The bedrooms were small and all anyone could say about the bathrooms (except the way she decorated them) was that they were functional.
But the living room had a slanted ceiling that had beams and bead board. The walls were painted one step up from white to be a light shade of gray. The floor had that tile that looked like wood, hers was gray. There were big square windows set high enough you could see out, but they still gave privacy. Leading to the yard, a sliding glass door out to a deck with a pergola over it. All these windows giving a lot of sun to the room during the day.
There were also two cool light fixtures hanging down, matching sconces on the wall, and gray velvet couches facing each other she probably got from that Z Gallerie place. Two armchairs pointed at the TV rounded out the place that someone (not him) would probably describe as azure or something, but they were a kickass blue. There was a square coffee table in the middle.
Toss pillows.
Nice fifty-five-inch TV on the wall. A low modular cabinet under it that had an Xbox, but other than that, nothing in it but what looked like sponges or something, painted silver.
It felt like it wasn’t a living room in Aurora, Colorado, but in a house at the beach.
It was clean.
It was classy.
It was calming.
It had personality.
And it was obviously the only room in the house she’d had the time, or the money, to really put herself into.
But Janna had concentrated on it, and he had a feeling now that it looked like it was done, she’d probably move on to another room when she had the cash.
Patient.
Smart.
Hopeful.
Beck stood there not knowing what to feel.
He’d grown up in a decent place, but his mom and dad struggled. They both worked a lot, but with two growing boys and a factory that sustained the distant suburban Denver town constantly changing hands and eventually closing down, it wasn’t easy.
He’d never had velvet couches.
He’d never had personality.
His father was a presence in the house, not a force.
His mother tolerated her husband, raised her sons and ran her house and sons like she was a single mother, and the idea of silver sponges (or whatever) that had no purpose and were a little weird (but Beck had to admit they looked cool), would not cross her mind.
He did not think of his place with Rosalie.
But if he’d thought about it, he’d realize she brought her life to it, not adding anything from their lives together. And he’d brought shit. So when she’d left him, she’d taken it all.
And if he’d thought on it, he’d realize they’d always been temporary. She’d always had her foot aimed to walk out the door.
Now he knew that wasn’t about Rose still being in love with Shy Cage.
It was that he never gave enough of himself for her to fully give herself to him.
And somewhere in her, she knew she deserved better.
She’d been right.
Now he had a bed. A couch. A TV. A set of plates and forks, knives and spoons he got at Walmart. And an overflowing trash bin since he always ate takeout.
He had shit before he had Rosie.
He had shit now.
Except when he was with Janna.
He turned the corner and saw Janna standing at the stove wearing a tight, little cami with tiny pink flowers on it and short, pink pajama shorts with a little frill at the edge.
She curled that mass of blonde hair so that now, in the morning, after sleeping and fucking, it was a messy mane of curls and tangles that dropped down in a V nearly to her waist at the back.
Her profile was makeup free.
She had the top of her hair pulled back in a little pony that made her look like Pebbles Flintstone, except hotter.
And the toes on her bare feet were painted an insanely girlie shade of pink.
His cock started to get hard.
Something pulled in his chest.
It was the smell of bacon, as it would do, that cut through.
“Babe, you shouldn’t make me breakfast.”
She turned her head, got that melty look and a smile, and replied, “Good morning, honey.”
Beck ignored the melty look.
“I gotta be at work at six thirty. You don’t.”
“It’s a trek into Denver.”
“It’s five o’clock in the morning.”
“So?”
“When do you normally get up?”
She looked to the skillet.
Right.
It was time.
It was time months ago.
Now, those legs, that Pebbles hair, her living room, the toothbrush, her going for a deep kiss, bacon . . .
It was definitely time.
“We don’t have this.”
She jerked her head to face his way again, emotions chasing across her expression until she settled on just one, and that one was a look he’d never seen.
Stubborn.
It was cute.
Fuck.
