Chapter 4

I was always up at the crack of dawn, regardless of what time I went to bed or how tired I was, and this morning was no exception. Given how Beckett had turned his cabin into a nest, it wasn't a surprise that his couch was comfortable to sleep on. I blamed the couch for the dreams I had all night.

In a surprise to no one, they all starred a naked Beckett, who let me do unspeakably dirty things to his body while he did them right back to mine. There was no harm in an imagined blowjob that left both of us hot, sweaty, and happy to do it all over again.

For a big man, he moved so quietly through his home that it almost seemed like he was trying to be invisible. When I imagined police officers, even when off-duty, I pictured a domineering and assertive personality. There was not even an ounce of that in Beckett.

What I was getting was a quiet man perfectly content to follow my directions. After listening to him and Cameron argue in the hospital, I'd dreaded the fight to get him to let me take care of him, but it hadn't happened yet.

Hearing his dad speak to him with such vitriol and disgust had been a shock. The embarrassment and hurt in Beckett's eyes had been heartbreaking. I'd had trouble containing my temper. Who the fuck was this man to speak to him like that? Beckett was an outstanding officer. He was a pretty fucking great human being too.

I'd spent enough time in the ER to know that he treated everyone with respect and dignity, without fail. His fellow officers knew he was a stickler for following up on paperwork and ensuring services were in place before walking away from anyone there. He was genuinely one of the good guys.

I didn't know what had come over me when I took the phone away from Beckett and hung up on his pissant of a dad. One minute I was listening to him spew bullshit, and the next, I wasn't.

The urge to protect Beckett from that hurt had been too strong to ignore. At that moment, I would have given anything to ease the pain I knew was there. His shoulders had been hunched up to his ears, and I saw the vein throbbing in his temple. The hand not holding his phone had been clenched in a fist on the table.

I didn't think he'd realized he was obviously distressed. I'd be damned if someone would get away with hurting him when there was something I could do to stop it. Beckett deserved none of that. I couldn't get past the idea that his dad had spoken to him with such venom. There wasn't a single scenario where I could imagine my parents speaking to anyone—and especially me—like that. It just wasn't possible.

I'd expected him to say something when I took the phone. Anything. His contemplative silence was the only thing I got. He continued on like it had never happened, but I didn't miss that his shoulders weren't hugging his ears anymore and the wrinkle that had taken residence on his forehead from the moment he'd answered the phone was gone.

There'd been no mistaking the flare of heat when I told his dad that was enough. He'd hidden his lower half behind the kitchen counter, but I hadn't missed the tent in his pants. If Beckett knew how much I was stalking him in his own home, he'd probably kick my ass right out.

After I ditched the phone in the living room, we had continued our dinner. Once again, he'd allowed me to direct him where to sit and serve him at the table next to the window. We'd continued our conversation about the Netherlands, which had been surprisingly interesting. I'd also found out that he usually read several books at the same time.

Besides the Dutch engineering book, he was reading a mystery with a crime-solving cat and, in the biggest surprise, a smoking-hot romance about a professional hockey player and the rink's Zamboni driver. The blush that had tinged his cheeks when he told me about that one was too cute. His shy smile, which I'd never seen from him, was everything I was now desperate to keep for myself.

Those shy smiles reached into my soul and made me want to keep him safe from the world. He gave so much of himself, and it took so much out of him to do it. Beckett wasn't mine, but I could see a world where he could be. I would get to be the one who would stand between him and the people who wanted to make him feel less than. I'd never let it happen. Ever.

After dinner, I could tell he was exhausted. Whether it was the phone call with his dad or residual injuries, my guy—whoa, whoa, whoa—I mean, Beckett needed some sleep.Once again, Beckett allowed me to direct him. While I worked on cleaning up the kitchen, I told him he looked dead on his feet. He didn't even pretend to argue. He just nodded while doing everything he could not to look directly at me.

I knew I shouldn't push my luck when it came time for bed, but I couldn't help myself. I had to see how far he would let me go. The answer? Pretty damn far. When we finished eating, I told him he needed to lie down and get some rest. When he didn't argue, I told him to grab the book he wanted to read in bed, and I would bring him a cup of tea. Just like before, Beckett did what he was told. He didn't even argue when I said he was limited to fifteen minutes to not aggravate his headache.

The feeling of being the one to lead him was indescribable. The sense of responsibility threatened to overwhelm my thoughts. It felt powerful, but that was such a simplified version. It was power, trust, and responsibility.

The pull I felt toward Beckett had been based on physical attraction, but now that I'd heard what his dad said and saw his reaction, it felt so much bigger and more important than that. I was ready to be his damn shield against the world, and that was effing insane since the guy barely acknowledged my existence in normal circumstances.

These are heavy thoughts for seven a.m. without even a cup of coffee.

