Stand & Deliver

by Rhenna Morgan

  “Because you said dinner. I thought you meant someplace public where we could talk. Where I could be honest with you and help you understand all the reasons why us being anything more than business partners is a bad idea.” The fact that she’d entertained a host of other outcomes was beside the point.

  For a second, he just stood there, a look she couldn’t quite translate moving across his hard features. He crouched beside her and rested his elbows on his knees. “Whatever you’ve got to say, I’ll listen, but I’ll tell you up front, I’ve got my arguments and I plan to share them.”

  He paused a beat, fisted his hand as if fighting an action he was hesitant to take, then carefully splayed his hand just above her knee. “This is going to happen, Gia. I won’t rush it. Won’t take you anywhere you’re not ready to go, but I’m also not gonna treat you like some stranger I gotta go through some bullshit routine with. Whatever ideas you’ve got of me when it comes to women, they’re pretty damned shallow, and to fight it I’m gonna have to actually talk to you. I’d rather do that in my place where I can actually hear what you’re saying, feed you food I made with my own hands and not have strangers interrupting us every five seconds.”

  So much information. So much sincerity. But the way his thumb shuttled back and forth over the soft fabric along her thigh, her brain was having a hard time properly processing the words or the emotion. All she could focus on was the confident weight of his touch, the warmth soaking through to her skin and the delicious anticipation of feeling more. “You cooked for me?”

  His quick smile stirred a host of flutters in her belly. “Homemade gumbo, good old-fashioned Cajun potato salad and French bread.”

  No way. Picturing Beckett at home in a kitchen wouldn’t compute any more than she could picture herself in one. “And you picked it up from somewhere and warmed it up?”

  “Nope. Every single bit from scratch.” The hand on her thigh moved higher, leaving ripples in its wake until he covered her fisted hand with his and squeezed. “Come inside with me.”

  She shouldn’t. Common sense all but demanded she refuse and keep her butt in the car until he agreed to take her home, but God, his touch felt good. And while she’d gone out with her share of men, not once had a date actually cooked for her. To see Beckett in a kitchen? To have another few hours of him looking at her like he was right now—steady and totally focused like she was the only human in existence? Surely the risk was worth it. “You’ll bring me home when I ask you to?”

  “If you ask me to, sure.”

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

  He used his grip to turn her hand, ran his thumb along her pulse point and then dragged it lower to her palm. “Cocky. Confident. Determined. Call it whatever you want, but a man like me doesn’t get a taste of a woman like you and walk away without exploring more.” He laced his fingers with hers, stood and urged her from the car. “Now pry your amazing ass out of my car so I can get you inside and start working on dessert.”

  The trip inside ran thick with an awkwardness she hadn’t felt since her first date as a senior in high school. Sure, she’d been to the home he shared with Knox a few times before, but those trips had been with Darya by her side. This time it was an entirely different experience. An exploration into the private confines of a man she’d thought she’d known pretty well, but was beginning to realize she’d only scratched the surface. The décor was a tasteful mix of raw masculinity and urban style complete with exposed brick walls, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and dark stained wood beams. The concrete floors were plain gray and finished with a high shine, but thick, shaggy rugs in deep gray, cornflower blue and chocolate made them seem more welcoming.

  The industrial metal door slammed shut behind them a second before Beckett splayed his hand low on her back. “You hungry?”

  Not letting her eyes drift shut or leaning into him for more contact took everything in her. Her stomach answered for her, growling at the scent of spices and simmering sausage that filled the sprawling space. “It smells amazing.”

  “Don’t sound so shocked.” He chuckled and guided her toward the massive island, motioning to the concrete surface and the dark wood stools surrounding one side. “Take a load off while I get the stuff out for dessert.”

  “Hard not to be shocked. You with firearms and throwing someone on the floor, I can picture pretty easy. You in an apron is something else altogether.”

