, I’m not, so…
“Penny.”
“Beckett.”
“You haven’t even looked at the stack of resumes sitting on the dining table, have you?”
Fuck him for bringing those up.
It’s bad enough that Evie dropped them over here yesterday for me to ‘read through’ because they’ve all decided I need to cut back my hours at my own damn cafe, but now he’s going to pester me about actually considering any of those incompetent hacks to take over for me?
Please .
I cross my arms and scowl at him. “You told me to rest.”
We stand there, in what feels like a staring contest for a few seconds, before he shakes his head again and silently walks out of the room, leaving me there confused and a little unsure if I won that argument or not.
I huff out a frustrated breath, untie the white frilly apron I bought as a joke to keep here months ago, and place it on the counter to my right, just as he re-enters the kitchen with a dark brown leather recliner, that usually, lives in the lounge room.
“What in the fuck-”
“Sit,” he commands, pointing at it. “Now.” I raise an eyebrow and cock my hip, but it doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t even blink. “Sit your pretty ass down right now or I’m going to come over there and make you.”
I think about fighting him, about protesting, but honestly, it’s going to be a lot more comfortable arguing with him from that chair than here, so I walk myself over to it like a big girl and sit down.
I groan the moment I relax into the recliner and watch as Beckett nods to himself, as if ticking something off his mental to-do list, and then walks over to the kitchen counter. I frown as he picks up my apron, tugs it over his head, and then ties it around his waist. It looks ridiculous, barely fitting his oversized frame, and I have to force myself not to laugh as he once again nods to himself.
After he places the wooden spoon he retrieved from the floor into the sink, wipes up the flour I left on the counter, and pulls a new spoon from the second drawer of his kitchen island, he finally looks at me.
I quirk an eyebrow at him and grins from ear to ear, making my stomach flutter.
I’d blame the baby, but I know the difference between his movements and the feelings I’ve been having for his father.
“Alright, let’s do it,” Beckett says, clapping his hands together.
“Do what?”
“Bake.”
“I’m sorry?” I reply, failing to keep the humour from my tone.
“Teach me, Love. You need this shit done? Fine. I’m here. I’m more than capable with my hands.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. “So, teach me.”
Teach him? It took me fucking years to learn how to bake. It’s not as simple as ‘put this in this and mix the shit out of it.’ It’s an exact science. My art .
“Beckett…”
“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head. “You’ve got two options here. You either sit right there, talk me through the process and let me help you, or I’ll put your pregnant ass in the bedroom and do it my damn self.”
I want to argue, I really do, but we both know he’s not bluffing and I’m way too exhausted to spend the next few minutes bickering with him only to be put in time out.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “If you really want to spend your afternoon wasting my ingredients, go for it. I’ll teach you, but I promise you it’s a hell of a lot harder than it seems.”
With a wide, victorious smile, he rubs his hands together and stretches his neck out, dropping it from one shoulder to the other. “Let’s do this.”
Three hours later, Beckett tugs my frilly, chocolate batter-stained apron off and tosses it onto the kitchen island as I shove the last bite of mud cake into my mouth, unable to contain the groan that follows.
“Good, huh?” he asks smugly.
“It’ll do,” I reply, my words muffled by my chocolatey mouthful.
He snorts, takes the now empty plate from my hand, and turns around. I lick my fingers clean as he hunches over the sink and rinses my dish, the thick muscles in his back visibly bunching under his firm fitting dark green t-shirt as he moves. While he’s preoccupied, I allow myself a moment to appreciate how sexy he looks covered in flour and smears of cake batter, and then, before I can do anything stupid, I snap myself out of it.
After clearing my throat and wiping my damp fingers on my sweatpants, I announce that I’m going to the bathroom. He doesn’t respond, but the moment I attempt to stand, his head snaps toward me. “Wait,” he says, turning off the tap and dropping the dish into the sink.
In three big strides, he’s looming over me. I look up as he looks down, and something in my chest sparks to life. “Up you go,” he says, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt before wrapping them around my biceps and lifting me.
I crane my head back as he places me on my feet and stare into his eyes. They’re so green. Have they always been this green?
“You alright?” he asks, his voice low and husky, as I continue to explore the five different shades of green that make up his irises.
“Hmm?”
We’re standing so close that as I breathe in, my stomach touches the damp material of his shirt.
I feel like I’m in some kind of trance.
What the fuck is happening right now?
I don’t move, don’t look away…
“You’ve got…” He moves a hand from my arm, slowly raises it between us, and then uses his thumb to brush the corner of my mouth. I let him, because there’s something about the way he’s looking at me right now that’s holding me captive.
“All gone,” he whispers.
I stare at his mouth as he forms the words, and watch as the muscle of his jaw twitches. He leans down and I don’t stop him. I crane my neck back further, and I don’t say a word as the warmth of his breath ghosts along my lips. When he looks into my eyes, wraps his hand around my jaw, and silently asks for permission, I just stand there, holding my breath, because even though I know I should tell him to stop, I can’t. I don’t want him to. I remain silent as his thumb strokes my cheek, and then, when his lips finally touch mine, it feels as though my entire body exhales with relief. He lingers there, teasing me with his taste as I hesitantly cup his face and run my fingers through his stubble, remembering the feeling.
