What are you doing, Ruby?
Obviously, Beckett loves his life the way it is and really … don’t I feel the same way about mine? Yes, he’s brawny and irresistible in a gruff way. But there is something safe about him too. I can easily imagine being cuddled by his enormous strong arms right now.
For a long minute I just lie there, replaying the chaos from last night. The chase, thedrop it,the way Beckett’s laugh cracked open something in both of us. Then the conversation that followed.A home,he’d said. I’m not sure I’ve ever been called that.
I roll onto my side and groan into his pillow. The floor creaks outside the door with heavy, deliberate steps. Beckett’s awake. I tug the quilt up to my chin like that’ll protect me from the consequences of existing.
A knock, low and polite. “You up?” His voice sounds too close, too gravelly for a man who should still be asleep.
“Define ‘up,’” I mumble.
A pause, then the smallest laugh through the door. “Coffee’s on.”
I inhale sharply. Coffee. Bravery in liquid form.
“Be right there,” I say, though part of me wants to hide forever in his sheets. Instead, I sit up, hair everywhere, heart doing gymnastics. The mirror on the dresser confirms my chaos incarnate. I smooth the flannel shirt down, grab a hair tie from my wrist, and tell my reflection, “You survived Ranger’s shame parade. You can survive breakfast.”
Still, I head for the bath where I splash water on my face and brush my teeth. I readjust the hair tie, attempting to do something with my wild mane. It finally feels kind of hopeless.Why am I so worried about what he thinks when he sees me this morning? Duh … maybe because he almost kissed you last night.
The idea makes my stomach do a little pirouette. Maybe his almost is stuck in the air somewhere, like a soap bubble between us, waiting for me to pop it. Maybe he’s regretting it, or maybe he’s already thinking up new ways to avoid being alone together. I would, if I were Beckett. But I’m not. I’m the crazywoman that has invaded his safe space. So I make myself walk down the hall.
The kitchen feels warm and the coffee carries the scent of a dark roast. Ranger greets me first, tail slapping the cabinets as he blocks my path, demanding tribute in the form of head scratches.
“Morning, handsome,” I say,
Beckett’s at the stove again, sleeves rolled up and hair wet. He’s holding a mug, looking like the kind of trouble no amount of caffeine will fix.
“Morning,” Beckett says, sliding a mug across the counter.
“Morning,” I echo, trying not to think about the fact that I just crawled out of his bed. “Your hair is wet.”
“Shower does it every time,” he says, smirking.
“So … about last night,” I venture.
He raises one brow. “The dog or the confession?”
“Let’s start with the dog,” I say. “It feels safer.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “I’ll put him on probation.”
I sip, watching him over the rim. “And what about you?”
He looks at me for a long second. His expression is unreadable, but holds the faintest flirtation. I’m wondering if what he says next will ruin my morning composure.
“Still considering the terms,” he says.
“Meaning what?” I ask, leaning on the counter like it’s a negotiation table.
“Meaning I haven’t decided whether you’re trouble worth saving.”
I grin over my coffee. “Please! You decided that about five seconds after finding me in my crashed van.”
He sets his mug down, watching me in that way he does — like he’s trying to solve a puzzle instead of flirt. “You think I like company that much?”
“I think you like what comes with it,” I tease. “A surge in Youtube comments. Cinnamon-scented fireside fun.”
He exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You talk like you’re selling something.”
