4. Beckett
4
beckett
Why I decide to drop her car off at the shop before bringing Willa to the cabin is beyond me. I’m setting myself up for torture of my own doing. But there’s something about her.
Maybe it’s the way she seems so concerned with me being a serial killer, but then not.
Or maybe it’s because she can’t stand Christmas lights, and the desire to understand why burns brighter than all of Main Street. And with every building adorned with thousands of lights, the brilliance is off the charts.
“Stay here until I unload the car.” I leave the truck running, confident she won’t try anything stupid. How I know is another mystery yearning to be solved.
Ten minutes later, I’ve got the SUV off the flatbed and pulled into the garage. Sliding into the truck, I kill the engine. “Come on. Let’s get you to your home for the night.” She gathers her bags and climbs down, the snow swiftly clinging to her hair. “My truck’s over here.” I lead the way to my truck, wishing I had the SUV with me today instead. It’s a short ride to the cabin, but the heat takes forever to kick on and there aren’t seat warmers. It’s a bitter contrast to the warmth she’s been used to the past several hours. “It’s going to be cold.” I point to the truck .
“Uh, yeah. It’s snowing. In December. But thanks for the heads up.”
Don’t think my cock doesn’t take notice of the snark in her tone or the way her ass sashays from side to side. Definitely not on purpose or for my benefit, but that’s a guess.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I mutter, keeping my voice low so she won’t hear.
I unlock the doors, opening the back door for her to unload her bags. Once stuffed in the back seat, she yanks her door open. I’d advise her not to pull so hard, but it’s kinda the only way to get the door open.
“Hey, any chance you know an auto body technician? ‘Cause this door needs some work.” She delivers the barb straight-laced and straight-faced. It’s not until she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth to try and hide her smile does she give herself away.
“You know what they say. Doctors make the worst patients. Same for auto body repair.”
Pondering my statement, she stops her entry into the truck. “You’re not just the tow truck driver?”
I wave my hand behind me. “Proud co-owner and operator of Frostline Auto Garage for seven years.”
“Huh. When you said you’d take the car to the shop, I didn’t realize it was your shop.”
“Weird assumption to make.”
I turn the key, tapping the dash to encourage the engine to turn over, cursing myself again for not taking the SUV when I went out earlier. Then I’d have it instead of this old thing.
“Is this thing safe? Maybe you want to have it looked at. Fix it yourself, even. Seeing as that’s what you do. Fix cars and all. Or maybe not trucks?”
She’s rambling again, at my expense this time. But at least she’s let down some of her barriers and seems to have dropped the whole “serial killer” theory.
“I prefer the exterior of cars and trucks. I’m not so great under the hood.” At least, not yet .
The engine purrs to life. Or it would “purr” had it been a new engine. This is more like a rumble and a stuttering start. But it’s a win it started.
“What is it with this town and unnecessary lights?”
I’m momentarily confused by what she means until she points to the dash. Almost every warning indicator is lit up, but I use her question to get an answer of my own.
Once out of the lot and on the road, I ask, “Why are Christmas lights unnecessary?”
Her body quivers, one long shudder from head-to-toe
“Wasted electricity on something too bright.”
“You got sensitive eyes?”
“No.”
“You into conserving the world’s energy?”
“Nope.” She pops the p. The struggle is real to stay on this side of the center console.
“Weak argument,” I mutter, all prepared to go to battle to defend the need for Christmas lights and decorations.
I sneak a peek at her. Her arms cross over her chest. “My opinion is valid since it’s mine .”
“Not when it’s wrong,” I mumble under my breath, hoping she doesn’t hear me. I divert my attention back to the road, but the sounds of her huffs and sighs intrigue me, leaving me wondering what other nonsense she’s prepared to unleash.
Do I mind getting her riled? Not in the slightest.
Am I doing it on purpose? Yep.
She’s at my beck—no pun intended—and call because she can’t drive her car in the shape it’s in. She can’t even get out of Winterberry, let alone wherever she’s headed.
“What do you like about Christmas lights?” Her voice is softer, more inquisitive.
“The joy it brings to the people in town. The ambience it sets for the surrounding area. The ways the different color lights create a magical atmosphere. The vivid colors. Shall I keep going? ”
“Nope, nauseated enough.”
I appreciate how she’s not afraid to give her opinions, wrong as they may be. She’s got gusto, a trait I admire.
We’ve reached my road, and I anticipate the jabs as we get closer to my house.
“No. Nuh-uh. No, Beckett. I can’t stay here. Nope, not happening.”
“Relax, Bundy. A flip of a switch will turn them off.”
The truck in park, I glance her way. A wave of horror coats her face.
“Did you just . . . call me . . . Bundy? As in Ted Bundy?”
I shrug, keeping my emotions in check and my tone steady. “Seems apropos, no?” I fully admit the name is off the cuff, but once it spilled from my mouth, I’m not taking it back or apologizing.
Her eyes become slits.
Her hands clam into fists.
Her nostrils flare with annoyance.
I almost expect her head to explode, steam billowing into the truck.
Her mouth opens but nothing comes out except a small squeak.
“Seems I’ve rendered you speechless.”
Without waiting for her response, I open my door, only bothering to turn off the truck and take the key because the SUV will be better equipped to handle the snow. I fetch her bags and head for the front door.
The cabin’s lit up with hundreds of lights, though I went less than in prior years. Much as I love the holiday, there’s something off about this year. Wish I could pinpoint what it was exactly.
Something twinges in my chest, and I rub the spot with my palm, coaxing away the weird jolt.
