12. Beckett
12
beckett
I watch her every move. She wasn’t lying about being less than handy in the kitchen. From the way she opens the bag—the noodles all but spilling out from how she rips it open—to how she awkwardly holds the pan by the handle to dump it into the strainer. Her elbows flail out at weird angles and her entire upper body twists with the movement. If I didn’t think she’d get frustrated with me, I’d wrench it out of her hands. With the vicarious cliff we’re dangling on, I keep my distance, preparing the veggies. But I don’t let my sight stray from her.
She fixed her bun after I fluffed her hair. It leans adorably to the left, and it’s all I can do not to take it out and fix it. Center it on her head.
Kiss her lips again.
The unrelated action stirs my cock. Damn, I can’t wait to get her underneath me. Naked, willing, aroused. The kiss we shared awakened something inside me, a feral beast who won’t be satisfied until he’s fed.
Several times.
As many times as she’ll agree.
Hell, they don’t all have to be tonight .
We’ve got more days, and until she tells me no, I’m taking what I want.
“Do you stare at all the women in your kitchen?”
“If they look like you, I would.”
She faces my way, one hip propped against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. Today’s hoodie depicts a bookshop logo, one I’ve never heard of. I wonder if it’s local to where she lives. She’s paired it with skinny jeans form-fitted to her legs.
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“For sure. Especially because you’re the only woman ever in my kitchen. Outside of my family.”
Shock crowds her face. “No way.”
“Way.”
“This kitchen?” She points to the floor, in case I misinterpreted the question.
“Yes.”
“And you’ve lived here for how long?”
“Four years.”
She whistles. “None of your one-night stands?” A lack of judgment hides in her tone, which I appreciate.
“No.”
“No girlfriends?”
I scratch my head, recalling whether they had ever been here. “Luna preferred to stay at her house. The cabin was ‘sketch.’ Her word, not mine.”
Willa laughs at my impression, and the light chords unlock more emotion in my chest. She looks around. “Yeah, I can see it. Though it’s very much growing on me. Minus anything related to Christmas. What do you usually have over there?” She motions toward the offending Christmas tree with a sneer.
“A bookshelf.”
“I can get on board with that. What’s your favorite book?”
“Grab the bottle of wine with the pink sticky note from the pantry and pour us each a glass while I plate dinner.”
It warms my heart how she doesn’t question my suggestion nor call me out on not answering hers. I don’t intend to ignore it. We’ll continue the conversation over dinner.
Willa returns, her eyes analyzing the label of red wine. “Seriously? How long has this been labeled for this meal specifically?”
“Since you agreed to steaks. It’s not like I’m anal.”
Her nose scrunches. “Have you looked up the definition in the dictionary? There’s most likely a picture of your pantry as a visual representation.”
Removing the bottle from her hand and setting it on the counter, I can’t fight the urge to grab her from behind and wrap my arms around her, trapping her in an embrace. She squeals, my dick further encouraged by the noise.
“You think I’m anal?” I peer down at her.
“Ridiculously so. I’m flabbergasted you don’t have labels on the shelves in the pantry.” I squeeze her tighter, eliciting a yelp. “Uncle,” she wheezes. “Uncle.”
I only let her go because if I don’t, dinner will get cold with the things I want to do to her. I’m turned on by her making fun of me, and it’s impossible to think straight, let alone do much of anything else.
“Pour the wine and set the table.” My voice is raspy, lower than usual, spurred on by adrenaline and arousal. It will be a miracle to make it through dinner without ravaging her.
“K.”
“Are you always so amenable to what’s asked of you?”
She peers over her shoulder. “When the man asking treats me like you do? Guess so.” Her attention transfers to choosing silverware.
“Noted for later activities.”
The temptation to touch her too strong, I smack her ass as she passes me.
“Eep,” she squeaks. “Watch it. I’ve got steak knives in my hand.”
I fix the plates, piling on noodles, steak, and veggies. Her eyes grow into saucers when I put the plate down in front of her before taking my seat. “This I will miss when I leave here. This looks and smells delicious, Beckett.”
“It’ll taste delicious, too,” I state, not ashamed to stroke my ego. “Oh, and to answer your earlier question, anything by James Patterson or John Grisham is my favorite book.”
“By definition, ‘favorite’ implies one.” She cuts her steak into bite-size pieces, stabs a piece with the fork, and puts it into her mouth. “Oh, damn.” Her eyes sink closed, her expression sated. “This is so good. The flavors pop, and the steak’s cooked to perfection. How am I ever supposed to leave this place?”
