“Yeah. Sorry. I know that’s rude, but it’s not like we’ve had the greatest interactions since we met.”
“They could have been worse,” he replies as he crosses his muscled arms. I keep my attention firmly on his face, though, unwilling to glance down even for a second.
Come on, Beckett. You’ve stared down murderers across a table and in the courtroom. Get it together.I clear my throat and shove down the nerves dancing in my stomach. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re concerned about my safety, Detective.”
His expression darkens. “That’s because I am.”
The air around us seems to charge with tension as our gazes hold. It’s so hard to believe that this is the same man I went toe-to-toe with to get Riley Hunt released when he was wrongfully arrested.
The same man I went on that horrible date with, who couldn’t even make eye contact with me and spent the entire time checking his phone.
Clearing his throat, he looks away. “If you want to get showered, I’ll make some dinner. I’d planned on barbacoa, so that’s what’s in the crock pot. Hope that’s okay with you.”
Another shock. I just keep staring at him. Surely, he didn’t—“You have dinner in thecrock pot?”
He shrugs. “I don’t like to eat out and rarely have time to cook a full meal after getting home from work.”
“But it’s after eight.”
“I’m used to a late dinner. It’s automatic, so it switched over to keep the food warm once the cook time was over. Shouldn’t be dry.”
“You have a programmable crock pot?”
“Do you want to take inventory of everything I do or don’t have? Or would you like to get a shower so we can eat?” Frustration laces his tone now, and I can’t say I blame him. He’s opening his home up to me, and I’m so focused on the past that I’m being rude.
“No, sorry. That sounds amazing,” I reply. “And it explains why your house smells so good.”
His expression isn’t quite a smile, but it’s notnota smile either. “It should only take me about thirty minutes or so to finish up. I know it’s late, but I imagine you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” I reply honestly. “I’ll freshen up; then I can help.” As I turn to leave, I nearly step on a gray tabby. “Who are you?” I ask, completely delighted as I squat down. The cat rubs against my legs as I run a hand over its back.
“That’s Trigger.”
I glance over my shoulder at Shawn. “Trigger?”
“Yeah, he’s only got one eye, so he’s always kind of—” he trails off and closes one eye like he’s looking down a scope, “getting ready to pull a trigger.”
Who is this man?I straighten and stare back at him. “He’s also winking.”
Shawn runs a hand through his thick blond hair. “Yeah, well, Trigger was a better name. He’s a survivor. Winky didn’t seem fitting enough.”
A joke. Seriously? Where was this version of him two years ago?
“Trigger,” I repeat and look down at the cat. “He’s adorable.”
“Thanks. Come here, Trigs, I’ll get you dinner.”
Trigs.The cat has a nickname.
Trigger abandons me and races over toward Shawn, who is already kneeling and opening a pouch of wet cat food. I watch as he pours it into the bowl, trying to figure out if I simply misread this man or if something miraculously changed within him over the last couple of years.
Because this isnotthe same man I went on that date with. It can’t be.
Before he can catch me staring, I turn and head toward the bedroom to grab some clean clothes before I jump into the shower and wash the day off of me.
Even though I know there’s not enough soap in the world to do so. Every time my throat burns, I can feel those large hands gripping me.
I can feel the searing of my lungs as I fought to breathe.
