10. Beckett
10
beckett
I’m playing with fire, but hell if I can stop.
Did I take it a little too far offering her my hoodie?
Maybe, but I don’t regret it. It swims on her, but she’s more adorable. And warm, which was my motivating factor.
Once in the SUV, I blast the heat. It’s frigid out, and the snow on the ground doesn’t help. Since I drove the truck to work, it’s not warm, but it’s a safer choice.
“What’s the status of a rental car?” I look over at her, gauging her reaction. Her expression falters, and my mind works on ways to make it better.
“There’s like one car the insurance will approve.” My good mood sours because I don’t want her to leave. “It’s like over fifty miles away, so it won’t work.”
Best news ever. I can’t let her sense my elation. Hearing her say she wanted to jump my bones solidified my decision of wanting her to stay. I’ve thrown the fact about her hating Christmas out the window. It’s not like I’m marrying her. We can have a fling while she’s in town without it impacting our opposing views of the holiday. If I get her going, it will probably make the sex even hotter .
“Ah, that’s too bad. What are you going to do?”
“Not sure what I can do.” She faces the window, her shoulders slumping. I take the time to drive down the driveway. “Can I, uh, stay a little longer? I’m happy to pay a rental fee for the room. I’ll buy the groceries and treat you to meals.”
“You should name a character after me.” Because I can’t control anything around this girl, the idea ejects from my mouth. Once it’s out there, I kinda like it. A lot.
“Um, sure. I can do that, too.”
Keeping my eyes trained on the road, I smile. The small victory somehow seems big. Maybe because she didn’t even hesitate with her response and agreed immediately. Though I suppose if I never learn her pen name, she won’t have to hold up her end of the bargain. How will I ever know whether she does it?
“That would be cool. I bet my niece would love it. I’d be famous.”
“Famous? How would you ever prove it was you who inspired the name?”
She’s got me there. “I’ll find a way.” Now that we’ve established she’s staying, I give her a truth. “I won’t be able to get the part for your car before the holiday.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t holding my breath you could, but I appreciate you letting me know. I hope I don’t ruin your holiday. It’s a me thing, and I try not to let it affect anyone else.”
I bite my tongue to not ask, to not pry into her personal life. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to talk about it, and it’s not my business. But damn do I want to know.
Damn do I want to convince her otherwise.
Damn is it my luck she ended up here, that I didn’t pass the call to Dax the night she crashed her car, to make her a believer.
I can’t do anything until I know what I’m up against, and she won’t give it up easily. I’m certain of that.
If she’ll even give it up at all .
“I’m usually good about not taking on other people’s bad moods, their bad juju, especially relating to Christmas. You can lock yourself in my room while I celebrate. No skin off my back.”
The words are a lie. Despite knowing so little about her, I want to celebrate with her. However, I don’t want my holiday ruined. It’s a slippery slope, one I’ve found myself on several times before.
It’s never quite worked out in my favor.
Perhaps this is the time it does.
Though it’s not looking good.
Everyone and their mother are shopping at the local grocer. It takes triple the time to get the few things on our list because everyone stops to ask how the decorations are coming for the parade, if there are enough volunteers for the holiday breakfast, if there’s enough food donated. You’d think I was in charge or something.
Oh, right. I kinda am.
August Myers, the man who owns the local stables, stops us in the bread aisle. “Beck, still need the horses for the parade?” A hopefulness hides in his voice.
He asks me every time I run into him in town, which is fairly often. I give him the same answer I’ve given him the last several occurrences. “We’re good this year, August.”
His expression falters, as if hearing the news for the first time. “Ah, okay. Maybe next year.” Removing his cowboy hat, he runs a hand through his thinning, white hair. “See you around.” He shuffles away from us, the frayed edges of his dirty overalls dragging along the floor.
Maybe he’s going senile, but we haven’t had live animals in the parade in several years .
In the produce section, we’re accosted by Krystal Farnham. Decked out in holiday gear, including a light up sweater peeking from her unzipped jacket, she’s all smiles. Owner of the candy shop, she graduated high school with Autumn.
“Hello, Beck.” Her voice is jolly but not flirtatious. “Got a new recipe for the parade. Think you’re going to love it.” Her hand reaches out to touch my arm, but with a glimpse at Willa, she pulls it back.
“Hope it’s something chocolate.”
From beside me, Willa snickers. When I glance at her, her attention is on the tomatoes, holding one in each hand, weighing them for something to do.
“You know it,” Krystal asserts. “Pop by early on Tuesday and I’ll sneak you a taste.”
“I’ll do my best.” I flash her a smile, sans dimple, and bring my focus to Willa, hoping she takes the hint and continues on her way. Thankfully, she does.
After our third invasion, Willa had enough. She texted me her list and stomped out of the produce aisle. I couldn’t see where she went, but her feelings were adamant.
I do the best I can to hurry it along while also balancing my neighbors’ desires to stall me. Everyone’s excited about the festivities that begin in two days, their enthusiasm off the charts this year.
I’m trying not to let her bad mood pull me down, but my body’s conflicted between making her happy and my happiness.
