6. Beckett
6
beckett
Abort mission, my brain yells.
Because I’m asking for trouble if I pursue whatever it is I’m doing.
She hates Christmas jabs from the deep recesses of my mind.
Even that’s not enough to stop this tirade I’m on.
And for what?
What’s my goal here? A severe case of blue balls? Because that’s about all I’m getting out of tonight’s interaction.
I stop two feet from her, her chest hitching with my movements, her eyes not quite wide, but intrigued.
Wondering.
Skeptical.
Captivated.
The last one may be my imagination, an expectation she’s as affected by me as I am by her.
“It wasn’t a dare,” she murmurs, laced with sultry undertones. She steps back, as if physical distance will stop the emotional torment.
“Sounded like it to me. Why don’t we try it out? I gather you can read? ”
My question catches her off guard, like she anticipated something else. “I can read.”
“Great. Tell me what to do when.”
I don’t know what makes me do it, but once my finger is in the air, hell if I can stop it from moving toward her nose and booping it. Like I used to do with Shania when she was younger and her sass was out in full force.
I spin around, needing more of a separation between us, and grab the recipe from the cookbook in the pantry, making a quick adjustment in my pants.
“She hates Christmas ,” I mutter incoherently.
Perhaps that’s why she’s so compelling. Because I need to know why she hates my favorite holiday. What her “reasons” are.
I hand her the tattered paper. Her eyes scan up and down before locking with mine, a hint of question lingering in the intense blue color. Dark, like the current midnight sky.
“Okay, first up?”
She glances back at the paper and up at me. She fists her hips. “I’m to assume you need my help reading the recipe given the state of this piece of paper?”
The woman’s astute, I’ll give her that. “Not much gets by you, does it?”
“It helps—” Her mouth clamps shut, as if she’s going to divulge a secret. Instead, she hops up on the counter next to where I’ve placed the ingredients. “You also mentioned you do this often.”
“I don’t recall saying often.” I measure out the flour, leveling it with a knife before adding it to the mixing bowl. I may have said often, which wouldn’t be a lie, but I’ve also been making brownies from scratch since I was a kid alongside my grandmother in her kitchen. We’d get fancy for the holidays—adding sprinkles or green and red M&M’s—but that might shove Willa right over the edge and straight into the land of crazy.
What I wouldn’t give to see her all agitated again .
No. She’s your guest. No riling up the guests.
I work in awkward silence for a few minutes, measuring and adding ingredients, turning on the oven, sneaking peeks at Willa as she intently watches from her perch on the counter. When I can’t take the quiet, I blurt, “What do you do for a living?”
She’s taken by surprise by my question. Either the question itself or me speaking in general.
“Uh, I’m an author.”
My hand halts with oil in the teaspoon poised above the mixing bowl. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s cool. Are your books ‘BookTok famous’?”
She giggles, the sound incongruent with what I’ve learned about her. “Didn’t peg you for a guy on BookTok. Are you?”
“No, but my sister and my niece are all over that shit. Big readers. What’s your pen name? Maybe they’ve read you?”
“How old is your niece?”
“Thirteen going on thirty.”
She laughs again, and tension rolls off her shoulders. Good. She needs to relax. “Like the movie?”
“She wishes.” I hand over the can of cooking spray and a foil tin. “Spray this for me. Please,” I tack on, not wanting to sound rude or disturb this little slice of peace we’ve got going on. Her eyes widen, but I give her no choice but to take the spray and lay the tin across her lap. “She’d like to skip high school at the least and go directly to college.”
“What’s her rush? Adulting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” With shaky fingers, she removes the cap, setting it beside her thigh.
“I tell her that multiple times a week. Though if I had my way, she’d still be little enough for me to cuddle against my chest or ride on my shoulders.”
“They grow up fast.”
“Do you have nieces or nephews?”
“Two nephews. My sister’s kids. They’re three and six. ”
“Clem’s kids she mentioned on the phone earlier?” She seems startled by my comment, her hackles rising. I can’t help if I pay attention to details. Especially about strangers I want to know better.
“Right. You spoke to her. Yes, her underlings.”
“Is she older or younger?”
“Older, ugh. As if making her way out of the womb ten minutes before me gives her ‘older sister’ status.”
“Ah, twins. Is it only the two of you?” I grab the wooden spoon from the utensil caddy and offer it to Willa. She grunts her objection, so I mix the wet and dry ingredients.
“Fortunately, yes. You?”
“The youngest of four. Two sisters, one brother. He’s got fifteen months on me, but you’d think it was fifteen years.”
“Four kids is . . . a lot.” A shudder passes through her, not quite as big as the few earlier. “Do the others have children?”
