9. Willa
9
willa
Last night’s memories assault me.
Beckett chose a Hallmark movie that was unrelated to Christmas. It was unexpectedly entertaining, but what was more shocking was the way he was so into it. How he analyzed the character arcs, their goals and motivations. How he was spot-on.
He made homemade hot cocoa and used some sort of appliance to air-pop the popcorn. He drizzled it with butter and salt, and it was better than the movies.
I ate way too many of his mom’s cookies, at least the ones with nuts and powdered sugar—I avoided the others like the plague. I appreciated how Beckett didn’t call me out on it and almost saved the non-seasonal ones for me.
Our conversation was light and surface-level. Nothing was mentioned about the tree staying unlit nor about the exterior lights. There’s some regret about how he’s catering to my wishes when it’s his house, but not enough to let him stop.
I felt a twinge of guilt when it was time for bed. He headed for his bedroom until he remembered his bed was the couch for the night. I didn’t have a chance to offer to trade. He beat me to it when he insisted he was fine on the couch. While I don’t think it’s the truth, the idea of sleeping in his bed was too thrilling to pass up.
I went to bed blissed out on hot cocoa and snacks and again slept like the dead. I might have to ask him where his mattress is from because it’s like sleeping on what I imagine a cloud would feel like.
Dragging myself from the comfort of the bed, after using the bathroom, I find the cabin empty. Beckett left a note on the counter. Even his handwriting is neat.
Willafred,
I’m off to fix your car. Enjoy the leftover quiche, cook some eggs, or eat whatever. You’re an adult. I trust you can fend for yourself and you’re comfortable enough to make yourself at home. I’m working a half day, so I’ll be back by two-ish. Hopefully with your car fixed. If you need me, I’m only a text away.
Beckett
I finish reading the note as my phone rings, the man of the hour’s name displayed.
“Hey.”
“So, bad news.”
I slump into the chair I’ve claimed as mine for the past two days. “You can’t fix my car.”
“Unfortunately. The part I need is on back order. I have feelers out to see if I can find a used one, but with your car being newer, it’s unlikely.”
“So I’m stuck here longer?” I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice .
“Your insurance might be able to get you a rental car, but pickings will be slim this time of year.”
Slim most likely equates to nothing. But it’s my only option.
Beckett’s gone above and beyond being a gracious host, but I’m sure he’s ready for me to be out of his hair. And I want to get to the rental if I can. It’s already been two days of me paying for it without using it, and I’m looking forward to being in a space by myself and not surrounded by hideous decorations.
“Guess I know what I’ll be doing this morning.”
“If you need help, let me know. My office manager loves dealing with insurance and tracking down rental cars.”
“Don’t listen to him. I loathe it with a passion,” booms a female voice.
There’s a scuffle over the line, then I hear, “Willa, I’m Meredith. Listen, the boss has an extra SUV in his garage. He didn’t offer it before now because of the snow and he truly thought he’d be able to fix your car today. Or so he’s led me to believe. But there’s an ulterior motive, too.”
She pauses, and I wait for her to continue. When she’s silent after a minute, I ask, “What’s that?”
“It’s not obvious?”
“No.”
“He’s—”
Whatever she was going to say gets cut off, and Beckett’s gruff voice rumbles in my ear. “You don’t want to come back to Winterberry to return my car.”
He’d let me take his car? People in Winterberry sure are bred differently than where I grew up. Havenwood’s similar, but I’ve yet to meet someone there as indulgent as Beckett.
“Not if I can help it.” It didn’t sound so grating in my head, but hearing it out loud makes me seem so ungrateful. Which I’m not in the slightest. He’s been nothing but benevolent and all I’ve done is take. “But I’d still have to return for my car.” My tone doesn’t make up for my abrasiveness, but it’s a little better.
An idea sparks .
“Wasn’t your original plan to stay at the Airbnb you own?” I forgot about it until now, not even fazing me last night when he slept on the couch instead of heading to the rental.
“With the storm passed, I can do that.”
“No. I didn’t mean for you to leave. Let me go there. If I can’t get a rental car, I’ll stay there so I’m out of your space. You’ll just have to drive me there. How bad can it be?”
“It’s kinda bad. I checked it out this morning on the way to the shop. There’s no working heat or running water. It’s not an option.”
The little elation I felt falters. “Oh. Guess it’s kinda good you didn’t go there the other night.”
