“Three-bean soup and sourdough bread. I thought since you treated me to pizza, I could make you one of my favorite recipes.” My face flamed. It had sounded so much better in my head. Out loud, I sounded like a juvenile idiot.
Beckett grinned. “I’m not gonna lie, I was in a foul mood about having to find myself dinner after a long day. This is perfect.”
“Good.” I turned back to the soup, stirring even though it didn’t need it.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
Beckett nodded. “I’m gonna take the world’s fastest shower. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” It sounded more like a croak than a word, but Beckett was already out of the kitchen and pounding up the stairs.
Even though I’d missed his roaring motorcycle and the beep of the alarm, I heard that shower click on. I told myself it was the heat of the stove that had my face flaming. But all I could think about was Beckett, one floor above me in that tiled space, stepping into the spray.
I swallowed hard as I ladled some soup into two bowls and sprinkled them both with cheese. Placing them on a baking sheet, I slid them into the oven and turned it to broil. The shower shut off, and an image of Beckett’s bare chest as he toweled himself dry popped into my mind.
“Get a grip, Addie.” I grabbed two glasses and filled them with water, setting them on the table. Then I removed the bread from its tin, wrapped it in a towel, and placed it in a bowl.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs as I pulled the soup out of the oven. I put each bowl on a plate and then set them on the table. “Be careful. The bowls are very hot,” I warned without looking in Beckett’s direction.
“Got it. Want a soda? I got a few kinds at the store.”
My mouth watered at the thought. I didn’t allow myself the luxury of soda regularly, but I had a soft spot for one of the sugary drinks. “Do you have any Coke?”
“I’ve got regular and Cherry Coke.”
“I’ve never had Cherry Coke.”
Beckett grinned, moving to the fridge and pulling out two cans. “It’s my favorite. If you don’t like it, I’ll finish it for you.”
A pleasant little shiver ran through me at the idea of Beckett putting his lips on the same place mine had been. “All right. Thank you.”
“Help yourself to any of my stuff in the fridge or pantry. I have a tendency to overbuy, and things go bad before I have a chance to eat them.”
I studied his face as I sat down at the table, wondering if that was true or if he was trying to give me more. It was an Easton thing, I’d realized. They always wanted to share their blessings with others. It was so different from how I had been raised. For my father, there was never enough. Even though we had enough stored food to last us five years, at least, there was never any extra to give to a family that might be hurting. Any of the Eastons would’ve given away their last piece of bread if they thought someone needed it more than they did.
Beckett handed me the Cherry Coke. As he did, our fingers brushed. I wasn’t sure if it was simply that I didn’t touch others often or what, but a little zing of sensation shot up my arm, and I almost lost my grip on the can. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
We were quiet as I sliced us each a piece of bread, and we slathered them with butter. Beckett ate a spoonful of soup and let out a moan. “This is amazing. You could have your own restaurant.”
At one point, I’d dreamt about what that would be like. But over the years, cooking for others had lost its appeal. My father and the men who worked for him were more critical than anything. Only a couple of them ever thanked me for preparing the food. But something about the true appreciation in Beckett’s expression made me hopeful that I’d find joy in cooking again. I’d started to find some of it in simply being able to prepare what I wanted instead of what I was ordered to.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I don’t like it. I love it.”
I couldn’t help the smile that played on my lips as I took a bite. I washed it down with a sip of Cherry Coke, my eyes widening as the flavors played on my tongue.
Beckett chuckled. “Good?”
“That’s amazing. Dangerous, really. I could get addicted.”
“I promise to keep your habit supplied.”
“You don’t have to do that—”