8. Beckett
8
beckett
It’s been a day.
The town plowing crews couldn’t keep up with the storm, so they called in private plows for the smaller areas. My straight plow works great for driveways and small lots, but it can’t compete with the V-plows or the commercial ones the town owns. On a day like today, I’m thankful for any plow, to do my part however I can, but a bigger one would allow me to help more and in less time.
I didn’t get a chance to text Willa until late in the afternoon. Her reply was interesting. Concerning, yet intriguing.
Bundy
I didn’t burn down the house. The tree is still standing. You’re welcome
I’m too tired to cook dinner. Shall I bring something home for us?
Pepperoni pizza would hit the spot
Might take a while
I’ve got nowhere else to be
“likes a message”
I call in the order and am given a wait time of forty-five minutes.
The snow finally stopped a couple of hours ago, so the cleanup efforts can make some headway. While I wait, I tackle a few more driveways on the way to my parents’ house.
Dad or Dax already took care of the driveway, the walkway, and the cars.
Inside the back door, I shake the snow off in the mudroom, toeing out of my boots and gear, and hang it in my cubby, a childhood habit I can’t break. I appreciate how my folks leave the kids’ ones empty for us. It’s a welcome home, something Mom’s very much in favor of.
“Beck, that you?” Mom’s voice drifts to me.
“Yeah. Waiting out my pizza pickup time.” I greet her in the kitchen with a kiss on her cheek. “Everyone holding up okay in here?”
“We’re fine. Gives me an excuse to stay in and bake all day.”
“I thought your holiday baking was done?”
She hands me a steaming mug of coffee doctored exactly how I like it. “Is it ever really done? Can we ever have too many Christmas cookies or desserts?”
I can’t stop the laugh bubbling at how Willa would react.
With the monotony of the day, my thoughts wandered to the pixie more than they should have. I wondered how she spent the day, what she scrounged up for lunch, if she got any work done.
When things were boring, thoughts of her naked in my shower and my bed crept in. Why my brain conjured her naked in my bed is a mystery, but I didn’t mind.
It was the highlight of my day.
Standing in the kitchen with my mother, I shut these thoughts down.
“Nope. Not when they’re coming from your kitchen.”
I peek at the cookies cooling on the racks .
“Mind if I swipe a few?” Snowballs are my weakness, and I’ll go out on a limb and say Willa would prefer those over candy canes or gingerbread.
Mom does me one better, handing over a paper plate covered with foil. “Knew you’d be by eventually. I’ve got chicken noodle soup, too. Oh, and some mac and cheese.” She raises her brow, like she knows something she’s not willing to share. It’s the same look she’s given us kids all our lives. Though her hair’s grayer now, her wrinkles more distinguished, and I tower over her, the look is the same from my childhood.
Though I’m not sure how she could know about Willa. I didn’t mention her to anyone.
“Heard you’ve got a houseguest.”
“How did you?—”
“Child, you must have forgotten your sister owns two of the three lodging places in town. Did you think word wouldn’t get around?”
“The pitfall of small-town living rears its ugly head.”
“Nonsense. You love our town, small and nosy as it is.”
I’m not sure I’d survive a week in a big city. Which is a gross exaggeration, though I’m not prepared to try it out. For all its drawbacks, Winterberry has been an awesome place to grow up, build a business, and support the community. My family’s all here. Why would I leave? Where would I go?
“Is she staying long?”
“Until I’m able to fix her car. Probably tomorrow if I get all the necessary parts. If not, when it’s done.”
“It’s too bad she won’t be here for Christmas. Show her the best of our town . . .” My expression morphs into one Mom reads well. She waves away the disappointment trying to settle in. “She’s probably got family to celebrate with. Makes sense.”
My alarm blares from my pocket, saving me from elaborating further.
“She does.” Hey, it’s not a lie. She has a family. Whether she celebrates, Mom doesn’t need to know. I hold up my mug. “Can I get this to go?”
Mom grabs a Styrofoam cup from the top of the stack and pours the liquid in it. She covers it with a lid and sends me on my way. “Don’t forget your cookies and meals. Hope . . . your guest likes them. What’s her name?”
“Willa. I’ll keep you posted.”
Not. A sudden urge not to share her with anyone overcomes me. Even if it won’t ever be a possibility for them to meet.
I hurry into my boots and coat, forgoing the hat and gloves.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling down the snow-covered driveway to the cabin. I’ll plow what remains after we eat dinner.
I don’t miss how the front yard is dark. I swear I flipped the switch back on last night, but Willa must have turned it off. I can’t help but notice the blinds are drawn, too.
Inside, Willa sits at the kitchen table, her laptop open in front of her. A different pair of glasses perches over her eyes, the colorful frames accentuating the deep blue.
Damn, she’s beautiful. If not for her idiotic hatred of Christmas, she could be someone I fell for. Though her beauty’s the last on the list of admirable traits.
She’s quick-witted and funny, has a flair for the dramatic, and isn’t afraid to share her opinions. She’d be an avid opponent in any sort of challenge and, most likely, fun in bed.
“That smells delish. I’m starving.”
Her statement snaps me out of the hold she has over me. I step out of my boots and deposit the pizza, bag, and coffee on the counter.
“Did you not eat?”
“I did. Well, actually. Kudos to the chef on the pork. Restaurant quality.”
