Page 70 of Hot Damn
“Nothing.”
“Oh, it’s something.” He places the glass back on the bedside table before leaning over me, one hand planted in the bedding beside my thigh. “Tell me. Now.”
He uses what I’m sure is his dad voice and I have to fight the smile my mouth wants to make.
I’m not his child, he doesn’t need to care for me the way he is, and while I like it—probably too much—I’m determined to take care of myself.
We have a stare off for at least a minute before the low rumble of my stomach makes me give in. “I’m hungry.”
“What do you want? If I’ve got it, you can have it; if not, I’ll see if I can get it.”
“Toast.”
“Toast? You want toast?”
Nodding, I press a hand to my stomach when it rumbles loudly. “Yeah, some plain toast.”
“Plain toast.” The look he gives me is hard to decipher.
“If you?—”
“Of course I can get you toast. I’m shocked it’s what you asked for, that’s all.”
“What else would I want?”
“Well, Whit asks for homemade chicken noodle soup or mashed potatoes.”
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Yeah, it’s her comfort food. Mama Dot used to make it when Whit was little and had tonsillitis what seemed like every other week.” He shrugs. “I guess for her, a bowl of mashed potatoes is a bowl of love.”
“I’m the same with toast. When I first went to live with Dad and Mom, it was all I could eat because it was all I’d ever had to eat.”
Rolling my lips into my mouth I lower my head. I hadn’t meant to reveal that piece of information. I’ve never told anyone about the years I lived with my biological mother.
Even Dad doesn’t know the extent of the neglect.
“There’s a story there but as you need to rest and you won’t do that well without something in your belly, I’ll leave it alone for now.”
My past isn’t a secret. Hell, most of it was played out in the media like some kind of freak show before Dad put a stop to it. Anyone could find out the details if they dug far enough. “Thanks.”
“We all have a past we don’t talk about.” He pushes off the bed and stands. “Want to eat the toast in bed or down in the kitchen?”
The thought of moving has me cringing but then I think about how stiff I’ll be in the morning and figure getting up and moving around now might help alleviate that. “Kitchen.”
“All right, let me find the slippers you worehome.”
He’s heading for the bathroom before I register what he said and once I do, I’m surprised by the way his words make me feel.
Comfort. Warmth. Contentment.
All things I associate with Mom and Dad.
Things I should not be feeling while lying in Beckett’s bed.
I don’t know if it’s gratitude or genuine feelings sparking the emotions his words evoked. Either way, I need to put the brakes on them.
I can’t get comfortable here. Beckett has barely turned the corner of disliking me and I’m sure if I hadn’t gotten between Whitney and Kenneth, he wouldn’t be as accommodating.