“Pen,” he whispers, tilting his head to the left and leaning into my hand. “Love. Tell me this is okay…”
Our eyes meet, and I shake my head, but the moment he tries to pull away, I cover his mouth with my own, and I kiss him again. It is the sweetest, most tender kiss we’ve ever shared. He’s so gentle. So careful with me. That is until he slides his hand from my jaw to my neck and holds me in place. He pulls back for a moment and just breathes against my mouth before tugging my bottom lip between his teeth. I whimper from the sting, but when he deepens the kiss, my knees go weak from the pressure of his lips, and I open, just slightly, to let him in.
“Fuck,” he whispers, tightening his grip on my throat. “I forgot how good you taste.”
“Beck-”
BANG, BANG, BANG.
I jump at the noise of someone banging on the front door, and when I pull away from Beckett, the backs of my legs hit the recliner and I almost fall on my ass, but he catches me, hands wrapping tightly around my arms.
“Was that-”
“Someone at the door?” His voice is so deep and rough the words come out as more of a growl. “Yes.”
“I…” I begin, but with his eyes still boring into my soul like that, I can’t find the words.
What did we just do?
Beckett cocks his head to the side, studying my expression, but thankfully, just as he opens his mouth to speak, another knock at the door cuts him off.
We both remain silent for a moment, and breathe in each other’s air, and then, after making sure I’m steady on my feet, he releases me and takes a step back. “I should get that.”
The break in connection feels about the same as having a cold bucket of water tossed over my head. I clear my throat and do my best to avoid his eyes. “Yep.”
He deflates, but nods as I move around him slowly, carefully, and begin my escape to the bathroom. “Pen,” he calls out when I’m halfway down the hall.
“Mmm?” I pause, but I don’t turn around.
“We’re going to talk about that later.”
My chest tightens, and I place a hand over my still racing heart, feeling it beat against my palm. Without a word, I continue my way down the hall and into the bathroom.
After closing the heavy wooden door behind me, I sag against it, and stare back at my reflection in the vanity mirror.
My lips are swollen.
My cheeks are flushed.
“Fuck,” I whisper, while running my fingertips over the sensitive skin of my bottom lip. “You stupid bitch…”
A buzzing interrupts my self-scolding and pulls my attention from the mirror. I turn in a circle, confused, searching for the source, and then I spot it.
Beckett’s phone. Sitting on the vanity.
He must have left it here when he stopped for a bathroom break earlier…
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself as I take a step forward, my hand already hovering in front of me.
Oh, whatever.
He left it here, and if I happen to find something I’m not meant to, well, maybe it’ll crush these ridiculous feelings.
With my mind made up, I cross the room, grab the phone, read the message from Ryan on his lock screen, asking when the best time to book in a client consultation is, and then I punch in the passcode he’s always used, and hope like hell he hasn’t changed it.
The moment his phone unlocks, and his home screen appears, I get to work.
I don’t bother looking through his conversation with Ryan, because who cares what they talk about, and the only other texts I find are from male clients. It’s not until I go digging through his Instagram DMs that I find a message from Mia.
Who the fuck is Mia?
MIA: Hey, Beckett! 3 I just wanted to let you know that I LOVE my new tattoo. I can’t wait to get my sternum done next month. Also… Totally random, but is there any chance you want to grab a drink sometime? I felt like we totally vibed today and you’re ridiculously hot LOL! ;)
“You bitch,” I whisper, scrolling down to Beckett’s reply.
BECKETT: Mia. While I’m glad you love your new ink, I think it would be best if you find a new artist to complete any future work. I’m in an incredibly committed relationship, and we most certainly didn’t ‘vibe’ at any point during your appointment. I’ve cancelled your booking for next month and refunded your deposit. I ask that any future communication regarding this matter be via the shop’s email and not my DMs. Thanks.
“Fuck,” I whisper, locking the phone and putting it back where I found it.
That definitely didn’t play out the way I’d expected it to. Why can’t he just be an asshole? It would make everything so much easier.
The thud of the front door closing, followed closely by the sound of running water and clattering plates, has me frowning at the closed bathroom door.
Is he doing the dishes right now?
I’d expected him to chase after me…
To come banging on the door, demanding an explanation, or at the very least, a conversation, about that kiss. But he’s…cleaning.
Slowly, I open the bathroom door, and glance around Becketts empty bedroom, and then I tiptoe down the hallway and into the kitchen.
He is doing the dishes…
I stand there for a moment, watching him as he scrubs a mixing bowl, and I wait.
“You okay?” Beckett asks, eyes still on the sudsy sink.
“I… yeah. I’m okay.”
He nods. “Good. When I’ve finished up in here, you want to watch a movie or something?”
“A movie?”
He chuckles and wipes his cheek against his shoulder. “Yeah. A movie. I’ll even chuck some popcorn in the microwave for you if you behave.”
Well, shit. I guess we’re just ignoring the fact that we kissed…
The question is, why doesn’t that feel like a win?