Page 17

Morning came much faster than I liked. Also, I woke with a heck of a lot more than I wanted.

That being, I woke with a pounding head, dry mouth, and queasy tummy.

In short, I was hung over as hung over could be.

Well, in truth, it could be worse. I could be hugging the porcelain bowl, or hiding from the light under my covers as a migraine pounded through my brain.

I wasn’t doing either of those things, so I had some lucky stars to count. However, I also had some not so lucky stars . . .

I may have been drunk out of my mind, but I wasn’t so intoxicated that I didn’t remember my little conversation with Beckett. I remembered, and I was cursing myself. Big time. Huge. Massive.

I was screwed. I’d nearly told him about Jayden—about the things Jayden did to me, and the things he made me watch.

I almost told him about the past I tried, harder than anything, to keep buried.

And I had told him about the one thing I wanted from life.

I told him about my fantasy—I told him about the place I saw when I closed my eyes at night.

I stripped myself down to the most vulnerable part of me, and I let Beckett see my hope.

Now he knew there was more to me than ice. Now he knew there was something inside me that was still breakable. Now he knew I could be hurt.

Now he knew I had something to hurt for . . .

Now he could hurt me.

“Crap,” dizziness flooded my brain and blurred my vision as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Okay, too fast.”

Slower, I stood from the bed still in the pink tank top and jeans from the night before. “Yuck,”

I didn’t have to think on it as I set to stripping.

Then I slid into my purple satin housecoat and tiptoed from my room into the bathroom.

I was in the shower as fast as I could move, which wasn’t all that fast because I got dizzy with hasty movements, but it was still fast enough.

Warm water flowed, washing all the dirty that came with clubbing, away.

After I’d scrubbed my skin clean, I decided to relax as I let my booty meet with the floor of the tub. Warm water continued to pour from the head, moving to slide relaxingly over my skin. I pulled my knees into my chest, letting my head rest on the tops, as my mind moved to Beckett.

It was true; I’d woken up this morning in a bit of a panic over all that I’d revealed to him.

But it was also true; I knew Beckett would never intentionally cause me hurt.

Yes, I’d given him the ammunition to cause me the same kind of pain I’d tried to ensure I’d never again feel, but I also trusted that Beckett wasn’t a man who would take advantage of my fears.

He was a man who I could ask to stay with me until I fell asleep, and he would do just that. He would stay until I fell asleep, and then he would leave. He was a man who kept his word—something that was truly so very rare.

And then I remembered agreeing to spend a week over Christmas at his parents’ cabin, in the same bedroom!

I was mortified.

And then I was standing, gripping the wall for balance as I steadied my suddenly double vision, because I was intent on rectifying this immediately.

Because I was certain that I was not, under any circumstances, going to spend any amount of time in a cabin where I would be sharing a bedroom with Beckett. Absolutely not. No. Freaking. Way.

Little did I know, I’d be eating my words when I walked into the kitchen five minutes later.

My hair was still wet and I was in my housecoat, but Beckett was standing at the stove in a navy, black, and white plaid pair of pajama pants and no shirt.

I’ll repeat, no shirt. And the kitchen smelled of bacon and sausage and, good lord almighty, there were hash browns.

Maybe I could love a man . . .

I shook my head, stepping forward. “What are you doing?”

“Cooking you breakfast. After last night I figured you’d need the grease.”

Grease sounded freaking perfect. So . . . freaking . . . perfect.

Again, I shook my head. “Um,”

He interrupted, “Thought I was going to have to put everything in the microwave when you took forever in the shower, but now that you’re out, pop a squat.”

Pop a squat? What in the world?

“Beckett,” he turned to look at me—and wow. Seriously, this man with no shirt on was a delicious sight to behold. I understood the whole hype of licking, when I caught sight of the muscles in Beckett’s chest.

Okay, that was dirty. Mind back on track, Amara. Back. On. Track.

“You want coffee? It’s made.”