It was far too early to get up, so I grabbed one of Beckett's books from the side table and settled on the couch. Oh, a demon romance that involved tails… Christ on a cracker, I wasn't sure I was old enough to read this. Too bad I wasn't snuggled up with Beckett. I didn't have a tail, but I was sure we could devise something to improvise.

My bladder was about to launch a full-on revolt, so I pushed the quilts off and stood from the couch to head into the bathroom at the end of the hall. As I made my way across the cabin, I couldn't help but admire the tidy coziness of Beckett's house. I didn't know what I'd expected, but it hadn't been quilts, housekeeper levels of tidiness, healthy plants on every windowsill, or piles of books everywhere.

I enjoyed reading, but I was nowhere near the same level as Beckett. He had bookcases on most of the walls, several open books scattered around, and a library up in the loft. Beckett's collection was as eclectic as his house, with titles about war mixed in with best-selling mysteries I recognized from trips to the local bookstore, a surprising number of MM romances, and an absolute ton of travel books.

After I finished my bathroom business, I moved over to the sink to wash my hands. In my own bathroom, I usually had a towel haphazardly thrown on a rack or the counter. Beckett had his neatly hanging from a hook next to the sink. They coordinated nicely in his pretty bathroom with the cedar wainscoting and river rock accents around the two-person shower. The walls were a soft cream that added to the forest retreat aesthetic he had throughout the rest of his house.

After exiting the bathroom, I moved farther down the hall to check on Beckett in the back bedroom. I pushed the door open a little, praying to the gods of oiled hinges.

Oh, my sweet gay heavens.

Sprawled out on the bed with just a sheet partially covering the lower half of his body, Beckett looked like a Greek statue turned into flesh and blood. His muscles were well-defined under his bronze skin. The power and force they were capable of wielding was obvious, even while lying in bed. His legs were sturdy and his thighs looked rock hard. Beckett's waist was trim with an honest-to-God V-cut of muscles on his lower abdomen. He had respectable chest hair that tapered to a treasure trail, which—sadly—disappeared under the sheet. His tats covered a significant portion of his chest and down his arms. I wanted to trace every line with my tongue.

Overnight, Beckett's five o'clock shadow had deepened, and his scruff was more pronounced than it had been the night before. I wouldn't lie about being a little—okay, a lot—jealous of his beard. My pathetic attempts ended with a patchy, thin mess. Since college, I'd given up even pretending that I could grow something decent. Beckett, on the other hand, had no such issues. His early morning beard made him look like fuckable perfection.

Even hotter than the scruff were the dark lashes that lay softly on his cheeks. They were long, thick, and perfect. A selfish part of me wanted to make a noise and wake him up so I could also see his pretty eyes. They were chocolate brown with black flecks. It reminded me of a rock I found on a hike with my parents as a kid. I gave it to my mom, who declared it the prettiest rock she'd ever seen. It still sat on a shelf in the family room at home. Despite what she claimed, I wasn't sure if that was really true, but I had to smile at the thought of an unexpected connection between Beckett and my mom.

I knew Beckett's relationship with his family was complicated. Cameron was a perpetual thorn in his side, but they loved each other. Well, they at least tolerated each other's company since I knew they spent at least some time with each other that wasn't strictly for their job. Cameron's panic over the idea of Beckett being alone told me there was love there. Beckett had cousins running around the island, but I'd never seen any of them at his place. Now that I was thinking about it, I hadn't seen anyone at his place.

I wouldn't call myself stalker level, but I paid attention to what was happening over here, and the answer was not much. Beckett was gorgeous. Between the muscles, the perfect ass, the completely unfair to mere mortal lashes, and that chiseled jaw with the perfect amount of scruff, how were men not climbing his fence to beat down his door? He was obviously quiet, but it wasn't like he never talked. And, honestly, how much talking did one need to do with a hookup? The only potential answer was that the men of this state were generally out of touch, and the men of Almstead Island were positively foolish.

I refused to even entertain the idea that Beckett was screwing his way through the mainland. Plus, I hadn't hooked up with anyone since my last boyfriend and I broke up. More than a little part of me hoped that all my speculation about Beckett was absolutely true.

Hope is not a plan.

Being around him had done nothing to lessen my want for him. Yeah, he was totally fuckable. But there was something more there. I wanted to take care of him, protect him, and make sure he was safe. Yep, all five-eight of me would protect the grumpy cop covered in tattoos who towered over me.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could see hints of vulnerability and shyness. I wanted to be worthy of the level of trust Beckett gave me. I wasn't even dating the guy, and I was waxing poetic bullshit. This wasn't a great sign of maintaining appropriate levels of chill.

Beckett started to stir as I stood in the open doorway and gawked at him. If I were a smart man, I'd beat a hasty retreat to wander around his kitchen, waiting for him to come out on his own.