I’m sure she doesn’t mean the last part literally, but damn if it doesn’t inflate my already swollen ego.
“Stay” is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. It’s not even a slight possibility. Not in any universe.
“Glad it lives up to the hype.” I take a bite, curious to taste how it came out. One touch of the steak to my tongue, and I’m in heaven. I don’t always get it right on the first try, but this one I nailed. It’s a replica of the picture, and the flavors are exquisite, the garlic, rosemary, and butter creating the perfect sauce.
“Beyond the hype. I’ve been to five-star restaurants and never experienced a steak so delicious. Kudos to you.”
My chest puffs with her exuded praise. “Thanks.”
I savor the meal, the time spent with Willa high on my current priority list.
Eventually, she gets back to the book discussion. “If you could only read one book for the rest of your life?—”
“Not a fair question. When am I ever going to be put in a situation to only read one book?”
“Everything in your house burns down except that book.”
“Morbid.” She shrugs, rolling noodles on her fork. “I’d go to the library or read on my e-reader.”
“Your e-reader was lost in the fire. The library flooded, all the books ruined.”
“The local bookstore. ”
“Bankrupt.”
“Online bookstores. Goodwill. Thrift stores.” The answers come fast, no deep thinking involved.
“All ran out of money and out of business.”
“You’re evil. But also, wouldn’t that mean that you’d be out of a career?”
The comment perplexes her. “Hmm. Good point.”
“What would you do if you weren’t a writer?”
“A detective.” She rattles it off without a pause, clearly having given it some thought.
“Solve all the crimes. I can see it.”
“You? If you didn’t fix cars?”
“A chef.”
She holds up a forkful of steak. “Suits you. You ever work as a chef?”
“No. Culinary school and I weren’t a match.”
“What? Not enough order? Too much structure and routine?” She’d make an excellent detective. She’s good at reading people and picking up on things even if they’re not intentional clues.
“Couldn’t handle the pressure. Everything had to be perfect?—”
“You don’t say,” she mocks. Her tone is playful, but her expression is more serious.
“If I’m going to mess things up, I’d rather not be graded or judged. Mistakes in my kitchen are less stressful.”
She listens attentively, absorbing my comments, contemplating her answer. “Are you sure you’re the youngest kid? Seems to me you’d fit better as an eldest.”
I point to my chest. “Conundrum at its finest.”
“Right.” She giggles. “Not all chefs go to culinary school. I’d say your method is working. If that was ever in the cards for you.”
“Maybe once I figure out a way to grow a thicker skin. Any tips?”
“You can’t take it personally. And don’t read reviews. ”
“Simple as that, huh?”
Willa quiets, but the silence is refreshing. It’s not awkward. All our conversations are constructive without being critical or a need to fill the silence.
“I’m not one to give advice. I gave up. After my first book was a wild success, hitting all the bestseller lists and bringing in more money than I could have imagined, I froze.” She folds her hands together and leans her chin on them, staring at something behind me. “I didn’t write for six months. I couldn’t write. I was paralyzed with fear. No matter what I tried, nothing worked. I shut down, shut off from life, let the negative voices, the people telling me I wasn’t good enough, win.”
“What changed?” I ask when she gives me an opening.
“Met a guy. He wouldn’t let me quit. Told me I had more stories to share with the world, that I was better than the haters. Even if the second book wasn’t as amazing as the first, people were clamoring to read it.”
“And it worked?”
“Drafted book two in ten days. When I handed it to my editor, she didn’t even make many changes.” Lost in the story, a wistful smile adorns her lips. “The second book did better than the first. And then subsequent books topped those numbers.”
“How many books have you published?”
“Seven.”
“Wow. That’s amazing, Willa. Truly. How many more books are planned for the series?”
The color drains from her face. My heart squeezes. For her, for being the one to ask the question.
“Wait. What happened to the guy? The one who told you not to give up?”
“He, uh, he’s gone.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Was it a bad breakup? Is he the one who hurt you?”
Her complexion ashen, she stares straight ahead. “I ca-can’t talk about it.” Her fingers grip the table, her knuckles white. Calmly, I slide my hand over one of hers, giving her a sense of comfort if she’ll take it.
“You don’t have to. I’m sorry you’re upset.”