Never in my life has a woman wound me up so tightly, had so much sway over the decisions I make, even when she didn’t ask for the control. It’s unfamiliar, and I don’t know what to do with it. The fact it’s been two days and she’s still a virtual stranger heightens the stakes.
After what seems like a full day on the job, I walk out of the store, shocked to find Willa huddled on a bench. Her thighs are pulled against her chest, my hoodie wrapped around her curled body .
I’ve never been so jealous of a hoodie.
I approach cautiously, not wanting to scare her. “Hey. Sorry about that.” She picks up her head and wipes tears from her eyes. Gone is the anger, replaced by sorrow. “What’s wrong?”
She unfolds her body, shakes her head, and laughs nervously, swiping the remaining tears off her cheeks. “Not here.”
An anxious feeling sweeps through me, the kind I used to get before a big test at school. I want her to turn over her heavy burdens, let me carry them for a little while. Even if I don’t know what those burdens are. But first, I ask, “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
A wave of relief floods me that she’s not in physical pain. Something made her cry. Something caused her to go from anger to sadness.
And I won’t stop until I know why. I don’t want to cause her tears, even if unintentional.
As the youngest of four, pushing and testing limits is my specialty. However, with women—more so, those I feel a connection with—I’ve learned the hard way to back off, that pushing them to the brink only results in hardship for me.
“Let’s go.”
She stands up, and I can’t stop my arms from embracing her. There’s a moment of hesitation on her part, but when she gives in, she completely melts against me. A jolt shoots to my core. Whatever she’s feeling balls up tight in her, and strangely, I want her to give me whatever she’s holding. I want to carry it for her, to take it off her plate and do the heavy lifting. It’s a heady thought, something that should scare the shit out of me, but the feeling of terror never comes. What comes through is peace, rightness, clarity.
Perhaps the holiday spirit is getting to me this year.
I hug her until she pulls away. “If it’s too much crazy, I’ll understand.”
“If what’s too much crazy?” I ask, needing clarification .
Her left shoulder raises. “Me.” Her fingers rub her earlobe, a quirk I find incredibly endearing.
“Two older sisters and a niece, remember? They cornered the market on crazy.” A half-truth at best, but I can’t let her know I’m not usually good with crazy, yet I can’t get enough of her brand.
Maybe I’ve been drinking too much spiked eggnog and it’s me who’s crazy.
An air of a disheartening yule consumes our ride home. Willa seems less sad, but she’s quiet, her usual spark diminished. When I try to engage, she shuts me down with one or two-word answers.
Back at the cabin, she’s quick to grab the groceries, emptying the contents of the bags onto the table. “Tell me what you need for tonight, and I’ll put away the rest.”
“Do you have more work to do today?”
“No.” Her response is immediate.
“Keep me company in the kitchen while I cook?” I sound needy. The mood’s changed, but I wonder if there’s still a part of her that’s turned on. Or has that gone away, too?
“Sure. Just need to take out my contacts so gouging out my eyes isn’t on today’s agenda.”
I can’t help being intrigued by how she delivers these quips in such a monotone voice. I debate if it’s intentional. Either way, it’s the exact catharsis we need to break the tension, and my loud guffaw shakes the cabin.
“Let’s keep the blood splatter to a minimum. At least until after we eat.”
She cocks her head to the right, examining me. “Your brand of humor contrasts so much of what I know about you.”
“According to my mother, I’ve been her biggest conundrum in life. ”
She allows the comment to sink in and permeate. Quick as her thinking is, she’s also a ponderer when the situation calls for it. I admire that about her.
“Great word choice. I’d love to use it in my books, but my readers tend to not understand the big words. I’d have to use ‘puzzle,’ but your mom is spot-on about you. It’s like she knows you well or something.”
“Or something.” She stands rooted in place, her arms crossed over her chest. “Go forth and remove your contacts. We’ve got work to do.” I don’t intend for it to sound so commanding, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she fought me on it, telling me she doesn’t have to listen to me or I’m not the boss of her. Except it’s for her benefit. I’m merely encouraging her.
“Right. Be back in a jiff.” She turns on her heel, and my eyes glue to her backside, watching her saunter to my bedroom. Only when she disappears do I shake out of the stupor she has me in and set to work on making dinner.
I prop the iPad on the stand and pull up the recipe for a pan-seared steak I’ve been wanting to try. Taking what I need from the table, I turn on some music, keeping it to non-seasonal tunes for her sake. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of a knife wound.
“I’m back, reporting for duty. What do you require me to do?”
So much innuendo in her question, so many ways I could respond.
Thankfully, I’m faced toward the counter and away from her so she can’t see the way my cock takes notice. Although, if I move my hand to adjust myself, no way she’ll miss that.
Over my shoulder, I call out, “You can put away the groceries in the fridge and pantry. Anywhere you can find room.”
She calls me out with a humph. “Anywhere?”
“Anywhere your little heart desires, Bundy.”
Could the nickname be any less appropriate? Yet, I’m not going to stop. It’s extremely fitting for her. For us .
Man, I’m in trouble.
Forty-eight hours with her, and I’m creating new neural pathways in my brain to accommodate her and make exceptions for how I live.
It’s because it’s temporary.
Yeah, sure.