Dom clears his throat, and I look down, watching myself as I give his pec a squeeze. “Right.” I quickly remove my hand. “I’ll stop at the store on my way over and pick up a few things.”
“You cooking…” he says, eyes finally clearing. “Is not payment. It’s bribery. The good kind.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“That’s a yes,” he concedes.
I shuffle through recipes and land on honey-glazed salmon. “Perfect.”
He leans in a fraction, voice gone low. “I want to eat whatever you make.”
Heat zips down my spine. “Careful, big guy. You can’t say things like that in my kitchen.”
“Then stop looking at me like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to climb me.”
I grin slowly. “What if I do?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his hand slides almost absent-mindedly to rest on the back of the chair near my hip. “Little mouse,” he returns, and the nickname lands soft and filthy all at once.
“Six?” I manage.
“Six,” he echoes, stepping back. “Text me a list if you need anything from the store.”
“I only need one thing,” I say, reckless now.
He arches a brow.
“You, opening the door at six… I mean, because I’ll have my hands full. With food… for us to eat. I mean… with our mouths.”Jesus… Fuck.Have I mentioned I suck at flirting?
His mouth tips up, barely. “Done.”
He gathers his tools and heads for the door, but then he pauses and looks back. “And Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
He takes me in, all of me—the messy table, the evidence of a day that didn’t go my way… “Commando was a terrible idea.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, innocent as a saint.
“Because I’m trying to be respectful,” he says, and leaves me with nothing but the echo of that and the warm, infuriating knowledge that dinner is going to be a very, very long wait.
Istop in the middle of the living room and bounce once on the worn, too-soft carpet. It squishes under my heel in a way that irritates me. Mental note: replace it. Add it to the list of things I keep meaning to fix when I’m not… pacing like a caged idiot.
I start again. Down the length of the couch. Past the window. Turn. Repeat.
Why am I pacing?
Successful question. Hard pass.
I cut through to the kitchen, then into the laundry nook. The detergent and dryer sheets sit on the top shelf. I pull them down and line them up on the machine, so Beckett won’t have to dig around. It’s a stupid detail, but my brain has apparently decided this is life-or-death.
Check my watch again.
Back to the kitchen. Countertops, wiped. Sink, empty. Stove, clean. Trash, tied. I open the fridge, then close it again. He doesn’t need to see a mess.
