“Beck? Tony?”
Beckett shrugs. “We’ve bonded over a shared love of meat. We’re nickname-close now.”
Sure. Fifteen years I’ve known the guy, but Beckett flirts with a ribeye once and they’re brothers in arms.Shared love for meat, psh.He probably just wanted to get into his pants. I saw the way he looked at him at the farmers’ market last month.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Not jealous. At all.
“Dom,” Beckett murmurs. “You’re growling.”
I clear my throat. “We done?”
“Almost, just have to get heavy whipping cream and we’re all set.”
I follow along like a lost puppy.
This is the part that throws me. I don’t follow. Not my style. I quietly lead. I let my presence control the situation. Something about Beckett is different, though. He makes whatever this is between us light and fun. But the swoop in my stomach every time he gives me that shit-eating grin tells me there is something more.
I’ve never been this close before. I can see the line between infatuation and love, but I’m terrified to cross it.
He drops the cream in with a flourish. “Mission accomplished.”
“Everything gonna fit on the bike?” I ask.
“If not,” he says. “I’ll just hold it between my thighs.”
My jaw clicks. He winks and pushes the cart toward the checkout like he didn’t just try to end me in aisle nine.
The old ladies reappear near the registers. We do not make eye contact.
Outside, the sky is bright, the air warm. We load up thesaddlebags in easy silence—steaks, cream, sauce ingredients, contraband potatoes. Beckett swings onto the bike behind me, hands settling on my waist like it’s the most natural thing.
As we pull out of the lot, his chest pressed against my back, his laugh muffled against my shoulder when we hit a bump, it hits me how close I am to something I’ve spent most of my life avoiding.
I’m right on the line between wanting him because he’s gorgeous and sharp and lets me ruin him in bed, and wanting him because of stupid shit like this—grocery runs and shared jokes and him trusting me enough to watch him build his dream.
I’ve never let myself step over that line before.
Behind me, Beckett squeezes just a little tighter, like he’s holding on for more than just balance.
For the first time, the idea of crossing it doesn’t just terrify me.
It feels like the only move that makes sense.
Irattle a pot just to be annoying. “You sure you don’t need help in there? There’s an awful lot of banging.”
From the laundry room I hear a loud clang, followed by, “You’re one to talk.”
“Hey, pots and pans are naturally noisy,” I call back. “You wouldn’t want me cooking with rubber pans. That’s just ridiculous.” More metallic thuds. “Are you supposed to be hitting that with a hammer?”
Then something that sounds suspiciously like a hammer hitting something—part metal, part… flesh, I’m guessing by the swearing.
“Fucking shit, motherfucker!”
I finish adding potatoes to the pot of boiling water on the stove and cover it before sliding around the corner in my socks. “You all right?”
There’s a solid thunk, and then Dom emerges from behind the washer, scowling, one hand rubbing the back of his head.
I wince. “Sorry. That last noise definitely sounded like a concussion. Wantan ice pack?”