“I’m sorry, Willa. I didn’t realize the undercarriage damage in the dark. I feel bad.”
“You feel bad? Dude, I’m eating you out of house and home, sleeping in your bed, because I crashed my car. You have nothing to feel bad about.”
“You could stay with me. If you can’t find a rental,” he presses. “I honestly don’t mind. I kinda like having the company.”
I’m not sure what to make of his suggestion.
Had you told me last week I’d be considering staying at this stranger’s house, I would have told you you were crazy. But it hasn’t been all that bad. Beyond the seizure-inducing lights and decorations. There’s an odd sense of peace here. There’s something about Beckett that sets me at ease, like someone had a hand in our paths crossing. As if we were meant to meet.
If Clem could hear me now . . .
“Let me call my insurance and see if they’ll even pay for a rental car.”
“Okay. Let me know what they say. Do you want steaks for dinner? I found a new recipe I want to try.”
His sudden change of subject is jarring. So is his question. He asks like it’s an everyday situation for the two of us. As if it’s normal for him to be asking what I want for dinner .
“What if I can get a rental car?”
“You’ll still need to eat, then you can be on your way, if that’s your hesitation. Unless it’s that you don’t want steak or to help me try a new recipe. If that’s the case, I can make something else.”
“You’re very accommodating.” It’s the first thing I think to say as I process his offer.
Do I want to stay for dinner?
Yes. I want to stay for more than just dinner.
The truth pummels me, but I don’t have time to make sense of it because Beckett says, “It’s purely selfish reasons. I have a plethora of recipes I want to try. You’re bound to choose one of them.”
“A plethora? No one uses that word except writers.”
“Says you. I use it a lot.”
“All the time,” comes Meredith’s voice.
I giggle, the sound freeing something inside me. “I want steak for dinner.”
“Super.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you need anything else at the grocery store while I stop there? Or do you want to come?”
Why do I have a sudden urge to go grocery shopping?
Except for one thing . . .
“It’ll be daylight, right?”
“Yes. No chance of any light-inducing medical conditions for you.” It’s like he can read my mind, knowing exactly why I asked.
“Cool. Text me when you’re on the way and I’ll be ready. I’m going to call my insurance company now.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”
After hanging up with Beckett, I called the insurance company, which approved a rental car. Except Beckett was onto something. Slim pickings amounted to nothing. Not anything in the close vicinity, at least. The nearest location that had a car with four-wheel drive is over fifty miles away and in the complete opposite direction from my final destination. I’d hate for Beckett to drive so far out of his way when he’s already done so much for me. I don’t doubt he’d do it in a heartbeat, but I don’t want him to feel more obligated than he already does.
I reach out to the host of the rental cabin to let her know I wouldn’t make it. Her understanding is evident, but when I mention I’m not worried about a refund, relief echoes across the line. It’s not her fault I’m not coming. Besides, it’s not like I’m paying to stay with Beckett. He’s been more than generous allowing me to stay, not even considering taking me up on my offer to pay. I’ll figure out a way to compensate him somehow.
By the time he texts he’s on the way home, I’ve showered, checked in on my social media accounts—even posted on one of them—cleared my email inboxes, and opened my manuscript. I forced myself to stare at the blank page for thirty minutes, hoping it would spark something. Sadly, I’m still stuck, my brain still broken. Every day I don’t write brings more frustration. It’s why this week was supposed to be my week. Get my groove back, write for the fun of writing. It’s like AJ Hart has gone silent or she’s dealing with her own shit going on in her life.
I laugh at the absurdity, how if I said that aloud, the only people who would understand would be fellow writers.
A text from my sister interrupts my thoughts.
Checking that you’re still alive
Still here. Car can’t be fixed so I’m here for the foreseeable future
The phone rings in my hand.
“How do you feel about that?” is Clem’s greeting .
I ponder how truthful to be. In the end, I go for brutal honesty. She’d see through anything less.
Exhaling, I begin, “I’m not sure I’m ready to leave. At least his house. I’ve settled in here, which is odd for me, but from the first moment I stepped in, a bigger power was at play, something bigger than myself. I can’t explain it.”
“Do your feelings have anything to do with one Beckett Nicholas?” she asks, her comment initiating a giggle.
“He doesn’t seem like a stranger.”
“And he’s hot to look at. Damn, girl.”
My lips pull into a frown. “How do you know?”
