Page 7 of Morning Wood

I didn’t know what I was looking for, actually, until Bea walked into my life. Well, I guess I walked into hers, but still. I want nothing more than her green eyes on mine, her full smile directed at me, and to know she’s safe and happy.

Beatrix turns to look at a shelf of pasta sauce when she sees me hovering off to the side like the creeper I’ve turned into. She jumps back with a gasp, and I want to kick myself in the face for startling her.

I scramble for something to say, something normal and neighborly. Instead, what comes out of my mouth is, “Wow, I’ve never seen you in so many clothes.”

Fuckin’ idiot. Why the hell did I say that?

Bea’s face turns from pink to red, growing almost purple with how flushed and angry she is. Why am I so awkward around her?

The stunning, five-foot-nothing, curvy goddess shoots me a glare that has me cowering internally. A weaker man might crumble to the ground and slink away, but I’m here for the challenge.

“I’m still new here,” she whisper-shouts. “First impressions matter.” With one hand on her hip and the other pointing a finger at me, she can sure scold with the best of them. She’ll make an excellent mother. “Are you trying to make me look like the town bicycle?”

My brows furrow at her turn of phrase. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard it before. “Town bicycle?” I ask, matching her whispering tone.

Bea sighs and drops her arms at her sides. “You know,” she says quietly, peering over her shoulder to make sure no one else is listening. “The town bicycle. Everyone’s had a ride.”

It takes a moment for the meaning to settle in. Ride, as in… Oh, hell no.

“Who said that?” I grunt out, looking around the store for someone to confront. “Where did you even hear that phrase?”

Bea snorts out a bitter laugh, surprising me yet again. How can someone so young already be this jaded by the world?

“Ironically, from a foster mother who had a different creepy boyfriend every month.” Bea looks away from me while I process her words.

Foster mom? Creepy boyfriends? How did she inherit a house if she was in foster care? What kind of parent, foster or otherwise, says that kind of shit to a kid? Dozens of questions race through my mind, but I know I’ll have to earn the answers.

"I'm sorry," I say, reaching out my hand and placing it on her arm. Bea flinches, which tears my heart into little shreds. Not because I'm offended, but because I hate whatever she went through to give her that reaction. "Sorry," I say again, mentally beating myself up for scaring her. This woman has so many layers and mysteries wrapped up in a pretty little package. I'm going to be the one to unwrap it and discover them all.

“It’s okay,” she’s quick to respond. “It’s… it’s me. I’m just… I’m broken. I can’t… I don’t normally…” Bea trails off, but I somehow understand what she’s trying to tell me. She’s not used to human contact. I’m equal parts enraged and heartbroken for this precious woman standing in front of me.

“You’re not broken, Beatrix. At least not in any way that can’t be fixed,” I tell her softly as I take a tentative step forward.

“You think you’re the one who’s going to fix me?” Bea asks, tilting her head up and hitting me with those wide, vulnerable green eyes. She sways toward me, and it takes all of my self-control not to pull her against my chest and kiss the air from her lungs.

“Fixing things up is kind of my specialty,” I tell her with a grin. Beatrix blushes ever so slightly, the pink tint to her cheeks making her even more innocent and tempting.

I watch in awe as this incredible woman lifts her hand, hovering it over my chest. I take a half-step closer, encouraging her to continue. Bea rests her hand right over my heart. Her eyes widen slightly as she stares at her hand and then back at me.

“It’s beating so fast,” she whispers more to herself than to me.

“It always does when I’m around you,” I answer truthfully.

Bea withdraws her hand and rolls her eyes at me. I can tell the intimate moment is too much for her, so I respect her signals and back off. The last thing in the world I ever want is to scare her or make her uncomfortable.

“See, now that was a smooth answer,” she says, her signature sass returning. That’s okay. I saw a glimpse of her tender heart, and that’s enough to know I want to make this woman mine. I want to cover all of the broken, painful pieces of her heart with the love and acceptance she clearly never had growing up.

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask, grabbing a box of pasta and sauce and putting them into my shopping basket.

Bea does the same, then pauses to tap her chin as if lost in thought. Fuckin’ adorable.

“Not necessarily,” she finally answers. “But it’s not doing you any favors. Guys who talk a good game are always suspish.”

I don’t want to inquire about any other guys who have tried smooth-talking her otherwise I might lose my shit.

“Well, good news for me, then,” I tell her. Bea looks over her shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised. “I already stuck my foot in my mouth by the stupid clothing comment. There was nothing smooth about that. Does that mean I’m in the clear?”

Bea tries hiding her grin, but I see it all the same. “Time will tell, I suppose,” she answers, lifting her chin as she brushes past me and continues down the aisle.

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