Page 41 of Teach Me to Laugh

Fucking hell, I wanted to give that to her. So simple. So perfect. “And kids?”

“I don’t know if I’d be good at the mom thing.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“You think?” Her eyes were gentle as they searched my face. “Why?”

“Because you’d be safe.”

She gasped, and I saw wet hit her eyes. More than anything, I wanted to pull her into my arms and hold her tight. I wanted to promise her I’d make her safe now and always. But Amara wasn’t a girl you rushed, and if I pulled her into my arms now after getting her drunk when I promised I’d keep her safe, she’d think I manipulated her. I knew it with the kind of certainty that had me glued to my spot on her bed, where I wasn’t touching her.

So I didn’t reach out to touch her, not even to hold her hand. I didn’t pull her small body against mine, where I hoped she’d snuggle in deep and breathe easy. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even move. Hell, I wasn’t even breathing.

Not until she whispered, “Goodnight, Beckett.”

“Night, peanut.”

I did as she asked—I stayed with her until she fell asleep. Only then did I lean in, press my lips to her hair, and use the last bit of strength I had to turn and leave her room.

Morning came much faster than I liked. Also, I woke with a heck of a lot more than I wanted. That being, I woke with a pounding head, dry mouth, and queasy tummy. In short, I was hung over as hung over could be. Well, in truth, it could be worse. I could be hugging the porcelain bowl, or hiding from the light under my covers as a migraine pounded through my brain.

I wasn’t doing either of those things, so I had some lucky stars to count. However, I also had some not so lucky stars . . .

I may have been drunk out of my mind, but I wasn’t so intoxicated that I didn’t remember my little conversation with Beckett. I remembered, and I was cursing myself. Big time. Huge. Massive.

I was screwed. I’d nearly told him about Jayden—about the things Jayden did to me, and the things he made me watch. I almost told him about the past I tried, harder than anything, to keep buried. And I had told him about the one thing I wanted from life. I told him about my fantasy—I told him about the place I saw when I closed my eyes at night.

I stripped myself down to the most vulnerable part of me, and I let Beckett see my hope.

Now he knew there was more to me than ice. Now he knew there was something inside me that was still breakable. Now he knew I could be hurt.

Now he knew I had something to hurt for . . .

Now he could hurt me.

“Crap,” dizziness flooded my brain and blurred my vision as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Okay, too fast.”

Slower, I stood from the bed still in the pink tank top and jeans from the night before. “Yuck,”

I didn’t have to think on it as I set to stripping. Then I slid into my purple satin housecoat and tiptoed from my room into the bathroom. I was in the shower as fast as I could move, which wasn’t all that fast because I got dizzy with hasty movements, but it was still fast enough. Warm water flowed, washing all the dirty that came with clubbing, away.

After I’d scrubbed my skin clean, I decided to relax as I let my booty meet with the floor of the tub. Warm water continued to pour from the head, moving to slide relaxingly over my skin. I pulled my knees into my chest, letting my head rest on the tops, as my mind moved to Beckett.

It was true; I’d woken up this morning in a bit of a panic over all that I’d revealed to him. But it was also true; I knew Beckett would never intentionally cause me hurt. Yes, I’d given him the ammunition to cause me the same kind of pain I’d tried to ensure I’d never again feel, but I also trusted that Beckett wasn’t a man who would take advantage of my fears.

He was a man who I could ask to stay with me until I fell asleep, and he would do just that. He would stay until I fell asleep, and then he would leave. He was a man who kept his word—something that was truly so very rare.

And then I remembered agreeing to spend a week over Christmas at his parents’ cabin,in the same bedroom!

I was mortified.

And then I was standing, gripping the wall for balance as I steadied my suddenly double vision, because I was intent on rectifying this immediately.

Because I was certain that I was not, under any circumstances, going to spend any amount of time in a cabin where I would be sharing a bedroom with Beckett. Absolutely not. No. Freaking. Way.

Little did I know, I’d be eating my words when I walked into the kitchen five minutes later. My hair was still wet and I was in my housecoat, but Beckett was standing at the stove in a navy, black, and white plaid pair of pajama pants and noshirt. I’ll repeat, no shirt. And the kitchen smelled of bacon and sausage and, good lord almighty, there were hash browns.

Maybe I could love a man . . .

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