I was not a smart man.

"Hey, are you ready to get up now? It's after ten." He was clearly still half-asleep because he couldn't quite focus on my words. After a minute or two without a response, I continued on, "I have coffee started and can get food going. I don't think you ate very much yesterday. I'm pretty sure there's a saying about feeding head injuries."

Beckett just sat on the end of the bed and glared at me. Not going to lie. It was kind of hot. Scratch that. It was completely and totally, in all the ways, hot. The glare continued, but he hadn't answered after yet another awkwardly long pause.

"Beckett, are you ready for breakfast, or do you want to shower first?" The glare turned into a glower and a snarl.

"Give me a fucking minute to wake up."

Oh, so that was the way he wanted to play this morning. People always assumed that because I didn't really raise my voice and wasn't the biggest guy, I was some kind of pushover.

"No, you will not speak to me like that. I understand you may still have a headache and be out of sorts, but that is unacceptable. I asked a question and you haven't answered me. Breakfast or shower first?" Then I waited. The silence was deafening.

Beckett was too out of sorts to mask his emotions this morning because they all passed over his face. He went from shock to chagrin to something closely related to lust. And still no answer. I quirked an eyebrow and decided I wouldn't wait for him to choose any longer. "Okay, I'll decide for you. Go shower and make it quick because I'm starting breakfast and no one likes cold eggs."

Beckett's eyebrows shot up, and his jaw went slack, but he composed himself quickly. He stood, gave a curt nod, and headed toward the bathroom without another look in my direction.

A small and smug part of my soul was secretly thrilled he'd done what I said. Previous partners hadn't appreciated my need to be decisive in our relationship. This wasn't a relationship, but I could get behind whatever it was at the moment.

I was gay, so obviously, I knew what a Daddy was, but my previous partners had made it clear the dynamic wasn't needed or desired. It was a constant struggle between their need for independence and my need to manage and care for them. If that meant I insisted on them going to bed when I knew they were tired and had a big day at work the next day, then it was because I knew they'd be upset at themselves when dragging and not at the top of their game. Yeah, some Daddy research was in order.

In any case, I was glad Beckett had listened this morning because I knew his body was going a bit haywire with the enforced inactivity, which probably contributed to his foul mood. Again, not a stalker, but I had noticed that he had a gym set up in the pole barn at the edge of his property. I only noticed because I'd sometimes hear him out there while working on my garden at the back fence of my rental. My weeding needing to be done when he was out there with the punching bag and weights was a pure coincidence.

Who knew he was so grumpy in the morning? Not me. It did explain why he only grunted at me when I ran into him some mornings on my way to work.

I headed back to the surprisingly well-equipped kitchen for someone who had almost zero food in their house. Yesterday, I'd snuck home and brought back some food, so I had all the fixings for a decent breakfast of eggs, bacon, and my guilty pleasure of red-eye sausage gravy with biscuits.

I was elbow-deep in biscuit dough when I heard shuffling footsteps behind me. When I looked up, Beckett looked down. As absurd as it sounded, he looked like a contrite little boy. His head was slung down, his shoulders hunched, and his expression was so sad that it broke my heart. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel bad. Something about him made me think he had enough negative thoughts about himself, and his dad sure as hell had nothing good to say. Asshole. I wasn't sure what he needed to say, so I kept kneading my dough.

"Umm, hey, Will…" He blew out a breath and started again. "I'm—uh—I'm sorry I talked to you like that. I'm really awful in the morning, but it's not fair to take it out on you." Beckett had yet to look up from whatever was fascinating on the kitchen floor.

"Are you apologizing to me or the floor?"

I tried to keep my tone even and voice neutral. Beckett looked up, and the look of shame in his eyes had me ready to toss breakfast aside and hug that man until forever. I definitely didn't mean for him to feel this bad about waking up on the wrong side of the bed.

"To you. I'm sorry." His gaze returned to the floor, and I couldn't let him go on.

"Hey, it's okay. We all get grumpy sometimes. Now, I know there are no decisions for you until you have at least one cup of coffee."

I kept the smile in my voice and watched the tension melt from his shoulders. His gaze met my own, and I lost my breath. Gone was the dejected, defeated man, and in his place was one I felt in my soul.

I nodded in the direction of the stool, indicating where Beckett should sit. "You can keep me company while I finish breakfast. Let me tell you about this book I found on your table…demon smut! How did I not know you like demon smut?"

Beckett finally looked up, and oh sweet gay angels in heaven, that smile would be the thing that killed me. The man had dimples. Dimples. I shit you not, his eyes were literally sparkling with something that resembled joy, and my heart was here for it. Looking at him barefoot in the kitchen with wet hair and a scruffy face, I knew with every part of me that Beckett was someone I could love.