A heavy feeling settled in the pit of Beckett’s stomach.

He closed the door to try not to wake her and started the cleanup process, hoping to learn more about her from the surroundings. Folded towels sat on the back of the toilet, along with a shower caddy holding her toiletries, because there was obviously no other place to put them.

When he turned on the water, it came out brown, and he let it run until the old pipes cleared. As he cleaned up, he was both confused and…awed. Meeting her, he never would have guessed this was her living situation. She came off as intelligent and well-read and so totally together. He doubted just anyone got into Johns Hopkins’ paramedic program. And, frankly, he’d also assumed she’d come from money. Maybe because she hadn’t made a big deal out of his apartment or his car. Maybe because she never brought up his contracts or how much he made. Maybe because she’d never asked for or expected anything from him.

He dried his hands and patted his body dry. After only a moment of hesitation, he pulled open her medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, toothbrush, lip balm, Tylenol, Advil, and vitamins. On the bottom shelf there was one tube of mascara, a little bottle of foundation, and a pad of blush.

That was it? Seriously? The women he knew carried more than the entire contents of her bathroom around with them everywhere.

He turned off the light and quietly pulled the door open. Eden hadn’t moved. She was still curled on her side, her naked body smooth and sleek and beautiful. Her hair was a tousled mess spilling over the solid yellow comforter that matched the walls.

Beckett glanced at the time, bent over her, and brushed her hair off her forehead. When she didn’t stir, he smiled. She could have so easily turned him down outside her work. Or could have told him to take her home when he’d turned into the Y. She could also have interrupted his socializing and asked to leave. But she’d done none of that. And, looking around him, he was beginning to realize that Eden was struggling as much as those she’d helped raise funds for today. But she’d stayed on her feet for hours to cook after a long night shift.

And she never asked for anything. Never even hinted that she needed anything. Never got that greedy glint in her eye he’d come to expect in women.

The feeling inside intensified. Man, he admired the hell out of this woman. At least what he knew of her. He couldn’t believe how strongly he felt about her after such a short amount of time. But after so many wrong women, it wouldn’t take a genius to realize when the right one had wandered into his path, which was good, because a genius he was not.

Beckett pulled on his boxer briefs and wandered to her bookcase to read the titles. Her textbooks lined the top shelf. Topics included anatomy, physiology, advanced first aid, CPR, medical ter

minology, emergency care in the streets, advanced cardiac support, pediatric advanced life support, pharmacology and drug guides, trauma management, emergency obstetrics, psychiatric emergencies.

“Jesus,” he whispered. He got a headache just reading the titles. He’d definitely gotten the intelligent part right.

He crouched and looked at the second shelf. Brain, Mind, and Body: Healing from Trauma. The next book in line: The Power to Break Free.

He frowned. Those didn’t sound like they fit the program. He pulled the book out and looked at the cover, read the subtitle: For Victims and Survivors of Domestic Violence.

The way she’d flinched that night in the bar flashed in Beckett’s mind, and his stomach went cold. The skin over the back of his neck prickled, and the hair on his arms stood up. A wickedly intense protective streak burned a path through him. He’d known her flinching and startling pointed to something unpleasant in her past, but seeing that vague thought put into the cold, harsh words domestic violence made it far more real, far uglier, far more infuriating.

He clenched his teeth and read the other titles in the row. Domestic Violence Survival Workbook. It’s My Life Now, Starting Over After Domestic Violence. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

From there, the titles transitioned into a new topic. Healing After Loss: Daily Meditations. Angel Catcher, a Journal of Loss and Remembrance. Beyond Tears: Finding Light After Loss.

Beckett’s stomach churned, his body flashed hot, then cold, then hot again. His mind tried to make sense of the books. Eden didn’t strike him as the kind of woman to regret walking away from an abuser. He couldn’t envision Eden mourning the loss of someone who’d hurt her. But maybe the loss of her family when she left California had been harder to overcome than she let on.

He straightened the books and let his fingers float over the bindings, grateful they’d helped her in some way become the strong woman she was today. The woman who now pulled at him in ten different ways.

The covers rustled, then her sluggish voice murmured, “Shit. What time is it?”

Beckett stood. “Only one fifteen. Relax. I won’t let you oversleep.”

She pulled her hair off her face. “Sorry. I haven’t crashed like that in a long time.”

The fact that she trusted him enough to relax gave him more of a thrill than it probably should have. “I’m sure you need it.”

Sitting next to her, he gathered her into his arms, lay back against a couple of pillows, and pulled her to rest on top of him. She sighed, pressed her face to his neck, and kissed him, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Rest until you have to go.” He stroked his hands down her back. “Are you cold?”

“Not now.” She sounded sleepy and happy. “You’re like a furnace.”

He chuckled and wrapped her tighter, wishing he could take away all the ugliness in her past. The same way he wished he could wipe away the fears he still saw resurface in Lily’s eyes every now and then.

He was thinking about that similarity between Lily and Eden when she said, “Beckett?”

As soon as he refocused on the present, he felt the tension in the air. “Hmm?”

“Is this a…thing?” she said, voice soft and unsure. “Or…not a thing?”

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