Page 83 of Unmade

The sexiest dominance was quiet as hell and shook you to your core, not necessarily with a tone of voice or by using force, but with a look, with mental strength that rolled off his shoulders, with an inner calm that made him sturdier than an oak.

Yeah, those men weren’t easy to find.

On the slight chance that Beckett was interested in guys too, I might actually find the balls to make a move, because everything about him told me he was that type of rough, quietly dominant top. Someone who didn’t feel the need to assert himself or display his position for the sake of it. He’d show you instead, on his terms.

Oh boy, I would get rejected faster than I could sayfuck me harder, but perhaps it wouldn’t kill me…? He was kind. He would let me down gently and remind me I was his recruit.

I chewed on the corner of my lip and knew tonight was actually the perfect moment. He was leaving in the morning, and I’d likely not see him for at least three or four days. Possibly much longer. I had no idea. So, I’d have time to get over the rejection, and then we’d go back to being friends when he returned.

“When I was a kid, my nana gave me a telescope for Christmas,” I heard Beckett say. Elbow on the table, I glanced back at him and rested my cheek in my palm. “Pops had already died at that point, and it was Nana’s way of keeping him around. He’d worked at NASA.”

That must’ve been an exciting time to work there. In the sixties and seventies, thereabouts.

“I was hooked,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the night sky. “Now, I loved my father, and he was more patient and understanding than most of his generation—but he definitely lived his life with every ounce of his focus on the ground. He used to tell me that people who kept their eyes on the sky had too little to do down here.”

I smiled a little. Kinda reminded me of my grandpa. I had a few memories left of him, and he’d been much like that. Set in his ways, kind but very firm, zero patience for things that didn’t interest him.

“Vince defended my hobby,” Beckett murmured. “He said, ‘Old man, the world is built by visionaries and engineers, and they’re always looking up and ahead. Then grunts like you and me maintain it.’”

I liked that. I’d never been a visionary, but a secret dreamer. However, the grunt in me had bigger balls, and so I’d chosen a path well traveled.

“Would you have preferred another outcome?” I wondered. “You enlisted eventually.”

He scratched his bicep absently and shook his head. “Nah. I wanted to be a soldier more than I wanted to study space.” He faced me. “What about you? When you walked in here the first time, I couldn’t imagine you joining the Army.”

As he’d told me when I’d enlisted…

I smirked, half embarrassed. I didn’t even know why. My childhood dream hadn’t precisely been crazy.

“I wanted to have my own food truck,” I admitted. His eyes flashed with surprise, and he smiled. “I was only gonna sell one thing too,” I added. “Candy apple wedges.”

“Candy apple wedges,” he echoed, a little confused. “So, like…regular candy apples but wedges instead?”

I nodded. “Mom took me to a fair when I was little, and I became obsessed with candy apples. Until I broke my tooth on one.”

He winced and chuckled.

“I filled an entire notepad with ideas to improve the treat,” I went on. “Grandma helped me make some too. We tried little cubes, apples cut in half, slices, and wedges.”

He grinned. “And wedges won.”

“Yeah, they were perfect. Less waste, easy to make. Thick enough to keep the apples juicy—the slices tasted dry and expired quicker—and the cubes were too sugary.”

“You really thought that through, huh?”

“Well… I don’t know that they would pay the bills,” I laughed. “When Grandma died, I kinda forgot about it. At least the candy apples—but the food truck was always there in the back of my mind.”

He hummed and tilted his head. “What about now? Is it still a dream?”

“No.” Because I knew exactly what my life would look like as a food truck owner. I’d be alone in that thing all day, and I’d go home to a tiny apartment every night. Eventually, I’d get sick of candy apples, and I would hate my life. “I need people around me.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, you do. But I sincerely hope you’ll treat me to candy apple wedges someday.”

I smiled. I could totally do that. I had the best recipe. “Survive your Fredericksburg vacation, and I’ll make it happen when you get back.”

“Vacation,” he snorted. “Deal.” Then he yawned and sat forward. “I should probably get some sleep. I’m not used to waking up before seven these days.”

It was my turn to snort. Seven was luxury! I was up at four thirty.

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