Page 23 of On the Brink of Passion

I look at her from under my brows, doubt painted on my face, but she just puts her hands on her hips. Not winning this one either, I see. So I take a swig, and it tastes kinda like chicken noodle soup except without the chicken. Or the noodles. Or anything else. It’s . . . not the best. But I smile and heft the cup before taking another sip.

Given that Jubilee is always a body in motion, I’d think she’d move on now that she knows I’m going to do as I’m told. But she doesn’t. She stands there and watches me. Which is when something occurs to me. She’s never this nice to me, never . . . takes care of me. Not in our two years of being partners. I’m a pretty healthy guy, but I’ve definitely had a cold or two in the past two years, and never has she acted like this. Something has changed. She can deny it all she likes, but I think Jubilee might actually like me. I’ll just have to keep nudging her in that direction, because I’m pretty sure I like her too.

Jubilee

“What the fuck is this?”

It’s the afternoon after Beckett’s sick day, and after a day of resting yesterday, he was better this morning. No sniffles, no sneezing, just healthy guy who I still made take an easy practice despite both him and Daphne rolling their eyes. Whatever, they’ll both be thankful when he’s a hundred percent in a few days. But at the moment, he is up to some sort of shenanigans, and I don’t appreciate it.

“What does it look like?”

It’s normal to want to punch your partner in the face on a regular basis, right?

“It looks like—” the most adorable, fluffy, perfect, unicorn “—pajamas.”

“You’re good at this. Maybe I should start calling you Sherlock. Or Inspector Jubilee. You could have your own show on like the BBC or something.”

“I hate you.”

He gets the same smile on his face he always does when I say things like that, and it makes my hands curl into fists.

“Just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean—” Ugh, I hate the way my hands flail around. I need to get control of myself. “It’s not necessary.”

“What if I want to?” Both his eyebrows go up. Really? Is he the only person on earth who can’t raise a single eyebrow? “Not like, romantically, maybe, but you’re basically my whole life, you took care of me when I was sick, and—”

The panic strikes me quick and hard, like a punch to the chest. Knocks the wind right out of me. I want to warn him, tell him to run far and fast, because that is a terrible idea and he should never let any single person become so valuable to him. Ever. Because when you lose it all—as you undoubtedly will—it feels that way. Like your whole world has gone dark and silent. There’s no joy, there’s no color, there’s nothing. You may as well be dead. And it starts with shit like darling unicorn pajamas.

“No.” That time my snapped-out word gets him to shut his pie hole. “Get them off my bed. Now, Beck. I’m not kidding.”

He comes over and picks up the pajamas. They look ridiculous in his big hands, and I can only imagine what kind of store he had to go to to get them, and how he must have looked wandering around, probably fumbling helplessly with his choices. I don’t think Beckett picks out gifts for women very often, and why is that? Certainly he’s good-looking enough, and kind. Not to mention apparently considerate, which I kind of want to throttle him for. How dare he get me a present I actually really like? That’s just plain rude.

His jaw tightens, and I want to tell him to get the fuck out if he’s going to argue with me any more. Or maybe I should get the hell out of here, because it feels like the walls are closing in around me. In a way that gives me vertigo because I’m not sure if I should be terrified or not. In some ways, it’s almost . . . nice? I didn’t mind taking care of Beckett yesterday, and aside from being worried that he was going to get worse and cost us a medal or that he’d contracted some new flu that had hopped from, I don’t know, elk or mountain goats or something and he was going to deteriorate and die on me. So far so good, though, and it had even felt kind of cozy? Domestic? Caring for someone the way Stephen and I had cared for each other. Which is precisely why the pajamas are not okay. Too many echoes are rippling through my head and I’m going to get lost at sea and drown.

I’m about to grab my jacket and head for the door when there’s a noise. A sound like someone’s just tossed something on a bed. My vision goes black, and fiery red starts to creep in from the margins, because what the fuck did I just tell him?

I turn on my heel, oh-so-slowly, and there Beckett is, standing next to my bed with his arms folded across his chest. The damn pajamas are back on my bed.

“Beckett Don—”

He cuts me off with a slash of a finger through the air. “No.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Oh yes, I am spoiling for a fight now.

“I said no. I got you these because you did something nice for me and I wanted to do something nice for you. Also so that I’d have something to strangle you with in case you didn’t stop hovering over me and making me drink cup after goddamn cup of that disgusting bone broth. The place I got them from doesn’t take returns, and they were kind of expensive for pajamas with fucking unicorns on them—”

Whoa. Beckett hardly ever raises his voice. Like, ever. I’m trying to think of the last time I heard him yell if it wasn’t a happy exclamation or to be heard over a crowd. He’s not even really yelling now, more like frustration is nudging the volume dial that he’s trying to keep turned down to his normal level of speech. Also, his cheeks are getting kind of red.

“—And they sure as hell aren’t going to fit me, so no. I’m not taking them back. They’re yours. You can do what you want with them; burn them, throw them away once you’ve hit the airport, use them as dust rags or donate them to charity or what the fuck ever. But all you really had to do was say thank you and leave it at that.”

That is entirely fair. And if my good Southern girl of a momma were here, she’d hiss the same thing in my ear. No matter how hideous the gift, you always smile, and say thank you. How backwards is my relationship with Beckett that I’ve forgotten the most basic of manners that were drilled into me as a kid?

As hard as it is because I don’t hate them, I like them very much, and that makes me feel as though I’ve got bugs crawling all over me, that’s not Beckett’s fault. It’s not exactly mine, either, but the way I act because of it is.

I take a deep breath and stand tall before giving him a decisive nod. “You’re right. I was rude, and I’m sorry. That was very thoughtful of you and I appreciate it.”

And then for a change, I listen to that tiny voice inside that’s been yelling at me for weeks, telling me to just fucking let him make me feel good, make me happy. It’s a stupid voice, but is giving in this one time really going to kill me?

So with Beckett watching me, I unwrap the packaging, shake out the stiff-from-the-manufacturers pajamas, and put them in my laundry pile. I’ll wash them before I wear them, because I have standards, but I hope he gets the significance of what I’ve just done.

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