Page 62 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Christmas.
I lost it all.
“I’m sorry, Willa. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. It means a lot.”
There have been a lot of “I’m sorrys” over the last two years, enough to last a lifetime. Beckett’s feels different, more important. The most important. Heck if I can explain it.
“Hey, any chance you’re up for making that cake you teased me with last night?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Damn do I love how agreeable he is.
“With your help.”
I take it back.
I hate how agreeable he is.
The cake in the oven, I inspect the kitchen. Beckett’s workspace neat and tidy, like the man himself. Mine, a disaster. I’d say itmirrors me, but I hate to put myself down. It’s more of a mess because I haven’t a clue what I’m doing in the kitchen.
“What do you eat for meals at home?” he asked as he attempted to “teach” me to bake. Wasted breath on his part. His smile never faded, the man didn’t get frustrated, and I kinda loved it.
“I order takeout or use a meal delivery service. Someone else does the shopping and prepping, and all I have to do is heat them up. My microwave sees more action than my stove.”
“Your stove must get jealous.” I thought he was kidding, but his expression remained stoic. I wasn’t sure what to make of the comment, so I shrugged it off.
Though something poked at me the rest of the time we prepared the cake.
The most pleasurable part of the night is now, licking the beaters, something I missed from living with my mom. She didn’t bake often, but Clem’s and my job was to lick the beaters, utensils, and the bowl. I’mreallygood at those jobs.
Fantastic, even.
“I promised myself sex was off the table tonight.”
Mid-lick, I stare at Beckett watching me, his eyes hooded and oozing sexiness.
“O-kay.” I draw out the word, my comprehension of his words nonexistent.
His eyes float shut, a rough exhale expelling. “It’shardto do that with your tongue . . . doing what it’s doing.”
“Sorry?” Not sorry. Not for him and not for me enjoying this batter entirely too much. I can’t wait to taste the cake.
Beckett swears under his breath and stands. “I’m showering. You, clean the kitchen so it’s not so much a disaster zone.” He retreats from the table, stopping directly in front of me. “Thank you for trusting me with your story.” Tucking a loose strand behind my ear, his lips brush my cheek. “You’re the strongest person I know.” One more kiss to the top of my head before he disappears into the bathroom.
Like forehead kisses are to Elias, top of the head kisses will always belong to Beckett.
The notion pummels me. Hard. As if someone smacked me.
What am I even thinking?
Nothing “belongs” to Beckett, least of all something related to a relationship. The idea is laughable at best.
So why am I not laughing?
And why do I want them to belong to him? Give that spot over to him. To have no one after him reclaim it.