  “Yeah, no apron. Not for cooking anyway.” He jerked open one side of the industrial-sized stainless-steel fridge, pulled out a clear plastic bowl that had something orange inside and stacked what looked like dough wrapped in cellophane on top of it. “Now if you’ve got some kitchen fantasy you want to share, I might consider it.”

  Nope. No talk of fantasies. Not now. Not ever. She sidestepped the topic and dipped her head toward the bottles of nutmeg and vanilla he added to the growing ingredients. “So, what’s for dessert?”

  He pulled two measuring cups out from under one of the cabinets, added them to the pile and turned for the canisters lined up along the back kitchen countertops. “Peach pecan cobbler.”

  Her breath hitched and she swore time did a mini-freeze-frame while her brain scrambled to connect the dots. “I love peach pecan cobbler.”

  He turned, slid two of the canisters onto the island and met her stare head-on. “I know.”

  That hole-in-the-wall diner in Richardson. It’d been maybe a month or two at most after they’d met on a job and she couldn’t have remembered the name of the place to save her life, but they’d had peach pecan cobbler on the menu. She’d seen it and ordered it for a main course. “You remembered that?”

  “I remember just about everything where you’re concerned.” He placed a big high-end Dutch oven her momma would have salivated over onto the stove then crooked a finger at her. “Now get over here. I’m puttin’ you to work.”

  “Oh, that’s a bad idea.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and pried the lid off the plastic bowl he’d pilfered from the fridge.

  “I’m worthless in a kitchen. Always have been. Much to my mom’s disappointment.”

  His easy smile moved over her like warm honey. “Nice try, gorgeous. You’re still helpin’.” He tipped the bowl and fresh peeled peaches spilled into the pan. Jerking his head toward the wrapped dough, he fired up the gas burner. “If you can take a man down, you can roll dough. Doesn’t have to be pretty.”

  The rolling pin sat beside the dough, the glow from the pendent lights overhead reflected off the shiny surface, taunting her. Surely she could handle rolling dough. And it was cobbler. Not some epicurean entry in a county fair.

  Quiet settled as she made her way to his side of the counter and peeled the plastic wrap away with clumsy fingers. “Your mom must be pretty proud of the fact you can cook.”

  For just a beat, Beckett hesitated in adding sugar to the mix. “My mom didn’t teach me.” Another pause, this one weighted as though considering his words. “She left when I was two.”

  It should have been weird. Or at least embarrassing given she’d obviously stumbled on a sore spot. But somehow the information eased her own discomfort. Like he’d shared a piece of his past to level the playing field.

  Or to prove he’d meant what he’d said.

  Whatever ideas you’ve got of me when it comes to women, they’re pretty damned shallow.

  More than anything, she wanted to dive deeper. To open the door a little wider to the past he’d offered and hear more about how he’d grown up. She focused on the chilled dough in front of her instead and put her weight into kneading it. “Then who taught you to cook?”

  “A Cajun lady who lived next door to me and my dad.” He glanced at her, but never broke from stirring the mix in his pan. “Dad wasn’t around much, so Knox and I spent a lot of time at her place. She put us to work.”

  That’s right. She’d known he a
nd Knox had been friends when they were kids. She just didn’t realize it had gone so far back. “What did your dad do?”

  The scoff that slipped free was pure disgust. “Not much.”

  She paused mid-squeeze and looked at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He stared at the pan’s contents. “You interested in getting to know about me?”

  She was. More so than she cared to admit. “Yes.”

  His gaze cut to hers and the intensity behind his blue eyes burned hot as the flame on the stove. “Ever consider why you want to get to know more about me?”

  Because to her he was larger than life. Because she’d wondered what events had formed the man she’d watched from a distance for years.

  Because he was Beckett.

  “I’m curious by nature?” she answered instead.

  The grin he gave her should have warned her to run, but she stayed rooted in place like one of those idiots in a classic horror flick and watched as he lowered the flame to simmer. “Not buying that one.”

