Page 22 of Covert (Ruthless Love #2)

Chapter nineteen

Beckett

W ork the next day feels lighter. There's hope at the end of the tunnel.

Nikki and I spent a solid couple of minutes touching.

And I know it was basically a lame version of holding hands.

But it worked. After the initial panic, my heart rate evened out, and I was okay.

I've memorized the shape and heat of her tiny hand in mine.

I can finally see a future in which I might be able to touch and be touched, to be alone with a woman and not so afraid.

The smiles she gives me now are shy and accompanied with a blush. I can tell she's equally proud of us and a bit timid. Because now we have a standing "touch date" planned for every night, and I find myself looking forward to them more than I thought I would.

After work, we drive back home, Nikki riding on Maddox's bike.

I know they slept together, but I don't know what's going on with their relationship beyond the physical.

I know he likes her and wants her, but is afraid to admit to even himself that she's wormed her way into his heart.

After Natalie, I understand why it would be hard to let someone in and risk losing them again.

But Nikki's here, and sticking around, and with how charming and sweet and sassy she is, it's only a matter of time.

We get home from work, and I head to the kitchen to start cooking.

When I got out of prison and moved in with Axel and Maddox, we were eighteen and nineteen.

We had enough money to rent a tiny apartment together, but none of us knew how to cook.

Ramen and mac and cheese got old quickly, so I made it a mission to learn how to cook.

I took books out of the library, experimented, failed, practiced, and eventually got pretty good at it. It's a smooth, calming practice that helps me relax at the end of the day. And

I shut the fridge to find Nikki standing there, watching me with a look on her face I can't identify.

"You know how to cook?" she asks, seemingly curious.

"Yep." When I got out of jail and got the job with Axel and Maddox, none of us really knew how to cook.

We'd grown up together, but they didn't really have to take a chance on me.

I was a convicted felon. So, I wanted to be able to give back and make myself useful.

I would get cookbooks from the library and practice…

and practice until I got pretty good. I still find the act of cooking settling and peaceful.

"Can you teach me?" she asks, and I remember how bare her cabinets were in her apartment. I don't think I saw any actual food, just packets of ramen and energy bars.

"You never learned?"

She shakes her head and bites her lip, I'm sure, considering how much she wants to tell me.

"I left home at fifteen, and don't really have access to the internet..." she trails off. I won't push her. Talking about her past at all is challenging for her.

"Sure," I reply. I set her up with a cutting board and knife and show her how to hold and cut the carrots without hurting herself.

I peek at her from the corner of my eye and can't help the smile that tugs across my lips at the way she's got her tongue poked out the side of her mouth in concentration. I worry about her slipping up and accidentally cutting herself. I'd never forgive myself if she got hurt. But she's good.

I continue browning the beef, and when she's done with the carrot, I set her up with the onion.

It's nice working alongside her. I explain the different types of cuts with the onion and what they're called.

I explain how I drain off the liquid that's sweated out of the beef.

She's careful not to touch me as she moves around me to watch, and the thoughtfulness and care fill my chest with warmth.

I imagine us doing this every night. I imagine her running her hands across my shoulders. I imagine standing behind her while she stirs. The images pull at my chest. I want them so badly. They demand I become a better man for her so that we can do this every night.

And when we sit down to eat, she closes her eyes and moans after the first bite, I decide to get better for her.