“What makes you think it wasn’t me?”
“Kudos to you, chef. Bon appétit. Muy bueno. Delicioso.” She kisses her fingers, opening them up in what Shania calls a “chef’s kiss” action.
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s better leftover.”
She closes her laptop, sliding it out of the way. She sets the table with the two plates, napkins, and utensils already set out.
I nod to her laptop. “Get some writing done?”
Her face turns crimson. “Nope. Had to catch up on some emails and marketing tasks. Scheduled a few social media posts.”
Her answer seems genuine. I wonder what she’s ashamed about.
I sit down, plating a piece of pizza for both of us. “The lights too much?”
She’s not fazed by my left-field question. “I nearly had a heart attack and went blind when they all turned on. Give a girl some warning.”
“Sorry.” I’m anything but. I forget they’re on a timer since I love them. When they turn on each night, it warms my heart.
“Right. Sure you are.” She calls my bluff. She bites into the pizza, a moan escaping. Not as tempting as the brownies or breakfast, but enough for my dick to press against my zipper. “Exactly what I needed. Thanks for indulging me.”
“You’re welcome. Once you mentioned it, pizza sounded like a superb choice.”
We chat about our day as we eat the rest of the meal. She seems a little less hesitant to answer my questions about her job tonight, but I stick to easy topics.
What’s her process?
Does she have an agent, editor, publisher?
How long has she been published?
Nothing too personal or revealing of intimate information.
“As long as I can get all the parts for your car, it should be done tomorrow.”
The news has her meeting my gaze. “Oh, that’s great. Thanks. Do you think you’ll have trouble getting the parts? ”
“I can’t say. Between the storm and the holiday, it’s uncertain. But I’ll certainly try.”
“I appreciate it, Beckett.”
There’s a hint of something I can’t decipher about how she says my name. I don’t dislike it.
“Are you done with work for the day? I thought I’d build a fire, and we could watch a movie. Make hot cocoa and popcorn.”
“Brownies, too,” she adds.
“My mom also sent cookies. She says hope you’re enjoying your stay.”
Her brows furrow. “You told your mom about me?”
“Only when she asked. Remember when I called around to the B and B’s?” Willa nods. “My sister and brother-in-law own them. Guess it was easy enough to put two and two together.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t give her anything about you specifically, only that I have a guest here until her car is fixed.”
“I’m not upset. Just perplexed.” She grabs another slice of pizza. “Add whatever costs for food to my repair bill.”
“I’m not doing that,” I state, getting a beer from the fridge. “Beer? Wine? Eggnog? Holiday spritzer?” I’m not usually this antagonistic toward other people, but it’s so easy with her. I adore getting a rise out of her, watching her get all worked up. It’s like I can’t help it.
She turns her nose up. “Beer is great, thanks.”
“Lager? Ale? Stout?”
“Any of them. I’m easy.”
She makes it too effortless sometimes.
“Are you? Pegged you differently. As someone who wouldn’t give away the farm. Not immediately, anyway.” I’m rambling, but the more I say, the rosier her cheeks flush. Her neck, too. Like Rudolph’s nose, all shiny and bright.
“Walked myself into that one. Lager. Nothing holiday related. ”
I grab two, opening them up on the bottle opener screwed to the wall. “You want a glass or do you drink from the bottle?”
“Don’t tell my sister, but bottle.” Her cheeks flame redder.
“Darn. How’d you know she was the first person I was going to text?” I snigger, handing her the bottle. “Why can’t she know?”
Willa takes a swig, and my eyes latch onto her throat as she swallows. Though not a part of anyone’s anatomy I usually give any attention, her neck is slender and long. Arched back to accommodate the bottle. It would look even better against a pillow . . .
Damn, I’ve got it bad.
Less than thirty-six hours, and I’m about to give my left nut for a roll in the sack.
It’s been too long since I’ve been laid. That must be the issue.
“Too many germs.” Her voice is tinnier as she mimics her sister.
“Are you two identical?”
“God, no.” I nearly choke on my beer. “It’s bad enough having someone share your birthday, your friends, your brain sometimes. I couldn’t imagine sharing the same DNA.”
“Tell me how you really feel, Willa.”
“I don’t know what it’s like not to be a twin, so I can’t say how I’d feel if I didn’t have her. I’d be lonely, that’s for sure. She keeps me entertained.”
“Does she write, too?”
“No. She’s creative in other ways. Painting, drawing, clay, jewelry. If you can make it with your hands, Clem can do it.”
“Impressive.”
“She’s very talented. I’m not biased when I say that. She truly has a gift.”
I love how there’s not an iota of jealousy but only pride for her sister. Does she feel the same way about her gift? I hope I get the chance to find out.
As if that will happen. She’s not here to get to know. She’s only here until her car is fixed, a temporary pit stop on her road trip to other places.
Willa offers to clean up our dinner, and since I need a shower, I let go of the control to do it myself and agree. I can’t complain too much about how her cleanup job after breakfast.
And when I’ve washed away the stress and stench of the day, I find a sparkling kitchen and Willa relaxing on the couch, her feet tucked under her, her beer on the ottoman. She changed into teal leggings and an oversized sweatshirt and swapped the glasses for the black ones. She doesn’t look like a guest but someone who belongs in the space.
I really need to get laid.