  Instincts prickling that it was time for a speedy retreat, she centered the now pliant dough in the center of the space she’d cleared, grabbed the rolling pin like it was a weapon and prepared to roll.

  She felt more than saw him move closer, the sheer power of his presence moving over her in a commanding claim. His heat and hard body blanketed her back a second before his arms came around either side of her and stilled her hands on the rolling pin. “Wanna know what I think?”

  He could think? Because she sure as hell couldn’t. Not with his deep voice whipping to life long-ignored needs and desires.

  He set the pin aside, picked the dough up with one hand and sprinkled a healthy amount of flour in the spot where it had been. Every move was casual and yet thick with an understated sensuality that had her heart thumping a demanding rhythm. He placed the dough back in the center, put the pin back in her hands then braced his own on the counter, caging her. His lips grazed her cheek when he spoke. “I think you want to know more about who I am because—deep down where you’re too afraid to look—you want more than just business.”

  She couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Didn’t even want to talk for fear of losing the delicious sensations dancing beneath her skin. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Yes, you are. Afraid to let that armor of yours down and just be a woman. But I promise you, Gia. You’re safe with me. Nothing between us goes further than us. No matter what happens.”

  Safe.

  The simple word resonated deep, shoving reason off the shelf and jetting dangerous cracks through years and years of fortified defenses. As temptations went, it was the one with the most teeth. A man might have confidence and intelligence in spades, and chemistry could be through the roof, but without trust none of it was worth a damn. Her mom and dad were living proof of what happened without it.

  She forced herself into motion and pressed the pin into the dough. “What do you have to drink?”

  The shift in topic was a chicken move, and the way Beckett hesitated before answering said he knew it, too. Still, he straightened, gently cupped one shoulder as if to let her know he understood, then moved toward the fridge. “I picked up some chardonnay this morning. That work for you?”

  “You’re a wine drinker?”

  Beckett barked out a sharp laugh, all the intensity of the moment they’d left behind replaced with his normal casualness. “Hell, no.” He set the bottle on the counter and dug through a drawer full of all kinds of utensils. “You had a ton of the stuff racked up in your kitchen though, so I grabbed a few while I was getting groceries this morning.”

  Observant and considerate. Two more ticks in the plus column. She glanced at the bottle. Not surprisingly, it was the brand she kept the most of at home. Her favorite.

  He paused and looked at her, wine opener in hand.

  She met his gaze and the crack in the wall wound a little deeper. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Of all the outcomes for tonight Gia had anticipated, ending it sated on amazing food, barefoot, relaxed and kicked back on an oversized sectional with a glass of wine in hand hadn’t been one of them. She rolled to her side for a better view of Beckett finishing cleanup detail and propped her elbow on the back of the couch. “I really wouldn’t have minded helping. I’m better with washing dishes than I am cooking.”

  He tossed his kitchen towel onto the island, snagged her nearly empty bottle of wine and strolled her direction. “You feel good?”

  “I feel great.” How could she not? For two hours they’d had nothing but easy conversation, peppered with more and more evidence that there was more to Beckett Tate than she’d thought. He’d always listened to her when she’d talked before, but tonight she’d had his full attention. As if the restraints he’d kept bound around their interactions had been obliterated by her drunken admission.

  He topped off her wine and set the empty bottle on the sofa table behind them. “Then I’m not going to jack that up by putting you to work.” He sat roughly an arm’s length away and motioned for her to shift on the couch. “Sit back and put your feet up.”

  “Why?”

  “I fed you. Humor me and don’t ask questions.”

  A cautionary prickle sparked along her neck and shoulders, and her stomach muscles tightened.

  You’re safe with me.

  Was she? Really? Sure, he’d proven he’d support her as a colleague and a friend. If not by his actions getting her home when she was drunk as a skunk, then by standing by her at the range and keeping those determined to ride her ass at bay. But her instincts insisted this was something more. Something with far more potential risk.

