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.”

She tipped her head to the side and some of that fantastic hair fell down her arm.

Shit.

“Are you gonna hurt me?”

“Yes.”

She blinked.

“I got that in me, babe, and you know that too,” he reminded her.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered.

“I bet Rosalie thought that too,” he returned.

She flinched.

He’d never brought Rosalie up.

He’d never brought it up.

He kept at her.

He had to.

“You wanna serve me breakfast now?”

“Beck—”

“Tell me about your dream,” he demanded.

“Come for dinner tonight, spend the night, and I’ll tell you tomorrow during breakfast,” she shot back.

“Janna, you need to look out for yourself,” he growled.

She lifted her chin. “You’re not going to hurt me, Beck.”

“One way or another, that’s gonna happen.”

“It isn’t.”

“Why are you with me?”

“Spend the weekend with me and I’ll tell you Monday.”

“Goddammit, Janna.”

She leaned toward him and there was a mix of desperation and determination on her face.

“I’m not giving up on you, Beck,” she snapped.

He again stood still.

His mother gave up on him at around two, probably before, he just didn’t have much cognition before that.

Rosalie worked hard at it, but he made her give up on him in the worst way he could do that.

But he’d given up on himself way before that.

“You’re gonna give it, I’m gonna take it and use it and eventually let it go,” he bit out, low and ugly.

“I’ll take that chance,” she replied.

“You’re bein’ stupid,” he told her.

“It’s not the first time,” she returned. “Now get your coffee. Breakfast is done and I don’t want it getting cold.”

And there was another new thing.

Boss.

He liked it.

So it gutted him.

She scooted past him to the table where, when he shifted to watch her go, he saw there were plates and forks already laid out. A stack of toast on the table. Jelly and butter. And a paper-lined plate piled with bacon.

Goddammit.

“I wanna look after you,” he said quietly.

She stopped scraping eggs onto a plate but stayed bent over it, only tilting her head back to face his way.

“I know,” she whispered, that melt in her eyes that he felt in his chest. “Get your coffee, honey.”

“Be smart, baby,” he whispered back.

“I am.”

“You know I’m gonna have to end this,” he warned her.

“I’ll take that chance.”

“For fuck’s sake, sweetheart. Why?”

She straightened, gave him the blast of her full attention, and laid it out.

“Because you make me happy.”

Shit.

Fuck.

Christ.

Nothing else would do it.

But that did it.

Fuck.

That did it.

“Come have breakfast,” she urged.

Since he was stupid and weak and selfish and fucked up, Beck turned to her coffeepot, poured himself some joe, then walked to the table to sit in front of a plate full of eggs, serve himself some bacon and toast.

And he had breakfast.

With his woman.

Naomi

“Call me, you stupid, fucking motherfucker!” she shouted into her phone.

She stabbed the screen, threw the phone down on the dinged table in front of her and glared at it.

“Dumbfuck. Asshole. See who’ll suck your cock now, motherfucker,” she ranted at her phone. “Scrape off Naomi before she’s done with you, earn yourself a world of hurt, dickhead.”