He clears his throat, eyes dropping to the table. “With how pretty this table is, I thought you at least did a little cooking.”
I may not cook, but that doesn’t mean I skimped on the quality of my kitchen table. Every morning, I come downstairs, grab the paper from the front step, sit at this table, and enjoy a cup of coffee.
“Thank you. I made it.”
He chokes on his wine. “You—Dom, you made this?”
“Jeez, don’t sound so shocked.”
“I didn’t mean…” He shakes his head. “It’s stunning. The lines, the grain… brilliant choice.”
“You know wood?” I ask, wiggling my brows, taking another bite just to keep from grinning.
He snorts. “I know kitchen tables. This one’s cookbook worthy. I can see it covered in a winter holiday spread. A turkey framed in the center, with pies all around.”
“I got a large slab of English walnut from a buddy of mine. It took me a while to get it sanded down just how I wanted it, but I’m happy with how it turned out.”
The conversation slips into something easy. It feels nice, sitting down at the kitchen table and enjoying a meal with someone.
Beckett asks me a million questions about the making of the table. I tell him about my technique and some of the other pieces of furniture I’ve made. My favorite is my headboard.
“That sounds gorgeous,” he says, standing to take his plate to the sink. “I’d love to see it sometime.”
I follow, stepping up behind him so my chest brushes his back. “That your subtle way of asking to see my bedroom?”
He rinses the plate and slides it into the dishwasher. “You can tell a lot about a man from his bedroom. Bed made? Nightstand clutter? Does he own a hamper?”
“Yes, I own a hamper,” I say, handing him my plate before heading back to the table.
I clear the table, watching him over my shoulder. “Earlier yousaid this table would be perfect for a cookbook. That something you’ve thought about? Doing one?”
The light dims in his expression. “Iwasthinking about it.”
I place my hand on his waist, angling his hips so he’s facing me, and tilt my head in question. “Why aren’t you still thinking about it?” I ask.
He hesitates. “Trusted the wrong people.”
“Is that why you left LA?”
“Can we please not talk about LA? I know you’re all worried about me. And I know the only reason you’re hanging around me so much is that Jaxon asked you to.”
That hits like a punch.
“Is that what you think?” I ask. “That I’m only friends with you because of Jaxon?” I can’t deny that in the beginning I was doing a favor for my best friend while he was off falling in love. But I can’t say the same now.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, gaze dropping to the floor. “Is that what we even are? Friends?”
I’ve made a mess of this. Royally fucked up if that’s his takeaway. How could I have been so blind as not to have noticed Beckett questioning the sincerity of my friendship with him?
Beckett chews on his bottom lip. I find myself wanting to kiss away the bruise he’s bound to leave. I cup his cheek with one hand, wrapping the other firmly around his waist.
“Yeah, Beckett,” I say quietly. “We’re friends.”
His eyes flick up, wounded and stubborn, unconvinced.
My thumb traces his lips before pulling the bottom one free. My eyes are hyperfocused on the soft, meaty flesh. I want a taste. Oh, how I want a taste. I wanna know what it feels like to shut that mouth of his with mine. But I also want to kiss the worry away.
“But that’s not all we are,” I add, voice low.
