Page 40 of Beckett
I wanted to tell him everything in that moment. About my stalker. About the months of running and the constant fear that followed me like smoke. But the words stuck in my throat. Telling him would mean dragging him into my nightmare, and hadn’t I destroyed enough lives already?
“Besides,” Beckett continued, filling the silence I couldn’t, “he’s good company. Dogs don’t judge. Don’t ask questions. Just…are.”
Something in his voice made me look closer. That bone-deep understanding of needing companionship that didn’t require explanations. It made me wonder what had driven him to choose animals over people, what ghosts haunted his precise movements and careful distance.
“Do you want coffee?” The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them. “I just made a fresh mug. Well, I did before I dropped it, but I can make more.”
He checked his watch, a practical digital thing that probably did everything short of launching missiles, then his gaze dropped to my foot. A thin line of blood marked where the ceramic had cut my heel.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing. Just a scratch from the mug.” I shifted my weight, trying to hide the injury. “About that coffee?—”
“Sit down. Let me look at it.”
“Beckett, really, it’s?—”
“Sit.” The command was gentle but firm. Even Jet obeyed.
Before I could protest, he grabbed the small first aid kit from the counter—one of the basic supplies that came with the cabin.I sat on the edge of the bed while he crouched down in front of me, opening the kit with efficient movements.
“It’s not deep,” he said, tearing open an antiseptic wipe. The sting made me flinch, but his touch was surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the cut. He peeled the backing off a bandage and applied it carefully, smoothing the edges to make sure it was secure.
“There.” He stood, closing the kit and returning it to the counter. “Coffee sounds good. But I’ve got a meeting with Hunter, my boss at Warrior Security, this morning.”
“Right. Of course.” I tried not to feel disappointed. Getting attached to anyone, especially Beckett, was dangerous. For both of us.
Last night’s kiss hung between us, unmentioned but impossible to ignore. The way he’d kissed me back—slow and thorough, like I was something precious—had cracked something open inside me. But then he’d pulled away, cleared his throat, told me to get settled. Professional distance reasserted like a wall slamming down. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he’d been caught up in the moment, the emotion of giving me the cabin, and now, in the morning light, he wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.
I couldn’t blame him. Getting involved with someone like me—someone running, someone who might have to disappear at any moment—was asking for heartache. Better to keep things professional. Better for both of us.
“But I’ve got a few minutes.”
My heart did something stupid in my chest that I ignored. “Okay. Great.”
Jet bounced between us like we were the two best things that had ever happened to him as Beckett sat down at the tiny kitchen table. The cabin felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space in a way that had nothing to do with his physical size.
“You’ve been busy,” he observed, taking in the clean surfaces, the organized shelves, the small touches that made it look less abandoned.
“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well be productive.” I busied myself with the coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. “It’s amazing what soap and stubbornness can accomplish.”
“Looks good. Homey.”
The word made my throat tight again. Home. Such a simple concept that had become impossibly complicated.
“Jet, down,” Beckett commanded when the dog tried to investigate the broken mug pieces I’d swept into a corner.
Jet dropped immediately, though his tail kept wagging, batting against the floor in a rhythm that sounded like contentment.
Beckett grabbed the broom and dustpan from the corner and swept up the pieces, throwing them into the trash.
“Thanks.” I knew my smile was awkward, but I kept it in place. “I’ll have to be more careful. I’m down to my last two mugs.”
“We can get you more.”
“You mentioned your boss Hunter. What exactly does Warrior Security do?” I asked, handing Beckett a mug. Our fingers brushed, just for a second, but it was enough to send warmth racing up my arm.
“Private security, protection details, threat assessment.” He leaned against the counter, careful not to crowd me. “Hunter Everett started it about a year ago, since the Resting Warrior Ranch guys are all settled down now with wives and kids. They want to focus on what the ranch was originally created for: a place where people with PTSD can come for a chance to restart and heal.”
