11. Willa
11
willa
With his permission to put things anywhere, I do exactly that. It’s not so much fun in the fridge with the limited options and space, but in the pantry, I go hog wild.
Not only are the shelves neatly organized by size and shape—ironically, not alphabetical—but there are multiples of each item all sorted neatly into plastic bins. For such a small area, it would have to be efficient to fit all this stuff.
I don’t move anything that’s already in a place, but I don’t match the new stuff into his organizational pattern.
A can of black beans? Fit in with the boxes of pasta.
A box of cereal? Next to the flour.
Hot cocoa Oreos? Hidden behind the bags of chips.
Good luck finding those before the holiday, Beckett.
I’m surprised he purchased store-bought cookies. After his “it’s cheating to bake brownies from a box,” I would assume the same goes for cookies. Though I suppose Oreos aren’t something people make from scratch. Still, a total conundrum.
I smile as I recall how his expression softened when he mentioned his mother. Same thing when we discussed his niece and sisters the other day. I’m a little downhearted I’ll probably never meet them, to see how he fits in, where his personality comes from. From what he’s said about them all, it would be entertaining.
“Groceries disseminated. What’s next on my agenda?”
Music plays low from a speaker on the far counter. Should I feel guiltier he chose secular music for my sake?
“Rice or noodles?”
“Noodles.”
“Are you capable of boiling water?”
I forgot we talked about my inability to cook. Based on his smirk, he’s getting a lot of pleasure from rubbing my lack of skills in my face. Not sure I blame him. I am pretty pathetic.
“Yes, wiseass. I can even add the noodles to the pot and set a timer for when they’re done.” I grab a bag from the pantry. “And I can pour them into a strainer.”
His expression serious, he sets the spatula down on the spoon rest and slow claps. “Color me amazed.”
The thing is, two can play his game.
“Which pot do you want me to use? Going out on a limb here when I say you have a specific one.” His mouth opens, but no words exit. “Not so condundrumy now, eh?”
“Oh, fancy author, making up fancy words. Is that how you get all your accolades? You take real words and make them into not-real words?”
I gasp, hand to heart to exaggerate it. “You’ve uncovered my secret. Whatever will I do now that you know?”
Beckett returns his attention to the stove, gives whatever he’s got in the pan a stir before casting aside the spatula. His moves are practiced and full of ease, whereas I’d probably drop the utensil into the pan, panic while I figured out a way to get it out, and burn the ingredients in the meantime. I’m not jealous or anything, but damn this man.
“You ever have a one-night stand?”
I’m not expecting his question. While it processes through my mind, he moves my way .
“What?”
“A one-night stand,” he repeats like I didn’t hear what he said. Not the problem so much as the timing and implication of it.
“Didn’t realize we were at this stage of getting to know each other.” I stall, deciding how truthful to be.
“Yes or no, Willa.” His heated gaze bores into me, friction palpitating between us. A sizzle scorching, hot enough to burn if I get too close to him. Good thing I’m keeping my distance. Even if it’s a metaphorical burn.
“Ye-yes,” I stutter.
He pinches his nose, suspecting a different answer maybe. “More than one?”
“Yes,” I state with more certainty, still trying to decipher his angle. “You?”
“A plethora.”
A chortle leaps out. “Not sure this is the time to prove your fixation with that word.”
“Why?” He steps closer, crowding my personal space. He does this often, too. It should bother me more than it does.
“You’ve had a plethora of one-night stands?” He nods. “More than the average guy? An abundance of them? If your goal is to add me to your list, you’re not selling yourself so well.”
Honestly, I hadn’t planned to say that so boldly.
Now it’s his turn to be unsuspecting of my comment. He brushes his hand through his hair, causing a few of the front ends to stick up. Even with mussed hair, the guy is smoking hot.
He eliminates the tiny distance between us. “Is that so, Willafred?”
My eyes snap shut with his use of my full name, my lady bits calling for a ceasefire of surrender, campaigning for an end to the drought I’ve been in for two years.
His finger snakes under my chin, lifting gently. “Open those pretty eyes.” Like earlier, it’s a command. Unlike earlier, sexual undertones fill it. Like I’m not already hot and bothered .
My eyes flutter open, and an aroused Beckett fills my vision. I wish I weren’t so easily attracted to him. It would be easier if he were some troll, someone I didn’t visualize naked while sleeping in his bed. A hideous man who wouldn’t dare do wicked things to me.
“Have you changed your mind about me?”
“No.” The word breaches my mouth without thinking.
Because I haven’t. His past doesn’t change our magnetism. It doesn’t change the depths of how much I want him. If there’s no one else presently, I see no reason to keep myself off his list.
A timer dings, breaking the sexual hold he has over me.