I unlock the door, depositing her bags inside. Holding the door open with my foot, I twist to watch Willa taking it all in. Her lips are moving, like she’s grumbling to herself, but it’s too quiet for me to hear any of it. Her head moves from side to side, her eyes squeezing shut to block out the view. Except with the snow and the unfamiliar terrain, she can’t get to the porch without sight. One last shake of her head, she opens her eyes, casting them down to forge a path.
“Put a little pep in your step. I’m not planning on heating the neighborhood.”
I should have kept my mouth shut. My comments elicit her to stop all movement, her narrowed gaze seeking mine. Her head tilts to the side. “Do two cabins make a neighborhood?” she contemplates, serious as can be.
Why her mind fixates on that part of the comment, I’ll never know.
“Come inside and we’ll google it.”
Defiance eclipses her expression, and for a hot minute, I think she’s going to move slower. But the falling snow fixes her ass in gear, and she rushes inside, flinging her coat off the second she breaches the threshold. Both the action of jerking out of it and slinging it to the floor are odd. But then, so is she.
“What did that coat do to you?”
She looks down at it. Not with a sense of shame for her actions, but as if the coat maimed her. “It’s a straitjacket.”
I’m confused by her use of “straight,” until the metaphor dawns on me. “Too confining.”
The enigma is strong with this one.
I shake it away. I’ve got better things to use my brain cells for.
“Welcome to Evergreen Hideaway, your home for the night or two.”
She stands in front of the closed door, soaking it all in. I follow her eyes as they travel to the small kitchen on the left, passing over the hallway leading to the bathroom and bedroom, moving to the fireplace, and ending on the too-large Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. The lights aren’t on, but damn how I wish they were. Her reaction would be priceless.
I’m not foolish enough to turn them on. My mother raised me to be a gentleman. I never start trouble, but provoking it when it’s in motion isn’t out of my wheelhouse.
She glances around again, this time at the wall behind her, locates the light switch, and immediately flicks each one until the front yard goes dark.
Willa slumps against the door, a huge sigh drawing from her. “Oh my god. I can breathe. Hopefully, the dots in my vision don’t last too long.” She blinks her eyes, probably trying to clear the aforementioned dots. “It’s cozy in here. Besides for the abomination in the corner.”
I don’t have to ask to confirm she means the Christmas tree.
“It’s not even lit. Or do you have an issue with everything related to the holiday?” The thought makes me queasy. I’ll forgive the lights thing, but who doesn’t enjoy the best holiday of the year?
She’s quiet for longer than necessary, and I have my answer.
“What?” The question shoots from my mouth. Except I’m not sure I want to know how deep her hatred goes. How she can be so bothered by a tree or something as magical as Christmas. It’s inconceivable.
Unimaginable.
Incomprehensible.
“Nope. Never mind. I’m gonna pack a few things and be on my merry way.” I can’t help the dig. One, because it’s part of my nature. And two, because of her attitude.
Toeing out of my boots, I stomp to the hallway and into my bedroom, opening the drawers of my dresser a little too hard.
“Calm down, Beckett. So she doesn’t like Christmas. It’s not like it’s the best holiday ever.” My gentleman ways out the window, I shout the last part of my rant, hoping she can hear me. “It’s not like she’s forcing you to not like it. But when she turned off the outdoor lights, she killed the joy in the yard.” I yell that part, too. Exasperated, I’m not sure what I’m packing, tossing articles of clothing haphazardly into a duffle. Long as I have boxers, a T-shirt, jeans, and a hoodie, I can get the rest tomorrow .
“I can hear you,” comes her reply from the living room.
“Good. And if I were a murderer, before I killed you, I’d torture you with Christmas music and lights and movies and eggnog and anything else I could think of. Because who hates Christmas?”
I’m practically out of breath when I finish, my lips foaming with frustration. I trod back to the living room, my trek halted at the end of the hallway where Willa stands, hands crossed over her chest, a different fire blazing in her eyes.
“I have reasons, okay?” she shouts at the same decibel I used. “But I don’t have to tell them to you. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” I can’t imagine what “reasons” she could have that would be valid, but damn if I’m not invested.
You don’t grow up in a place like Winterberry Junction and not become obsessed with Christmas. The magic, the splendor, the festivities. Every year, the town’s celebration gets bigger, and in my humble opinion, better. The holiday is commercialized to the nth degree, the true meaning of the day commemorated only by the smallest manger on the church’s lawn. I can’t fathom hating it even a sliver.
Willa shuffles from one foot to the other, her body fidgety. “It’s . . .” She shakes her head and drops her gaze to the floor. “Reasons, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. You don’t owe me an explanation or anything. I only saved your ass.” I blow out an irate breath. I don’t mean for the comment to sound so trite, so impending, but I’m worked up, a frantic energy best spent by running or tinkering in the garage. However, I’m a little afraid of what I might break instead of fix.
Our gazes lock, the brightness in her eyes of moments ago now dimmed.
“Thank you. I’m truly grateful for your help with my car and for letting me stay here. I’m sorry we don’t share the same thoughts about the holiday?— ”
I cut her off with an incredulous laugh, but it doesn’t stop her from continuing.
“But as soon as my car is fixed and the roads are clear, I’ll be out of your way. Plenty of time for each of us to observe the holiday any way we choose.”
She pauses, giving me time to compose a comeback. But the only thing I can say is “Bedroom and bathroom are down the hall. Sheets are clean. Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. There’s coffee for the morning. I have your number. I’ll be in touch.”
Ripping my duffle from where it dropped during my tirade, instead of walking out the front door, I step into boots at the back door, needing to get this pent-up energy out of my system.