Beckett’s cooked for a full room, cooked for all of us crammed into one place, but he’s never cooked just for me. There’s a flutter in my chest that absolutely does not belong to me. I push it down.Way down. Concrete, rebar, three feet of dirt. It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m about to have him here… alone.
I do another lap of the living room. The house is quiet. Too quiet. I don’t know why I’ve never noticed it before. It feels… hollow. Old, like everything is covered in a fine layer of dust. It’s not, but you know what I mean.
I check the time again.
Have I mentioned how much tardiness pisses me off? It’s disrespectful. That’s the line I’ve always used. But this doesn’t feel like annoyance, it feels like worry sliding under my skin. Beckett was arguing with that Lucas guy on the phone. Now he’s coming to stay. That doesn’t sound like “safe, stable ex-colleague.” It sounds like trouble. What if he shows up and won’t leave? What if Beckett’s too tired, too worn down, to shove him out?
My jaw tightens. I can still see the version of him who came back to tell Finn that his mom had passed away. It only took one look at Jaxon to see the concern etched across his face as he took in Beckett’s appearance. He’d lost weight, had bags under his eyes, and his shoulders looked like they were holding the weight of the world. Not to mention the way he sank into the hug with Jaxon. It was a dead giveaway.
What we don’t know is what made him pack up and move back home, leaving his dream of being a fancy chef behind. And this Lucas guy? Who the fuck is he?
Tonight would be as good a time as any to get some information on this mystery man from Beckett’s past.
I scrub a hand over my face and force myself to sit. My leg bounces. I get back up.
Lucas… What kind of name is Lucas?
This isn’t like me. I don’t spin stories, don’t chase what-ifs. I fix what’s in front of me and keep moving. But Beckett’s not just someguy from Jaxon’s past anymore, and the idea of him opening that door to someone who hurt him…
Yeah. No.
Tonight’s as good a time as any to ask a few careful questions, to listen instead of hovering like some overbearing bodyguard. Get the truth about California. Figure out who Lucas is.
Headlights reflect through the living room windows, and I sigh in relief… until I get a closer look…What the fuck?
Panic sets in, making my heart rate kick up. I’m out the door and to the driver’s side before Beckett even gets out of his car. Nausea curls in the pit of my stomach, and my hand shakes as I reach for the handle.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a rush, opening the driver’s side door in haste. The sound of scraping metal is like nails on a chalkboard.
Beckett runs his hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. “Cement barrier won.”
I crouch down, not caring that I’m in his personal space. “What happened?” I ask again, this time turning his chin from side to side so I can get a closer look at his face, then feeling around his head.
“I’m fine. I promise,” he laughs, batting my hand away. “As I was driving over the bridge on Spruce Street, I got a flat tire, which sent my car careening into the cement barrier. I was able to limp it the rest of the way. The steering is okay. I just don’t have a car jack.”
I flip him upside the head.
“I know, I know,” he says before I lean back to get a glimpse of the driver’s side tire. The rim is all mangled, and half of the tire is missing.
“Head inside, and I’ll grab the groceries.” I hold out my hand to help him out of the car.
“Oh my God, Dom,” he groans, slapping my hand away again. “I can walk and carry a few bags of groceries.”
“Beckett,” I warn.
“What?” he asks, that smug little smirk tugging at his mouth. He enjoys riling me up, I’ve noticed. For months now, his favorite game has been “Poke the Dom.”
“Don’t argue with me. Inside.” I leave no room for discussion, giving him a gentle nudge toward the door.
“Wait, at least let me carry my laundry. Bossy motherfucker,” he mutters, carrying the laundry basket inside.
Standing back, I survey the damage. It’s hard to see everything in the fading light, but it’s bad. I’ll pull it into the garage later, where I can get a better look at it. Hopefully, he has a spare, but who knows, since he doesn’t even have a jack. If I can get the tire changed, then he can make it home, and tomorrow I’ll call Frank at the shop, see if he can rush a rim and tire.
When I’d first seen his car limping into my driveway, the front end chewed up, a sharp panic had clamped around my chest. I haven’t unpacked why. Haven’t unpacked why I was out the front door before I realized I was barefoot, the cold pavement biting at my feet.
Sighing, I grab the groceries out of the back seat and head inside.
Beckett’s at the kitchen sink, staring out the window when I set the bags on the counter.
