Page 11 of Knot That Serious

“Yeah. Raphael’s.”

Something flitted across her expression before it was gone, and Jack would’ve asked her about it, honest, except Beckett texted him again, and Jack had to go—

“Wish me luck. Love you,” Jack said, dropping a kiss onto Eli’s head. He grabbed his helmet by the door.

“Be careful. Text me if you’re coming back here,” she called after him.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, chancing one last glance at her, that unreadable expression still on her face.

“’Night, Eli,” he said softly, and shut the door. He jangled the lock twice before he deemed it safe, and then made his way down the hall.

He checked his phone while waiting for the elevator, finding two texts from Beckett.

On my way.

Can’t wait to see you.

Crazy how two stupid little gray bubbles filled with text could make his chest so tight, excitement and nerves warring in his stomach, sparks flying as their swords met.

Jack knew where the restaurant was, so he put his phone away before the elevator stopped at the ground floor.

No fucking moving truck was in his way this time, so he easily made his way to his parking spot.

His bike was parked next to Eli’s, which was done up in light pink and black and, adorably enough, matched the bakery. And her hair. And, like, every other pink thing Eli owned.

Jack’s was all black. No chrome, no gold, no shiny bullshit. Black on black.

He pulled his helmet on and started the bike with a quiet rumble. They weren’t assholes, after all.

Jack wove in and out of late evening traffic—why was there always traffic, for fuck’s sake—and passed the bakery. It was within walking distance to their place, a part of why they’d pushed so hard for the bid when the building had gone up for rent.

Raphael’s, his favorite Italian place, was not within walking distance. Traffic proved to be a problem, up until he rolled into a free parking spot and turned his bike off.

Here, he texted Beckett.

Beckett sent back a few eyeball emojis, and Jack didn’t even bother to hide his smile as he grabbed his helmet and made his way to the entrance.

Beckett pushed through the door and held it open for Jack. His gaze dropped to the helmet, then back to his jacket.

“Oh, my,” he murmured.

Jack grinned. “Hey yourself,” he said, appreciating the tall form of Beckett.

He was done up in slacks and a shirt without a collar for once, and Jack swallowed hard. No suit jacket to be seen, but he almost would have preferred it. Instead, Beckett was wearing a sheer, practically see-through black top, some nonsense that tied at his throat like a bow.

A present to unwrap for later.

I can’t believe I was worried about being too slutty.

He couldn’t wait to tell Eli.

“Good evening,” Beckett purred, all smooth and deep, ushering Jack forward with a hand on his lower back. “I already have a table. It’s this way.”

Oh, Jack liked this feeling. The butterflies that exploded at Beckett’s touch, barely felt through the leather of his—nope, Beckett readjusted his hold, sliding beneath his jacket and smoothing a thumb over the material of his shirt.

Fuck, Jack was going to have to eat his pasta with a boner, wasn’t he?

“I didn’t know you rode a bike,” Beckett said as he pulled out Jack’s chair.

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