“Thanks. Didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”
“You didn’t. We’re done.” The plates are both scraped clean, the evidence of any morsels long gone.
She glances at her plate. “Because it was delicious.”
“Are you still hungry? There are more noodles and veggies. We ate all the steak.”
She waves my comment away. “No, plenty full. Until dessert, at least.” She attempts a sad smile, and my heart wants to break in half with her pain. There’s so much more she can’t or won’t talk about. I’m not sure she’ll open up to me, but I’ll let her know I’m here if she wants to. Whatever baggage she wants to unload on me, I’ll take. When it’s time for her to move on, she’ll leave with a lighter load.
“My grandmother used to make a divine red velvet cake at the holidays. I’m not sure I’ve had it since she passed, but a sudden urge just hit me. You game?”
“That seems like a loaded question. Will it make you nostalgic for her?”
“Probably.”
“Jealous I’m the only one feeling this way? Do you suddenly need to be depressed, too? ”
It shouldn’t be funny, but her monotone voice digs up buried emotions.
“Nailed it. I can’t let you have all the fun.” I think I’ve gone too far, but Willa cracks a smile.
She goes to speak, but the back door opens. “Uncle Beck, Gram says you’ve got her extra flour. So we’re here to take it back ‘cause me and mom have baking to do.” Her comments precede my niece’s arrival, and Willa sits up straight in her chair, a frozen expression molded on her face.
When Shania appears, my sister’s on her heels. “Oh, didn’t realize you had company. We’ll get the flour and skedaddle.” Autumn looks over at Willa before disappearing into the pantry. Shania’s taking in my guest, her eyes locked on her sweatshirt. Suddenly, she’s on the move.
“Oh my gosh. Where did you get this from?”
Willa peeks down, like she forgot what she was wearing. “Oh, um. It’s?—”
“You read Hidden Clues Club? They’re like my favorite ever. I love AJ Hart. She’s my spirit animal. I want to be her. I can’t wait for book eight, but it’s taking for-ever. Which one’s your favorite? I can’t decide which one mine is. I love them all. And I love this sweatshirt. I need this sweatshirt. Mom!” she yells, louder than necessary. Autumn peeks her head from the pantry. “Add this to my birthday list, k?”
“Right away, my little dictator. Consider it added.” Her deadpan is on point, and I stifle my laughter.
Shania smiles, too excited and missing her mother’s sarcasm. She slaps her head. “Oh duh. I’m Shania. Are you and Uncle Beck dating?”
Willa’s wild gaze finds mine. Shania’s overwhelming on a good day, but when she’s passionate about something? Watch out.
“Willa’s just staying here until her car is fixed. What series did you say her sweatshirt was from?”
“Keep up, Uncle Beck. Hidden Clues Club.”
My mind fits the pieces together, and Willa’s horrified look makes sense.
“Who’s the author?” I ask, my eyes not leaving Willa’s. She gives a shake of her head.
“Evelyn Ravenhurst.”
“Interesting.” I commit the name to memory, planning to google it later.
“Yeah. She was supposed to do an author signing a few years ago in Burlington, but she was sick or something. I still want to meet her, even if I’m a little old for the books now. It would be so cool. She’s like my favorite author, and I’m her biggest fan. ”
I can’t betray Willa’s trust, but I’d be solidified as favorite uncle forever if Shania only knew.
“I’m sure she’d love to meet her biggest fan.”
Autumn reappears from the pantry with two bags of flour. Holding them up, she says, “Put these on my tab, k?”
I parrot her words from earlier. “Right away, my little dictator.”
“What did you make for dinner?”
“Pan-seared steak with rosemary.”
“Oh, damn. Was it as mouthwatering as the pictures?”
“It was better,” Willa pipes in, finding her voice. To Shania, she says, “The first book in the series will always be my favorite. When AJ figures out it was the bus driver . . . even I didn’t see that coming.”
Shania lights up. “That’s my favorite part of that book. I had no clue it was her!”
“Why’s your tree dark?” my sister wonders.
“Yeah, and your outside lights are off, too,” Shania adds, walking toward the switch. “Oh, the switch is off. Weird.” She flicks it, bathing the room in the glow from outside. But does she stop there? Oh no. She walks to the tree and turns that on, too. “Ah, much better.”
Before I can react, Willa pushes her chair out, rushing off to the bathroom with an “Excuse me.”
Once the door’s closed, Autumn jokes, “Hope it wasn’t the meal.”
If she only knew.