“A little thing called Google. He’s Winterberry royalty. And he is f-i-n-e fine.” She slips into a Southern drawl, and it’s my turn to laugh. “You want to jump his bones. If you deny it, I will force Christmas upon you when you return.”
I suck in a breath. “You wouldn’t dare. The holiday will be over.”
“Not in this house, it won’t be. My boys will love another celebration. Might even have Santa bring more toys . . .”
“You’re evil, Clementine.”
“And yet, you’re not denying it.”
Because I can’t.
While sleeping in his bed has been great rest, it’s been hell for my neglected libido. Because my brain’s worked overtime anytime I’m in it. And the thoughts are far from pure.
Closing my eyes and releasing a sigh, I admit, “I want to jump his bones.”
“Who’s the ‘his’ in this scenario?”
I jump out of my chair at Beckett’s voice. Not only at the sound of it but the implication.
Shit.
Of course, he’d walk in at this exact moment.
He wears a playful smirk, an inkling of who I’m talking about. “Clem, gotta go. ”
“I want details” is all I hear before I jam my finger to end the call, my eyes never leaving Beckett’s heated gaze.
“Time for the grocery store? Is the ground still snowy? Should I wear my boots? Is it freezing? Can I get away with this sweatshirt and no coat?” I rapid-fire questions at him, hoping to distract him from what I said.
His eyes narrow, and I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I wait him out. He crosses his arms against his chest and leans his hip against the counter. Damn, but he’s sexy. I wonder what he’s like in bed.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. No.”
“Huh?”
“The answers. To your questions.”
My eyes bug. “You followed those?”
He pushes from the counter, stalking to where I sit at the table. Resting his hands on the wood, he leans in. “Didn’t miss any of yours nor the fact you’ve neglected to answer mine.”
I swallow, stalling for time. His proximity is daunting, overwhelming. “Umm. Noticed that, did ya?”
“Yep.” His head inclines closer until only a few inches separate us. My breath hitches, wondering what his next move is going to be. How much closer he’s going to get. An inferno ignites inside me with the anticipation. “When you do it, be careful with my bones. I’ve broken several throughout the years.” With a wink of his left eye, he withdraws from my personal space. “Be ready in five minutes. There’s a fleece-lined hoodie in the hall closet.”
I’m so flummoxed, I can’t move nor make sense of what his latter comment means. Why would I need to know about his sweatshirt? I flash back to his answers, the only “no” the last one. What was the last question I asked? I take a few minutes to remember it was something about not needing a jacket.
There’s a fleece-lined hoodie in the hall closet.
Is he suggesting I wear that instead ?
It’s only when his other comment sinks in do my cheeks blaze.
Be careful with my bones.
When I jump them.
Could this be more humiliating?
I rest my head in my hands, trying to wrap my thoughts around what’s going on. How I redeem myself from this.
Except, he didn’t seem bothered by it. And he was definitely encouraging me to do it with his warning of being careful. If he wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t have brought it up. He would have let the idea drop without acknowledging it. The fact he not only brought it to my attention but apprised me to be careful is a sign in my favor.
I haven’t had thoughts of being with another man since Elias or barely looked at other men. Even if it’s purely physical, a means to an end, to scratch an itch, I can’t deny the chemistry between us. I can’t deny the attraction.
“I see you’re not good at following the one direction I gave you.”
Again, his voice catches me by surprise. I peer up through spread fingers. “Has it been five minutes already? Oops.” A nervous giggle escapes.
“Do you want the hoodie?”
He heads out of the kitchen to the closet ahead of me answering, and when he returns holding the sweatshirt, it’s all I can do not to leap up and grab it from him. It looks warm, and it probably smells like him. Which is probably not my best move, but neither was agreeing to stay in a stranger’s house two nights ago, and that’s worked out in my favor.
Beckett holds the gray—not holiday-themed—hoodie out to me, and I snatch it out of his hands and shove my arms into the sleeves. It’s about three sizes too big, but it’s warm and cozy, exactly like the man who owns it.
“Not a straitjacket?” He quirks a brow.
“Not even a little. Thanks.” I zip it up, shoving my hands in the pockets. The greatest urge to sniff it overcomes me, but he’s watching my every move, so I refrain, using every ounce of willpower.
“Did you make a list?”
“I did.”
“You have it?” he inquires when I make no move to produce it.
“It’s in my phone.”
“K.”
He starts for the door, and without hesitating, I follow him.
At the rate I’m going, I’d follow him to the ends of the earth. Christmas decor and all.