I test the batter for lumps, having lost count of strokes. Nana’s way is far superior to counting.
“No, just Shania. For now. Heidi got married two years ago, and Mom’s itching for her to be knocked up. Dax is the ultimate bachelor.”
“Unlike you.”
I frown, not understanding how she’s deduced the information in such a short amount of time. Or at all. “Unlike me how?” After pouring the batter into the tin, I slip them into the preheated oven, setting a timer. I like them a little undercooked, so I always shave off a few minutes per the recipe.
“You’re very un-bachelor-like.”
“How so?” I lean back against the counter opposite her, arms folded across my chest. It doesn’t escape my notice how the movement draws her eyes.
“Your place is spic and span. Not a typical bachelor pad. Even the way you stacked the dirty dishes in the sink is neat.” She waves to the area next to me.
“A bachelor can’t be tidy? ”
“Not in my world.”
“Glad I don’t live in your world.” It’s a little harsh, but her comments feel judgmental.
There goes the little thread of peace we had.
In an unexpected move, Willa hops down, standing directly in front of me. I’ve got a good eight inches on her, and though her expression is penitent, she stands her ground. “I didn’t mean that. Or maybe I didn’t mean it as poorly as it came out. You’re an enigma, Beckett. Between the snow, the car crash, and you, I’m all out of sorts.”
“So, this isn’t your true personality?” I fire back, my comment having zero lead time to process.
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. My fingers itch to pull it out. And she says I’m the enigma. Maybe I agree with her.
“I’d be lying if I said no. Well, at least currently. Before . . .” She shakes her head, her statements trailing off.
Standing so close to her, I notice the pain in her eyes, the murky storms swirling in her irises.
“Did someone hurt you, Willa?” I temper my voice, wanting her to know it’s okay to open up. Because clearly, we’re at this stage now. I roll my eyes at the idiocy of the notion.
To say I’m shocked when she answers, “Not on purpose,” is an understatement.
I hide away my shock, not letting her see I’m affected. I want to know more, ask more about what she means, but she steps back, putting up a wall of defense between us. Seems for every sliver of weakness, a concrete barricade is soon to follow.
“I have a question about your brother.”
“Shoot.”
“Does he have a cabin nestled in the woods to lure in his prey?” There’s not even a crack in her armor, not the tiniest chink. Her tone remains steady, with no traces of sarcasm or humor. It’s exactly the thing we need to slice the tension.
A hearty chuckle releases, and it frees up some of the bad juju in the room. At least for the time being .
“No cabin. But he lives in the basement of my parents’ house, which is super creepy if you ask me. Perhaps even more than a cabin.”
She lifts her hands in the air, raising and lowering them in rhythm. “Definitely a toss-up. Does he also decorate for the holiday?” She gags, almost choking on the words coming from her mouth.
“You think this is bad? His place is way worse. And he’s got more square footage. He’s been known to put up two trees.”
It was only once, but Willa doesn’t need to know that.
“Those poor trees. Having to live inside, drying up from the heat, the heavy ornaments on their branches . . . such disrespect.”
“Says you. Plenty of people disagree.” The room is stifling, the heat almost suffocating. I push from the counter, suddenly parched. “You want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Eggnog?”
Willa’s face pales. “Ew, gross. It’s a little late for caffeine, unless you’ve got some herbal tea.”
“Let me check. Sometimes my sister leaves a few bags here.” I search the pantry, pulling out a box of assorted flavors. Handing it to Willa, I encourage, “Check the expiration date. Autumn hasn’t crashed here in a while.”
She takes the box from my hands, examining the bottom. “Looks good. I’ll have this one.” She pulls out a lemon packet and sets the box on the counter. “How is it after midnight, and I’m not the least bit tired?”
“You did nap, and your body’s probably running on adrenaline. Plus, I’m here, entertaining you.”
“You are entertaining,” she confirms, much to my pleasure.
While the brownies bake, I boil water for her and pop open a beer for myself. She turns her nose up at the flavor: Winter Warmer Holiday Ale.
She’s all in on this hating Christmas thing.
After cooking, we let the brownies cool for ten minutes. I start on the dishes while Willa disappears from the kitchen. She returns in a pair of black-rimmed glasses. The frames are a bit oversized, but they only enhance her beauty.
As if I wasn’t already in trouble.
Hoping not to let her see me ogling her, I motion to the table, placing a plate with a brownie in front of each of us. “Tea and beer aren’t the best combination for brownies. Want a glass of milk?”
“Sure.” She nibbles a bite of the brownie, like the smallest bite ever. Like I added poison to the batter or something, yet she scrutinized me as I added every ingredient. I’m about to ask her how she likes it, but she goes back for more. A much bigger bite this time. Before it’s even down her throat, she moans. “Goodness,” she exclaims after swallowing. “Ah-may-zing.” She chomps again, exaggerating the moan.
