He sucks in a sharp breath.
The shrill sound of Beckett’s cell phone cuts through the air, causing him to jump and me to let out a deep chuckle. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone and keys.
“Sorry, I need to take this,” he mutters, fumbling his phoneand fishing his keys out of his pocket with the other hand. “Hey, Lucas, what’s up?”
The name hits like ice down my spine.
I take the keys from him, with a little more force than necessary, and turn away. I’m at the door when his words catch up to me.
“Next week? You’re coming next week? Yeah, of course, as long as you don’t mind a lumpy couch,” he says with an easy laugh. “Or we can cuddle.”
I pause just long enough to feel my jaw clench, then shove the door open.
Fine.
I’ll take it out on the tire.
I don’t rememberthe last time my house smelled like a real home-cooked meal. Fuck, it smells amazing. Beckett walks in from the laundry room, rolling up his sleeves, hair a little mussed.
“Find everything you needed?” I ask.
“Yeah, thanks. Just switched my stuff into the dryer.” That glint in his eyes is pure trouble. “It was a pretty large load.”
I give him a flat look. “Oh, really? Were you able to fit it all in?”
“Of course,” he says, lips twitching. “At first I thought it’d be a tight fit, but then I realized how deep it was. Had my whole arm in there at one point.”
My brain:the washer.
My body:not the washer.
And just like that, my dick turns to steel. There are endless possibilities of how to shut that smart mouth of his up.
I turn toward the table and stop. It’s set for two—actual plates, folded napkins, two wineglasses, a bottle breathing in the center,and a basket of bread. It’s not very often my table gets dressed up like it’s spending a night on the town.
Beckett sets a plate in front of me with a little flourish. “Tonight, for your dining pleasure, we have a perfectly cooked honey-glazed salmon, complemented with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus. And because I care about your soul, I also took one for the team and picked up a bottle of chardonnay from Ms. Brandy.”
He pours us each a glass and sits down.
“This looks and smells amazing. You didn’t have to cook just to use my washing machine. I want you to know that, but I’m not complaining.”
“What, you don’t cook?” he interrupts, feigning scandal.
I take a bite, moaning around my fork at how amazing it tastes. I can see a happy smirk on the curve of Beckett’s lips.
“No, I don’t cook. Unless you count making coffee and toast as cooking? I am pretty skilled with the microwave, though.”
Beckett throws his head back in laughter. This weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s almost like… warm and fuzzy…What the fuck!
“I can cook steak,” I say, trying to redeem myself even if it’s only a little. “I’m a master of the grill.”
He leans back, looking out the sliding glass door leading to the back yard. “You mean master of the gas grill?” he says, arching an eyebrow in challenge.
“And my charcoal grill, sitting on the other side out of view.”
“You might have to prove it to me sometime,” Beckett says before taking a sip of his wine, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink.
“I might just have to,” I murmur.
