Page 8 of Morning Wood

“How about I come over and cook dinner? I can take a look at what needs to be done around the house and we can come up with a list of projects and list them in order of importance.”

I think I’m about to be rejected, seeing as Beatrix told me I’m suspicious, but she seems to be considering my offer.

“Fine. On one condition.” I nod eagerly, ready to agree with anything and everything. “I’ll cook dinner. I’ll still pay you for the consultation, obviously. And the work you’ve done on the door. Having a professional look at things is definitely what I need right now.”

“You don’t need to–”

“Nothing in life is free, especially when it seems too good to be true. I want to cook and I want to pay you for your services.”

I nod, though I disagree. I’ll just have to prove to her with my actions that selfless people and gestures exist. Starting tonight.

“I’ll take you up on your offer to cook in exchange for a consultation call. Those are free of charge for my clients.”

“Oh, so I’m the special one who has to cook first?” That sly, mischievous smirk on her lips lets me know she’s teasing me. God, I love it. I want her more with each passing moment.

“Hey, you’re the one who offered,” I answer with a grin.

"Fine," she agrees. "Give me an hour or so and then you can come over. I'd give you the address but clearly, you already know how to get to my home."

I chuckle, making Bea laugh. I'm instantly addicted to the sound. "See you soon, beautiful," I tell her. Bea's eyes widen at my words like she can't believe anyone would call her beautiful. That will change soon enough.

We decide on a time and I eventually have to let her go. It’s okay, I’m going to see her soon. At least that’s what I keep reminding myself. How can I be so lost in this woman already?

5

BEA

What the hell was I thinking? Inviting Beck over for dinner after only knowing him for a few days?

It’s a professional dinner, I tell myself, even though I know that’s a lie. Sure, we may be discussing house stuff, but after our exchange in the grocery store earlier, how could I not fall for the guy? Not that I’m falling for him. That’s not the right word. I’m not in love with the man or anything.

So what if he has an easy, gorgeous smile that makes my stomach flip and my heart race? And, okay, maybe I had a little dream about him last night where his ocean-blue eyes locked onto mine and he cupped the side of my face, drawing me in for my first kiss. No big deal.

I’m so screwed.

The timer I set on my phone goes off, alerting me to check on the pasta sauce. I’m thankful that a few of the kitchen appliances are in working order, though I will likely be replacing them in the future. I spent most of yesterday scrubbing and scouring the oven, and though I couldn’t get the actual oven to work, the stove top miraculously turned on right away.

I stir the pasta sauce and lift the spoon to my mouth for a taste test. Adding a bit more basil and a sprinkle of sugar - my secret ingredients to make store-bought pasta sauce taste homemade - and nod to myself in satisfaction.

Growing up, we usually had the cheapest ingredients for meals. Canned veggies, frozen dinners, or in one foster home, they handed out cans of baked beans during the week, only feeding us an actual dinner on the weekends. I learned how to make even the blandest of meals a little more flavorful.

A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts. He’s here. I look around the house, then remember it’s falling apart and no amount of cleaning is going to be acceptable enough to have a guest over. Plus, he knows what this place looks like. God, why am I so nervous? This is a job for him. Nothing more.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my leggings, rethinking my outfit for the evening. I changed out of the mom jeans and giant t-shirt I was wearing at the grocery store and opted for a comfy pair of black leggings with a green flowing tunic that hits mid-thigh and matches my eyes. Not that I care what I look like. It doesn’t matter, I remind myself for what feels like the hundredth time since coming home from the store.

Another knock at the door pulls me out of my stupid panic spiral, and I finally head that way and open the door. There he is, in all of his six-foot, sculpted glory. I can’t help but stare at his abs, which are visible through the tight shirt he’s wearing. My eyes wander up his magnificent body, memorizing the dips and grooves of his muscles and rock-hard chest.

When my eyes land on his, I realize he’s been doing the same to me. That can’t be right. Beck could have any woman he wants. In fact, he might have multiple women in the rotation right now. That thought churns my stomach, even though I know I have no right to be jealous.

“That sure is a nice door you’ve got there,” he says, grinning at me.

I can’t hold back my smile. Beck seems to draw it out of me effortlessly. “Some guy I know who broke into my house felt bad and replaced it for me,” I answer as I step aside and invite Beck in.

“Sounds like he’s a stand-up guy who tried making things right.”

“Did you hear the part about breaking it?” I say over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen. Beck follows closely behind. Normally, that would make me anxious and paranoid, but with Beck? I can’t seem to stop thinking about his touch. I crave it. I want his warmth, his strength blanketing me and making me feel safe and protected.

“Word on the street is that it was a misunderstanding,” he replies.

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