Page 19 of Inked Obsession

That wasn’t the case. It couldn’t be.

I swallowed hard as the nice manager said my name, and I took my order.

“Thank you so much,” I said, “Seriously.” I left a ten-dollar tip, and the girl grinned and winked.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m here most days if you ever want to talk. Or, you know, have coffee.”

I swallowed hard. Okay, maybe it hadn’t been pity in her eyes before. Or perhaps I was just seeing things. “Well, um, seriously, thanks for the sugar.” Then I got into my car, took a sip of my nice, sweet, and far too sugary coffee, and bit into my cookie.

I was doing okay with money. Marshall and the military had taken care of me, and I had a good job. I would be okay, even if I gave some to Madison. Would I really do that, though? Maybe. If the little girl needed something, I could help. Even if it broke me emotionally. But I needed to know more details. Meaning, I had to actually face the problem.

I stopped at the stop sign, looked both ways and sighed, taking a drink of my coffee as I pulled into the middle of the intersection. I slammed on my brakes as a car shot past their stop sign and nearly sideswiped me. I cursed, hot coffee spilling down my shirt and onto my leggings—and all over me.

The drink wasn’t too hot thanks to the whipped cream, but it still hurt, and damn it, there went all of my sugar.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I sped out of the intersection, used the single napkin I had in my car to try and dab at the mess, and held back tears.

I would not cry. I would not let anybody see me cry.

I would not give this day the satisfaction. I would go home, shower, clean up my car, and make my own goddamn coffee. And then I would work. I would make sure that everyone knew that I was self-sufficient and didn’t need anyone.

I pulled into my driveway and cursed as I saw a vehicle on the opposite side of where I usually parked.

I knew that truck.

Beckett Montgomery was here. To see me in all my foibles and glory.

My now-coffee-stained glory.

He was here to help because, apparently, I couldn’t take care of myself or actually do anything around my house. A place I didn’t even own because I rented it. I was an adult woman who had never been able to afford a house on her own because she’d moved around far too much when she was a childandan adult. Nothing was ever actuallymine. It was always my husband’s and the military’s. Everything that I had ever done was because someone else had told me to do it.

I was officially having a fucking panic attack.

I almost put my hands to my chest to try to calm myself, but I was sticky with sugary coffee, and now I wanted to cry. I wouldn’t. This day would not get the fucking best of me. I would not give it the satisfaction.

Beckett wasn’t in his truck, meaning he must be in my house. Where I’d told him to go when he stopped by before. He had a key, and he was on a tight schedule. I had given him permission. I couldn’t be angry about this. Damn it, I was exhausted.

I walked into the house and slammed the door behind me.

Beckett looked up from his toolbox and blinked. “Jesus. Are you okay? What happened? Dear God, hold on. Let me get you something to dry off.”

“Why is today such a horrible day?” I asked, my voice cracking.

He looked at me, blinked, and I promptly burst into tears.

I covered my face with my hands and shook my head. “Please don’t look at me. Pretend I’m not doing this. I do not cry.” I hiccupped through the words, sobbing, hating myself. I could not break down. I hadn’t broken down at the funeral. I hadn’t broken down in front of my friends. Nobody needed to see me as a widow. The woman they thought was so strong because she could handle everything. Nobody needed to see me break down.

And, of course, I had to go and do so in front of Beckett fucking Montgomery.

Strong arms pulled me against an even stronger chest, and I wanted to push at him, to pound on his pecs and tell him to go away. I couldn’t. Instead, I just cried as Beckett held me, and I tried to catch my breath.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“No, you don’t,” I whispered. “Nobody does.”

Marshall had used to say that to me. He used to say that he had me and would always. Had he said that to Natasha, as well? Oh, I was sure he’d damn well said it when they were together before. I was just the rebound.

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