5. Willa
5
willa
“Well, that was rude and uncalled for,” I say to the empty room once Beckett slams the door behind him and disappears into the night. “What’s his problem, anyway? What’s it to him if I don’t like Christmas? He’s acting like a toddler who lost his favorite toy.”
I spin around where I’m standing, taking in the quaint cabin.
Besides the hideous decorations, it’s cozy. Especially for a guy who appears to live alone. If there was a woman in his life, I can’t imagine she’d be okay with me staying here, so I’ll go out on a limb and say he’s unattached.
Why does my stomach flutter with that presumption?
The dark couch has seen better days, the cushions sunken in where Beckett must usually sit, but it looks super comfy. It’s positioned directly in front of the fireplace, a TV mounted on the wall above. My thoughts drift to a prone Beckett watching TV in front of the fire.
Nope. No thanks.
I stride to the kitchen, not hungry but curious about what he has in the fridge. I’m shocked to find it stocked with ingredients and a few containers of homemade leftovers. A box with a half-eaten pizza takes up most of one shelf. For funsies, I poke my head in the freezer, finding it piled with meats and more containers of food. I didn’t peg him for a guy who cooked, but then again, I haven’t given too much thought to who he is beyond his striking appearance.
Why does a man who looks like him have to be so into Christmas?
As if when I leave here, I’ll ever see him again.
As if I’m in the market for a man in my life.
I’ve told you, you should be . . .
His voice hits from out of the blue, so loud and real, I’m forced to catch myself on the counter and find my footing when I almost stumble.
I check in with my mom. She’s already spoken to Clem and knows the situation. Her concern about my predicament hardly mirrors Clem’s. She seems more worried about being in a snowstorm than being stranded at a stranger’s house without a car, a very fitting reaction for my mother. She asks if she should put my dad on a plane to Vermont, but I turn down the offer. My dad’s not the best man in a crisis, and I’m sure his anxiety would make the situation worse.
If that’s possible.
Deciding it’s time to end this horrendous day, I swipe my bags from where Beckett left them by the door and search out his bedroom.
It’s a little weird to be in this stranger’s space, to be sleeping in his bed, when I know so little about him. But I guess it’s no different from the cabin I’ve rented for my stay. Except I won’t have to deal with the host unless there’s an issue. I’ve stayed at Airbnbs before and I’ve never once thought about the person who owns the place. Good thing I’m good at pretending.
The wood paneling from the living room continues into Beckett’s bedroom. It’s not too big, but it’s organized. Only a few trinkets and photos on the dresser, a pile of books and a lamp on the nightstand, the bed in the center of the room neatly made. I can’t decide if this fits with the man I’ve spent the last couple of hours with or not.
Even with writer’s block, my brain works overtime to decipher what makes people tick, what quirks I can use for future characters. I’m not sure I’ll take anything from Beckett. He seems too . . . complex, for lack of a better term. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind unraveling some of his layers, getting to the core of who he is. If he’d let me.
Most likely not. I’ll be lucky to get him to fix my SUV tomorrow and not charge me an arm and a leg.
I fall onto my back on the mattress, my arms and legs starfishing, my eyes getting a good view of the ceiling. This is the view Beckett sees every night before he goes to sleep.
It’s the last thought I have before my lids lower, the comfort of the bed lulling me to dreamland.
I’m awoken by a slamming door.
The fuzzy room comes into view as my eyes adjust to the light. My heart pounds in my chest as I decipher where I am. It takes a few minutes to remember: Beckett’s cabin. I fell asleep with my clothes on, my teeth unbrushed, my contacts still in.
Sitting up on the bed, the sound of running water kicks my heart rate faster.
Fuck. There’s someone else in the cabin!
Adrenaline courses through me, the possibilities endless of who could be on the other side of the door.
A genuine serial killer.
A rapist.
A burglar.
My overactive imagination runs haywire with options.
I scan the room for a weapon to protect myself from whoever it might be. At the very least, I should call Beckett. Or maybe 9-1-1.
