7. Willa
7
willa
The smell of bacon rouses me from a deep slumber. My mind struggles to make sense of why there would be bacon cooking in my house. More importantly, who would be cooking it.
I blink my eyes open, noting the unfamiliar room. Coupled with the distinctive—but not unpleasant—fresh scent of linen and masculinity, I recollect where I am.
Beckett’s bedroom in his cabin.
What is it about this room causing me to lose my sense of where I am? It’s happened twice now.
Another aroma filters in—the smell of strong coffee. If it weren’t for the need to relieve the pressure in my bladder, I’d cocoon myself in the sheets and blanket, taking comfort in a space that should be the opposite.
With my glasses on, I take care of business in the bathroom and go in search of liquid sustenance. I’m met with the gorgeous sight of Beckett’s backside standing in front of the stove. I stare for way longer than appropriate.
Still in the same T-shirt as he wore in the middle of the night, he wears holiday PJ pants, and his brown hair is tousled with sleep. His arm moves, making his bicep stretch the material around it, and veins pop in his forearm. I’m at a vantage point to be front and center of what my sister refers to as “arm porn.” I did not think it was real. But here’s this real-life, living and breathing man proving me wrong.
“Morning.” Beckett’s croaky greeting makes me jump.
“Uh, hey. Did you go plowing already?” I recall him mentioning that last night.
He spins around, his smile bright. Of course, he’s a morning person.
His eyes linger on my glasses for longer than necessary, but instead of pulling away, his eyes move down me, checking out the T-shirt and flannel pants I changed into after our midnight snack. I kinda wish I had the forethought to put on my bra before I ventured into the kitchen. I cross my arms over my chest, hiding my breasts from his view.
“Only drawing more attention to them,” he drawls, his vision on my chest.
“Perv,” I spit, hugging my arms tighter around me.
“Nice frames. They suit you.” He turns back to his task of cooking the bacon, his approval igniting a spark in the defunct organ in my chest. It feels like it’s been forever, I almost don’t recognize it for what it is.
“Thanks?” I say in response to his compliment.
“Hungry?”
“Famished. Bacon is my weakness.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Mine too.”
Imagine that.
I ignore the connection, making my way farther into the kitchen. “Mind if I grab some coffee?”
He reaches into a cupboard on his right, grabbing out a mug. It isn’t until he pushes it into my hands do I wince at the image of the Grinch. Out of my control, my body spasms, something Beckett makes a note of with a tsking sound.
“The Grinch, huh?” The words are bitter on my tongue, and the irony hits a little too close .
“Family joke, but for you, most fitting. My other mugs are put away for the season. If you want coffee, that’s what I’ve got.”
I swallow down the nasty retort on my tongue, not giving him the satisfaction. “I want coffee,” I mumble, ambling to the coffee maker and filling the mug, only leaving room for a splash of milk.
“Help yourself to milk or creamer in the fridge. Need sugar?”
“Milk will do it.” I add a bit to the top, giving it a stir with the spoon Beckett produces out of thin air. “How are the roads?” I sit at the table, curling my fingers around the mug to warm them up and allowing the steam to do the same.
“Haven’t been out yet. Got more snow than predicted. A hearty meal will keep me full longer than the granola bar I planned on. I’ll probably head out in an hour, be gone most of the day. Not sure I’ll get to your car today. Depends on how many guys come to help with the cleanup.” There’s apology in his tone layered with disappointment.
Or I’m imagining that. I’m good at making shit up. I do it for a living.
“Oh. So I’m stuck here another night?” The thought isn’t quite as daunting as it would have been yesterday. Now that I’ve gotten to know Beckett a little more and trust he won’t hurt me, his company is kinda nice.
“Don’t sound so dismayed. You can gorge on brownies.”
Piece by piece, he lifts the bacon from the pan, laying the slices on the paper towel on the counter. It’s such a simple task, but I’m mesmerized.
More like jealous.
“Quiche will be ready in about five minutes. Wasn’t sure if you like veggies or not, so I left them out. Hope you’re okay with American.”
“Did you even sleep last night?”
All the bowls and utensils he used last night are put away, and foil covers the brownies. There are a few items in the sink, but I’m guessing they’re from breakfast .
“Got a few hours. Couch isn’t as comfortable as I remember.”
I kinda feel bad. I had a great night’s sleep in his uber-comfortable bed, and he suffered on the couch.
“I’m so?—”
“Don’t apologize. Not your fault.”
I can’t help feeling it is my fault. If I hadn’t crashed my car, he wouldn’t have had to rescue me nor have to give up his bed to me as his guest.
With practiced precision, he moves the pan to a back burner, flicks the knob off, and joins me at the table. His mug is red and festive with Christmas lights spelling out the words “Holly Jolly Christmas.”
Gag me.
“Coffee’s good. What’s the flavor?”
He smirks behind his mug. “You don’t want to know.”