“Shit. Dinner.” He rushes to the stove, moving the pan from the hot burner to a cool one. “We’ll pick this up after dinner, yeah?”
“We’d better. Now you have time to compose a well-thought-out response, a plan to get me into your bed.”
“Unlike the last two nights?” he counters.
Ah, good point. That is where I’ve been sleeping and planned to be tonight, too. Guess he doesn’t have to do much work.
I’m a blank slate about how to respond. Instead, I open the lower cabinet where he got the pan from and heave out a pot for boiling water. While the water fills, I sense Beckett watching me, waiting for a comeback. The longer I don’t answer, the better my response has to be. Nothing like adding more pressure.
When a significant amount of time has passed and I’ve still said nothing, I sigh. “Accurate,” I admit in defeat.
He shakes his head. “I expected more, Willa. A quip, a thesaurus word, something other than ‘accurate.’” He changes his voice on the last word, but it sounds nothing like me.
“Sexual tension and coherent thoughts don’t mingle.”
“I see. And there’s more of the former right now?” he astutely surmises.
“Lots. One might say a plethora.” My brain kicks into gear, and it sets him in motion.
Beckett dashes to where I’m standing, and using one swoop of his muscular arm, he crushes me against him. Our mouths crash together, and fireworks erupt. I feel the kiss everywhere, every nerve ending tingling. When his tongue invades—no other word could describe the action—my mouth, my knees weaken, and I crumble. Thank goodness for his arm under my ass holding me up. I steady myself by wrapping my arms around his waist, clasping my hands together, holding on for dear life.
All the while, he dominates the kiss. Lips slanted over mine, his plundering tongue, the most exquisite moans. Oh, that might be me.
My body vibrates with awareness, a sensation so strong, I could combust. I never want this to end, yet if it doesn’t, I’m afraid it will be the end of me. I can barely breathe. If I don’t get oxygen soon, I’ll wither away to nothing. But what a way to go.
“God, Willa. You taste . . .” Beckett speaks with our lips still pressed together, somehow doing both and making some semblance of sense.
I smoosh my chest harder against his. “Don’t stop, Beckett.” But when I seek his mouth, he pulls away. “Not done yet,” I whine.
His other arm meets the one holding me up, and with careful steps, he backs us to the table, taking a seat in the chair, pulling me onto his lap. Beckett situates me where he wants me, and my legs straddle his, his erect cock struggling to be set free. Our breathing’s erratic, an unsteady pace of heaves and gulps.
With me steady on his lap, he loosens my messy topknot and twines his fingers in my hair. “Not done yet either, Bundy, but my lungs have a limited capacity. I’d imagine yours do, too.” Words escaping me, I nod my agreement. Emotions swim through the swirling blues of his eyes, fine lines outlining the edges. “I wanted to do that to you the minute you asked if I was a serial killer.”
His remark gives me pause. He’s wanted to kiss me since we met?
“Did you now? ”
“Until you revealed your disgust for Christmas. That shut the idea down real quick.”
“Huh. What made you change your mind then?”
He taps the side of my head. “Your words. How you challenge me. The pain you carry.” He delivers the words tenderly, each soaking into my brain and finding residence, the last one burrowing the hardest.
I don’t let many people see my pain, the hidden scars of my past. Why I’ve let my walls down with him is a mystery, one not even AJ could solve. Despite knowing him for forty-eight hours, he’s safe, a soft place to land among the planes of hardness on his exterior. His soul is kind, generous, a beacon of light in a storm.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I murmur, hoping he doesn’t force the issue. The connection between us severs the minute I drive away. Whatever we share during our time together will stay in Winterberry. It’s the opposite of Vegas in every way, with the exception of lights this time of year, but the sentiment is the same. What happens here, stays here.
“Not even to let me help you carry it?”
“Why would you want to burden yourself with my problems?” I try to wiggle from his grasp, but he holds tighter. I don’t have the strength to fight him.
Or maybe I don’t want to.
“As I mentioned, I don’t take on other people’s emotions, but I’m a superb listener. You can ask anyone.” His smile is shy but honest. So much truth embedded in his statement, I’m tempted to pour my heart out.
But I don’t. It’s not his business. I’m not his problem.
This time when I scooch away, he lets me go.
“You’re not another name to add to my list, Willa. I don’t know how I know, but I do. You’re going to stand out. I’m sure of it.”
He stands up and places the gentlest kiss on my head. A storm of emotions kicks up inside me. Thank goodness it wasn’t my forehead. I’m certain I couldn’t handle that.
“Water’s boiling,” he announces, breaking me from the spell I’m under. The spell of Beckett and the plethora of emotions in me.
Maybe my best bet is to figure out a way to leave . . .