“Yeah,” I started for the pot, poured the black liquid into the cup Beckett obviously set out for me, dunked my spoon in the honey, and stirred. Now I had crap to say. “Tell me, did I seriously agree to spend Christmas Holiday in your parents’ cabin?”

He quirked a grin, getting even sexier than he was five seconds ago. I scowled and he nodded. “Yep.”

“Urgh,” with my fingers pressed to my temples, I moaned.

“How’re you feeling?” Concern filled his tone, and I found my eyes connecting with warm brown.

“Like I sold my soul to the Devil’s dog as a chew-toy.” I squinted, and rubbed my temples. “Remind me, did I really agree to share a room with you for an entire week? Bed and all?” I lifted a finger, “Because that really doesn’t sound like me.”

“Not sure how I feel about the chew-toy thing,” he shrugged, “But yeah, babe, you did.”

“Well,” I straightened my back. “I’m taking it back now.”

“You can’t.”

“Really? Wanna tell me why not?”

“Nope.”

“Then I’m taking it back.” I said decisively, nodding resolutely. That hurt my head and I winced. Crap! Never will I drink again. Never, never, never!

“Already said you can’t,” he slid a plate filled with greasy food, toast that was properly buttered (meaning there was butter all the way to the crust) and scrambled eggs, to my seat at the island.

Again, I could love a man . . . if said man wasn’t being an ogre!

“See,” holding up a finger to take a slow sip of my coffee, before embarking on trademark Amara Bloom bluntness, I explained.

“I’m beginning to think the hellhound traded my soul in for my brain as its chew-toy, because I seriously feel as though my brain has been not only scrambled, but shredded.

So I’m not playing around when I tell you I’m really not in the mood for the back and forth two-step you’re determined to dance.

If you feel like giving me a reason to stand behind, I might be willing to consider . . .”

Again, he cut me off. “Kai’s proposing.”

My mouth snapped shut. And then it fell open. “What?”

“Kai is proposing to Raina.” Beckett gave me blunt right back, and I had to admit that his blunt came with a heck of a lot less mess than mine. Still, that didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“He’s proposing?”

“Yeah,” he settled into the chair beside me, popping a piece of crispy bacon—just the way I loved it—into his mouth.

“He’s my best man, peanut, so you gotta know I’d do pretty much anything he asked me, and he asked me to make sure the whole gang is there when it happens.

He says that’s how Raina would like it, and being that she’s your girl, I’m thinking you know this. Am I right?”

“But,”

“She’s gonna say yes. And we both know that when she does, she’s going to want those she loves there when it happens. That’s you, Maddy, her parents, and his.”

“Maddy knows!” I whispered my exclamation.

“Maddy knows.” He confirmed. “Kai told her.”

“That’s why she said she’d take the couch,” I stated. “And why she’s totally fine with her parents not being a part of it all.”

“Yeah,” again he nodded. “She already talked to them about it.”

“Kaiden is proposing.” I said again, a little breathless. “Marriage.”

“That’s usually what it means, peanut.” Beckett’s lips were slowly stretching into a grin. “So now you know why you can’t back out.”

I squinted my face into a scowl. “Beckett . . .”

“It’s for Raina.”

Screw me sideways. For Raina there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do . . .

“That girl is starting to be a serious pain in my ass.”

“Looking forward to our week together, peanut.”

I smacked him in the shoulder, grunting, “You’ll be on the floor.”

He just grinned in that way that made me think I’d bought myself a whole lot more trouble than I thought. So I ignored him, sipped my coffee, and ate the delicious breakfast that I totally needed—that Beckett Davis cooked for me.

Then I told myself I couldn’t love a man.

Not any man, but especially not a man like Beckett.

Not a perfect man, with perfect smiles, and perfect warm eyes, and perfectly buttered toast. I couldn’t love any man.

Because I knew what it was like to love and lose and I wasn’t setting myself up for hurt like that again.

Not ever.