I’m ashamed to admit how much I’m enjoying it. One, because I didn’t have to make it. Two, because he made it. But three, because it’s tasty and has a unique flavor. Yet I’m frustrated because I’m sure it has something to do with the upcoming holiday.
An internal war begins—finish it because it’s so delicious or pour it down the drain on principle.
The latter isn’t a logical choice because I don’t want him to think I’m wasteful or not appreciative of his help.
“I’m going to pretend it’s not what you imply.”
“Suit yourself. There’s plenty more.”
“Who taught you all these kitchen skills?”
“My grandmother. Her father owned the first restaurant in Winterberry, but they had to sell it when the recession hit. Her dream was to reopen it, but life happened, she got married, had babies and grandbabies, and the dream got pushed to the back burner.”
“And now she’s too old?” I surmise.
“She passed about three years ago.” A smattering of melancholy clings to his words, the grief of her passing still felt deeply .
I swallow, not allowing myself to take on the emotion of his loss. “I’m sorry.”
The timer buzzes, and Beckett hops up and removes the quiche from the oven. “White, wheat, or rye toast?”
“Rye, please. With butter.”
I feel pampered. The comfy bed. Ready-made coffee. A nutritious breakfast. I could get used to this.
As if goading me, my eyes snag on the tree.
Or not.
Beckett’s not too chatty during breakfast, but I’m glad for the reprieve of having to answer his questions. He wants to ask—to know —what I have against Christmas. I can’t tell him. It’s not for him to know or understand because it’s not his life. What and how I choose to live my life has no impact on others, specifically a stranger I’ll never see again once my car is fixed.
I offer to clean up, and with some hesitation, he agrees. While he prepares to head out for a day of plowing, I load the dishwasher, hand-wash the pans, and wipe down the counters, leaving it as I found it yesterday. Or to the best of my ability.
Dressed in a heavy sweatshirt, track pants, a hat, and gloves, Beckett grabs snow boots from the closet. “Make yourself whatever you can find for lunch. Remotes are in the ottoman. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I can text you?” He asks it as a question, like he’s not sure I’ll agree, but there’s a morsel of hope embedded in it.
I can’t be the one who bursts his bubble.
“Sure. Do you have my number?”
He produces his phone from his pocket and waves it. “Got it, Bundy.” He flashes a sinister smile.
It should be nefarious or irk me in every way.
Except there’s no hatred found.
Why has this guy got me all tangled in knots ?
Why am I so enamored by him?
I don’t want him to know how much the name affects me, so I school my features. “Be safe out there. Text me.”
“Happy writing.” His salutation given, he trudges out the back door. I watch through the window as he fights the still falling snow to the garage. He slides in through a side door, and one of the three—I swear there’s more square footage in the garage than the cabin, probably space for more than three cars—doors opens. There’s a plow attached to a truck in the bay, the headlights illuminating the snow.
Within a minute, he pulls out, the door closes, and the taillights of an unfamiliar truck disappear down the driveway.
“Happy writing,” I mumble, pouring myself another mug of coffee, daring myself to stay out of the pantry to determine what flavor is tantalizing my taste buds. It’s piping hot thanks to Beckett brewing a full pot before he set out on his way. He took two to-go mugs and left the rest for me.
If he ever decides the bachelor life isn’t for him, he’s going to make some special woman very happy.
He cooks, cleans, is neat, considerate, and charming, even to strangers. The only flaw is his staunchness for Christmas.
Ugh.
Dealbreaker.
It doesn’t have to be, a voice from beyond whispers. Give him a chance.
“I’m not here looking for love,” I shout to the empty room.
This week is about getting my writing mojo back.
My skin crawls at the mere thought of staring at a blank page.
At having to come up with a plot.
Of having to type cohesive sentences and paragraphs.
Of editing.
Forget the first draft.
It’s the round of revisions I’m dreading the most. It’s what’s causing the writer’s block. I’m one hundred percent convinced .
For shits and giggles, I dig out my laptop and make myself comfortable at the kitchen table. It’s not my desk at home—or the coffee shop I work at on occasion—but it’ll do. At least for this test of sorts.
Ignoring emails and social media, I start a blank document and type “Chapter One.”
My fingers hover over the keys, frozen in place, the words of the story locked in a part of my brain I don’t have the key to. The one Elias took with him . . .
Slamming down the top of the laptop—thank goodness it’s only a travel one—I push it away, frustration rolling off in waves.
Waves that knock a person down, the undertow so strong, the person is swept away.
“Ahhhh!” I yell, trying to clear the tension, the anger, the huge emotions dragging me down, attempting to sweep me away with the current.
This is possibly the worst writer’s retreat slash vacation slash escape I’ve ever had.
First, the accident.
Next, stranded in a town of the North Pole’s vomit.
Third, being stuck in this cabin alone, being mocked by the tree and ornaments in the corner.
My eyesight catches on the half-full mug, the Grinch staring back at me.
I didn’t always feel like him.
Before.
Before, I loved Christmas, the lights, the festivities, the presents, the joy.
It was all stolen that fateful day.