Searching for my phone, it’s nowhere to be found, meaning I must have left it out in the kitchen or living room. Right, after my call to Mom to assure her I was safe and sound at my destination.
Not having my phone ratchets my anxiety. I can’t let the memories of last time get the better of me . . .
“Shit.” I keep my voice low, not wanting whoever’s out there to know I’m here. Maybe they’ll just take what they came for and be on their way and not realize I’m even here.
Wishful thinking.
Hardly unlikely, especially if it’s someone who wants something from Beckett.
I still my breathing, making myself into a ball as I ponder what to do, how to keep myself safe in this situation. I will myself to keep calm, my thoughts not to spiral out of control, my breathing to remain steady.
Who am I kidding? That’s an impossible task. Each one of them by themselves. But together? Yeah, not happening.
A loud thump echoes beyond the door. “Ow. Fuck.” A man’s deep timbre penetrates my brain. It sounds somewhat familiar, like I’ve heard it before.
I test it out. “Beckett?” I say it just loud enough to be heard in the other room, fearful I’m wrong.
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry.” A soft knock comes on the door. “Can I come in? Or you come out?”
“You can come in.” I move against the headboard, tucking my knees into my chest and wrapping my arms around them, willing my heart rate to return to normal.
It’s just Beckett.
Who’s still very much a stranger, but at least he’s not completely unfamiliar.
The door opens, and he pokes his head in. His hair’s more disheveled, like he’s been tugging on the ends of it. “Uh, sorry. Did I wake you?”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but I need to take out my contacts. What time is it? Why are you here?” The last question is rude considering the man owns the place, but hell if I can stop it.
“Almost midnight. The snow’s pretty bad, probably not safe to drive to the rental.”
“But you left hours ago. How did you get back if the roads are bad?”
“I was in the garage taking out my aggression and working on . . . something.”
I don’t miss the way he exaggerates aggression nor how he doesn’t tell me what he’s working on. Not that it’s my business.
“Oh, okay. So, do you need your bed?”
“Nah. I’ll sleep on the couch. I didn’t want you to think it was someone else in the cabin. A predator or such.” One side of his mouth curls up, and heat inflames my cheeks.
“I didn’t think . . .” He raises an eyebrow. In any other situation, it would be sexy, but given my current predicament, I shove it away. My shoulders drop from where they crept to my ears. “Okay, I totally went there. Didn’t even think it could be you. What’s wrong with me?”
“You seriously want me to answer that question?”
“Uh, nope.” A nervous laugh spills out. “I can take the couch.” The comment escapes with no prior thought. While it appears comfy, not for a night of sleep. And this bed is way comfier than I expected as evidenced by my deep slumber. I don’t know if I want to give it up. I stand up, halted in place when Beckett pushes the door open wider.
“Nonsense. The bed is way more comfortable.”
I won’t argue with him if he’s offering his bed. “Um, okay. Thanks.” He doesn’t move from the doorway, but now that I’m awake, a need to empty my bladder comes over me. “I, uh, need to use the bathroom.”
He stares down at me for a few beats, his mind working through something he’s not sharing. The way he’s studying me, eyeing me intently, it’s almost like he didn’t hear me .
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” He moves out of the way, and I hurry across to the bathroom.
I do my business and wash up, not letting anything in the room grab my attention. Least of all his shower curtain. His Christmas shower curtain. A shudder ripples through me.
I won’t always be so affected, right?
Shoving the notion away, I exit the bathroom, Beckett standing outside the door.
“Should I add creeper to your list of possible professions?”
He cackles, and it rumbles his entire torso, now covered only by a T-shirt. Pulled taut across his chest, his biceps bulge. It’s a sight. Coupled with his black joggers, the man is the epitome of attractive.
“You hungry? I can make snacks.”
I consider his expression. It’s not exactly gleeful but gone is the angry man who stormed out earlier, resembling more of the man I first met. “Figured you were mad at me.”