  He waited and watched, his stare steady and patient.

  You want more than just business.

  His words hit her as hard the second time as they had when he’d spoken them. And he was right. Would it be so bad to risk just this once? To test the waters and see what happened?

  She shifted the way he’d indicated, resting her back against the arm of the couch and stretching her feet out in front of her.

  His expression shifted, the warmth behind his eyes and the softening of his features denoting both pleasure and approval. And damned if that didn’t suck her in even deeper, lulling her like a tender stroke along her spine.

  Holding her gaze, he slid forward, lifting her feet as he went and letting them rest in his lap. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Hard? No, that hadn’t been hard at all. Not in comparison to holding back the moan that crept up her throat when he cupped the outside of each foot and dragged his thumbs along each arch. God, the heat alone was enough to make her melt. Never mind the perfect pressure he employed along with it.

  Her eyes slipped closed of their own accord and she scrunched down further on the couch, resting her head on the thick armrest. “You’re really good at that.”

  He said nothing, but his practiced strokes never faltered.

  Now that she thought of it, he’d touched her a lot since that night when he’d taken her home. Never anything inappropriate, but more subtle contact. A reassurance here, or a comforting connection there. “Beckett?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You asked me about what my life was like growing up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I told you.” Probably more than she should have really, but the wine and the food had loosened her tongue more than she’d intended. From her family’s elite neighborhood and her father’s social connections, to how her relationship with her parents had begun to unravel her senior year when she refused to follow the path her parents wanted. The only thing she hadn’t delved into was her father’s string of indiscretions and her mother’s inability or unwillingness to stand up for herself. “Tell me about you.”

  Silence.

  She forced her e
yes open.

  Attention trained solely on her feet, he seemed totally absorbed in his task, but his features had sharpened. Where he’d seemed calm and unhurried before, now his lips were firmer and the pressure from his fingertips deepened.

  “Beckett?”

  His gaze lifted to hers. “It wasn’t anything like yours.”

  Between the few snippets she’d garnered over dinner as to how he’d met Knox and the abrupt way he’d stated his mother left when he was two, she’d guessed as much. “It doesn’t matter what it was like. It matters that it was yours.” She probably shouldn’t push. Shouldn’t poke in the dark spaces he didn’t offer willingly, but the hunger to know more about him—the real him—prodded her to say more. “You want me to trust. It’s a two-way street.”

  He held her stare, a rawness she’d never expected to see on full display behind his beautiful blue eyes. “My mom left me when I was two.”

  Left him. Not that she’d just left, or left his dad. But him. An innocent two-year-old boy. “What happened?”

  He lowered his gaze and moved both hands to one foot, giving it his full attention. “I was a tough baby to deal with. At least that’s what my dad said. Special needs.”

  “Special needs, how?”

  His touch lightened just a fraction and one hand slid higher, slowly caressing the back of her calf before circling up and back down her shin to the top of her foot. The touch was amazing. Sensual and thick with a connectedness she couldn’t figure out. But there was a desperation to it, too. “Needy. Cried a lot. Didn’t sleep much either.”

  “Sounds like half the infant population to me.” The words hopped out without censure, fueled by a punch of anger that fired out of nowhere. “Not everyone gets an easy baby to raise. Heck, I’d bet most of the parents you talk to would say their kids were a struggle in the early years. Dealing with it is part of being a parent.”

  A self-deprecating grin curled his lips and he switched to the other foot. “Yeah, well, she wasn’t planning on being a parent to begin with, so...” He shrugged and grew silent. Thoughtful. He pulled in a slow, bracing breath. “I wasn’t much better growing up. Fought a lot. Chased girls like crazy once I got older. Pissed a bunch of dads off. Fought a lot more. A school counselor had enough of the fights my sophomore year and threatened me with expulsion if I didn’t meet with a therapist.”