“Therapeutic sex?”
She snorted. “I was thinking more of renting a movie on demand, eating good food, and letting me cuddle your tension away.”
Beckett considered. His frozen expression had thawed a little since he arrived, but he was nowhere near normal. It scared her. He’d never appeared more like his father than when she opened the door and found him looking at her from behind an icy wall. That wasn’t the Beckett she knew—the one she’d come to care about entirely too much. Her Beckett was fire and passion and a healthy dose of attitude.
She walked away before he could answer, hating the way her throat closed, refusing to be upset in front of him when it was Beckett who had been hurt. Samara made two quick calls—one to order several changes of clothes for him to be couriered to her condo from a shop about a mile away, and the other takeout from two different places.
By the time she made it back into the main living area, Beckett had finished washing his hands and was prowling around the space. Snooping. She paused in the doorway to take in a shirtless Beckett in her living room. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned over to read the titles on her bookshelf.
“Regency romance, thrillers, and a startling selection of classic horror novels.” He spoke without looking over. “Every time I think you can’t surprise me, you go and prove me wrong.”
He sounded more normal, which made her smile a little. “Which of those is the most surprising?”
“Definitely the horror. Thrillers and romance are just two sides to the same coin, so they go hand in hand to some extent.” He glanced at her. “Don’t tell that to men who like to read the damn thrillers, though.”
She recognized the subject for a desperate bid not to talk about what he’d just seen, so she played along. For now. “Do tell.”
“Both tell stories that are emotion-driven. Fear and love aren’t that different when it comes right down to it.”
He spoke with the kind of familiarity that drew her several steps closer. “You sound like you’ve read a romance or two.”
“My mother had a subscription to the old Harlequin novels at one point. I found them in a box in the attic when I was thirteen. She must have read them multiple times each, because the spines were exceedingly abused.” He grinned unexpectedly. “I read them all.”
She could just picture an adolescent Beckett holed up with those stories, reading them to feel close to the mother he’d lost. “That’s really sweet.”
“It was.” His smile fell away. “Though my father didn’t think so. He realized I’d hidden them away when I was fourteen and he made me watch as he burned them all.” He caught her expression and shrugged. “He was proving a point.”
God, her heart ached for him. He’d lost so much, and he just kept moving forward, barely missing a step.
You don’t have to be alone anymore.
She didn’t even know if she had any business promising him that. She couldn’t fill the void of so many missing people inside him. No one could but Beckett himself. But he didn’t have to stand as a pillar of solitude, protecting everyone under his wing without falter.
That was why he’d never left, no matter how shitty his father had been. Why he wouldn’t leave no matter how little his heart was in the oil business or the legacy of his family. He had people depending on his leadership, and he’d see it through to keep their lives secure.
Oh my God, I love him.
“What’s got that look on your face?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. She couldn’t tell him now or he’d accuse her of saying the words out of pity. No, they had to get through this mess and walk out the other side, and then she could confess what she felt for him. Or maybe I’m just a coward.
Beckett turned in a slow circle, seeming to take in her place. She tried to see the room from his point of view. Her condo was about half the size of his. Flowers bloomed on her windowsill, and she had pots set up on either side of her balcony. They made her feel closer to her mother, even when they didn’t get to see each other as much as she’d like. Her living room was cozy enough, with a reasonable-sized television and a deep gray couch that was deep enough for two people to sleep on side by side. Her mother had crocheted the throw blanket haphazardly folded across the back of the couch, the only bright thing in the room with its happy oranges, reds, and yellows that made her think of a sunset.
“A movie…would be nice. We have to talk but—”
“It can wait,” Samara said firmly. She hadn’t had a chance to study Lydia’s calendar, but she needed to tell him about it. “I ordered dinner. We’ll eat. Decompress. And then we’ll talk about what happens next.”
He hesitated, but finally nodded. “Deal.”
Samara handed him the remote and put on the hot water while Beckett flipped through the movie options. The bloody bag on her counter drew her gaze. The baby book inside looked saturated, but if there was a way to save even part of it, it wouldn’t happen while the thing was air-locked in a bag. “I’m going to see if I can dry this out.”
“If you want to.”
He didn’t sound exactly encouraging, but she didn’t let that stop her. Samara grabbed some towels and scissors and a pan. She carefully set the bag in the pan and cut down the sides. The metallic scent made her stomach clench, but she gritted her teeth