“I was.” He shakes his head, a scowl trying to slip on his lips. “Nope, can’t go there yet. But I’m kinda hungry, and what kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer you some?”
“Do you often cook snacks for your guests this late at night?”
“If I had some and we were hungry, I suppose I would.”
Interesting.
“What did you have in mind? I didn’t get to eat many road trip snacks today for obvious reasons.”
“I’m kinda craving something chocolate. Brownies? Double fudge cookies? Chocolate lava cake?”
The last one breaks the resolve I’m trying hard to hold on to. “You’re going to eat chocolate lava cake in the middle of the night?”
“Hmm. I suppose it would be late by the time it was cooked and we were eating it. Brownies it is.” With his decision made, he turns on his bare feet and pads toward the kitchen.
I trail behind. “Why not something premade? A candy bar? Ice cream, maybe? What’s the obsession with cooking something?”
He turns around, not expecting I’m following so close. He steadies me by my shoulders so I don’t topple over, and electricity buzzes around us. Can he feel it, too?
“It’s gotta be something warm. Brownies take less than thirty minutes. Unless you’re too tired and want to head back to bed . . .”
He dangles the threat in front of me. Not so much a threat as an invitation.
“Ironically, when I can’t sleep, I bake, too.”
His eyes widen. “No shit?”
“No.” I don’t resist the urge to roll my eyes. “When I can’t sleep, I stay in my bed, like normal people. Watch TV. Read.” Furiously write chapters and get lost in a book, I don’t admit aloud. It feels like forever since I’ve done that. I kinda miss it. Maybe tonight’s brownies will kick-start something in me, unlock a piece of the writer’s block mystery.
His eyes narrow into slits. “Just for that, no brownies for you. You’re dismissed.” He waves a hand in my direction before heading back to the kitchen. His tone implies anything but, and the way he spoke “you’re dismissed,” beckons me toward the kitchen.
He’s got the pantry door open, which isn’t so much more than a bunch of neatly organized shelves of food. He pulls out flour, cocoa, and other ingredients, lining them up on the counter. Next, he moves to the fridge, grabbing out the eggs. Lastly, he reaches into a high cabinet for a few more items. My feet rooted to the ground beneath them, I’m shocked.
“You’re making them from scratch?” Not only is he baking in the middle of the night, he’s not using a box mix?
“Only cheaters use a box mix, Willafred.” How he reads my mind and his use of my full name stir something in my chest, the three syllables conjuring up feelings long ago buried. His eyes blink rapidly a few times. “Are you a cheater? ”
Another taunt, this time, raspier, more implication of other things.
Hell if I can figure out why I answer, “No.”
Which is a lie if we’re talking about brownies. I only use a box. When the occasion calls for me to make brownies, which is rare. I’m partial to Ghirardelli, a little more upscale than the other ones.
He nods, accepting my answer as if it’s gospel. “You wanna help?”
“I’ll certainly help eat them. After they’re baked.”
He reflects on my answer for a moment before his top lip quirks up. “Ah. You’re one of those.” He doesn’t indicate what “those” implies, but I’m guessing he’s probably not wrong. No doubt I’ve been accused of worse.
One shoulder rises. “You’re better off. Especially if you want them to be good.”
“Seems like there’s a dare in that statement,” the sexy man goads.
“In no way did I imply any such thing.” I cross my arms over my chest, grateful to still be wearing a bra.
Why my mind goes there is surprising.
Probably because I can’t reconcile the different parts of Beckett’s personality I’ve gleaned in the few hours since he came to rescue me. Most importantly, his sexiness.
Beckett moves from where he stands behind the counter, sauntering to where I stand at the edge of the kitchen, a mask of emotions on his face. I’m not so much scared as intrigued.
Wondering what he’s going to do.
Contemplating how I’m going to react.
My breath hitches the closer he gets, temptation exuding off him.
So much temptation.
What is it about this man getting me hot and bothered? Beyond his external attraction, there’s so much more.
Perhaps being stuck in this middle of nowhere cabin with a stranger has appeal.