As if I’m not turned on enough.
“So, no more doubts about my baking skills?”
“Did I doubt you? I don’t remember doing any such thing. Can I get that milk now?” She shoves the rest of it in her mouth. I chuckle, happy she’s enjoying it but glad she’s finished. Her noises are too much.
I set a glass of milk in front of her, which she immediately chugs.
“Can I, uh, have another brownie? Or is that too much?”
I’m already sitting, but I wave my hands in the direction of the brownies. “Have at it. Glad you’re enjoying them.”
She pops out of her seat and shimmies her way to the pan.
Yes, shimmies.
I can see the headlines now: Death by cute and adorable female. She’ll probably get off on a technicality.
SHE HATES CHRISTMAS! my mind supplies, the voice loud and demanding me to stop whatever this instant attraction is.
And it’s nothing more than attraction.
Surface-level stuff.
Stuff that leads nowhere.
It’s helpful to remember she’s only here until I fix her car, then she’ll be on her way to her destination and a memory in my rearview mirror.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts, her presence across the table startles me. She’s got two brownies stacked on her plate. Not sure where she’ll hide these calories away on her lithe body.
“Hats off to you, chef Beckett. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a brownie so delicious.” She shovels half a brownie into her mouth, licking the bits of chocolate left on her fingers.
I rip my focus away, inhaling my brownie. “See what happens when you make them from scratch instead of cheating with a box mix?” I offer after swallowing. “Makes all the difference.”
“I agree. I’m going to have to find someone back at home to make these regularly. Can I get the recipe?”
Intentionally ignoring her request, I return to our earlier conversation. “What type of books do you write?”
“Children’s mystery chapter books.”
Huh. Was not quite expecting that. Except it’s fair to say I don’t know what I was expecting. This girl’s certainly surprising me at every turn.
“That’s cool. Anything I’d know?”
Her brows jump to her hairline. “Do you often read children’s mystery books?”
“Often might be a stretch, but sometimes. At least when Shania was little. She loved the alphabet ones when she was in early elementary. And Nancy Drew. I’m not ashamed to admit that one night after she went to bed, I finished reading the book to find out how Nancy solved the mystery.”
“You continue to astonish me. I’m sorry I ever pegged you as a serial killer.”
“Stop it with the serial killer nonsense. Though now that I know what you do, it makes a little more sense.”
“Does it though? I write mystery books. For children .” She stresses the last word .
I shrug a shoulder. “It’s not a stretch for you, an adult, to make the leap.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but once it’s out there, I’m not taking it back.
“How did you get into writing?”
“My mom says I’ve been penning tales since I could talk. I’d take her phone and record ideas and notes and eventually, dictate ‘stories’ all before I could write. One year for my birthday, she typed up my garbled mess and had it published into a ‘book.’ I couldn’t even read, but I was so proud to see my words in print. I chased that high until my first mystery book was published six years ago. It never gets old seeing my books on the shelf of the bookstores or kids’ shelves. It amazes me every day kids read words I’ve created.”
Passion leaks out of her, her zeal for her craft evident in every word she speaks.
“Do you still have that first book?”
She nods. “Want to see it?”
I roll my eyes. “Duh.”
She takes another bite of brownie and exits the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with her phone. She points it in my direction, and a photo of a bookshelf stares back at me. Front and center is a handmade printed copy of a book called “Sammy’s Superhero Cape” propped up by some sort of small stand. It’s well-loved, wrinkles on the front, and the corners creased. I barely have a chance to peruse the titles of the books before she removes the phone.
“That’s really cool, Willa. I’ve never met a published author before. Now I can tell people I know you. That you slept at my house. Do you write under your real name?”
“No.” I wait for her to give more, but when she doesn’t, I don’t push her for it. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. I’ll respect her privacy.
Her mouth stretches wide in a yawn. “Shit. I’m crashing. ”
“Even with the sugar rush?” I point to the sliver of brownie remaining on her plate.
“Tea always makes me sleepy.”
“You have everything you need for the night?”
“I think so. Thanks for the delicious brownies and middle of the night drinks. An unexpected delight, definitely the yummy brownies.”
“Now you’ll know not to doubt me again.” Before she can refute my claim, I add, “I’ll probably be out early in the morning to plow. I apologize in advance if I wake you.”
She stares at me, her eyes like saucers. “You plow too? Is there anything you don’t do?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Can’t tell you why those words rush from my mouth, but soon as they’re out, I stand up and clean up the dishes, hoping she takes the hint not to push me.
If I’ve learned anything about this girl in the last several hours, it’s I doubt that will happen.