Her eyes scanned him up and down and she retorted, “Funny. It looks like we do.”
“Janna—” he started, beginning to move into the kitchen.
“Beck,” she snapped, making him stop.
She’d never snapped at him.
Never showed backbone.
That was hot too.
They held each other’s eyes.
And as they did, he decided to use this to his advantage.
“Okay, if we do, you had another bad dream last night. Wouldn’t tell me what that shit was about. Didn’t tell me about it when you had one before. So if we got this, tell me what it was about.”
The stubborn shifted out of her face. It closed right down. And she looked back to the skillet.
“Janna,” he growled.
She slid the skillet off the burner and turned full body to him, announcing, “You don’t trust yourself with me.”
Beck stood frozen still.
She wasn’t done.
“You’re the gentlest man I’ve ever met.”
“I am not that,” he bit out.
“No. You weren’t. Now, you are.”
He did not believe that.
She couldn’t believe that.
And if she did, he really had to end this.
“We’re not doin’ this. Any of this,” he stated, throwing out a hand to indicate the food cooking on the stove as well as her.
And them.
“You start to trust yourself with me, Beck, I’ll start to trust you and tell you about my dream,” she said quietly.
He did not process the fact that Janna, his sweet, timid Janna (not his, but his, Christ) was using emotional extortion to get what she wanted because he focused on one thing.
She said dream.
Not dreams.
She was not someone who was afflicted with bad dreams.
It was one dream.
And his gut was telling him there was something there he had to pull out.
“Babe, you got somethin’ fuckin’ with your head, you need to let it out.”
“Beck, you’re a good guy. You’re a smart guy. You’re a sweet guy,” she returned.
He was not good.
He was all kinds of stupid.
And he was far from sweet.
He didn’t get a chance to challenge her.
She kept talking, gentling her tone.
“Saying all that, I don’t want to sound mean, but you really need to learn some self-awareness, honey.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ask yourself, why do you care I have bad dreams?”
And again, he froze solid.
Fucking fuck, but he was giving himself away.
“If all you want is a guaranteed uh . . . lay . . .”
She couldn’t even say “lay” without hesitating.
How did she work on a porn set?
“ . . . you wouldn’t care about my dream.”
“A guy would have to be a real tool not to give a shit the woman he’s banging has a dream so bad it jerks her awake.”
“Yes, well. Progress. At least you realize you’re not a real tool.” With that, she turned to the stove, picked up a red scraper, put the skillet back to the burner (she was making eggs) and started scraping, saying, “Now sit down. I’ll bring you your coffee.”
“I can get my own coffee,” he grunted.
She turned her head and shot a smile at him.
Shit, she was playing him.
With all that hair, those shorts, those pink toes, velvet couches, food and sweetness, she was fucking playing him.
Beck moved to the cabinet to get a mug, muttering, “Don’t read anything into this.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she said to the eggs. “Like I won’t read anything into you coming back to me again and again for months.”
Right.
He was done.
He pulled the mug down and turned to her, a lot closer in her small kitchen, which was a much more dangerous position for him, but he couldn’t let that in.
Because he knew he’d been fucking shit up since the minute he realized she was not with him for some fucked-up reason. But instead, she was a good woman who thought she’d found herself a good man.
“Why’d you start with me?”
“Because you’re handsome.”
“Janna, I’m carved up.”
She turned to him again, handle of the skillet in her hand, eyes to the scar that still had a lot of angry red slashing across his face.
But when she’d met him, it had only been months since he’d earned it and back then, it was a fuckuva lot uglier.
“Everyone’s carved up, Beck. Somehow,” she said softly. “You can just see one of yours.”
Oh shit.
His gut tightened up.
“And how are you carved up?” he asked.
“You keep forgetting to pretend you don’t care.”
He put the mug down on the counter, clipping. “Janna, this isn’t a game.”
“No, you’re right.”
“I’m protecting you from me, you know it, and you need to let me.”