17. Willa
17
willa
“Get up.” Beckett stands up in a flash, like there’s a fire outside of the fireplace he needs to put out. When I don’t immediately follow his issued demand, he holds his arms out. “Please, Willa. Come with me.” His tone softens, a layer of sadness and some other emotion clinging to it.
“Where are we going?”
“Kitchen table. Get your laptop. You trust me?”
There’s so much hope in his question and his matching expression. I can’t say no.
Besides, if I did, it would be a lie.
Bizarre as it may be, I trust this man with my life.
“Yes.”
He pulls me to standing, ushering me on my way to grab my laptop while he disappears into a closet I haven’t yet explored. We both meet at the kitchen table, each with our computers.
“It’s been a long while—longer than you—since I’ve had to write anything but an estimate or an email. Forgive my rustiness.”
His statements make no sense, but he’s giddy. I’m curious to see what he has planned.
I feel lighter after unloading on him, telling the story few people know. Between the crying spell and spilling my guts, it’s a catharsis I needed. Something I’ve needed for over a year.
The irony isn’t lost on me who helped me find it.
We sit across the table from each other. He plugs his computer in mentioning how he doesn’t use it often. Still in the dark about what we’re doing, I don’t question it.
Once his laptop is up and running, he studies the screen. “Microsoft Word. Is that still the thing to use for word processing?” His inquisitive glare makes him so appealing. His curiosity is high on the list of what I enjoy most about him.
“I suppose. Some people use Google Docs.”
“What do you write in?”
“A program called Scrivener.”
He stares a beat too long, then chuckles. The sound is a balm to my soul. Not quite like one of Beckett’s hugs, but close. “Word it is. You use scrive—that program you said.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I have Word for exchanging manuscripts with my editor. If whatever we’re doing is being shared.”
He points a finger in my direction. “Yes. Good idea. Word all around.”
How this man elicits so much excitement from me is a mystery.
“What are we doing exactly?”
“Writing.”
“Wr-writing?” I stutter. My pulse quickens, fear clutching me in its grip. “Writing what?”
“Gibberish.” He doesn’t offer me a chance to interrogate what he means and continues, “Spelling and grammar don’t count. And of course, it doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be letters and words on a page.”
It dawns on me what he’s doing—persuading me to write. Doesn’t matter what. Like I told him Elias would do.
I gasp, staring at this man who’s been more than a gentleman since I first spoke with him on the phone. This man who’s taken care of me the past three days, who’s cooked meals for me, who’s given me more orgasms in a twenty-four hour period than I’ve had the last two years. My heart clenches, a swell of sentiment coursing through me at his compassion.
“Beckett. I don’t know what to say.”
“Good. Don’t say anything. Write it. Gibberish, English, Greek, Parseltongue, just get words on the page.”
A smile creeps on my lips. “Parseltongue, huh?”
He shrugs. “Did you not meet my niece, your biggest fan? She’s also into Harry Potter. I read them all, but I’m not sure I remember how to spell any of the words. Luckily for me, it doesn’t matter.”
“How long?”
His right brow raises. “How long what?”
“How long are we writing for?”
“You pick.”
I think for a moment. No matter how long it is, it’s going to feel like an eternity. Might as well start small.
“Five minutes.”
“K.” He peers down at his screen. “Whoever gets the most words wins.”
“Wins what?” I ask. My brain needs to know why it has to be a competition, yet my mouth has other ideas.
“The movie choice for tonight.”
I groan, already knowing I’m going to lose. I have no capability to write anymore. Even gibberish.
“Would you rather the prize be something else?”
Another night with you, my brain fills in, but I don’t express it aloud. After today’s emotional roller coaster, I’m not in any headspace for sex.
Cuddles? Absolutely.
Sex? Negative.
“No, it’s fine. Start thinking of what you’re going to pick because you’ll be winning.”
“We’ll see.”
I used to hate when my parents would use that phrase. It was always no. But the way Beckett uses it has a different connotation, even if it’s not a yes or no answer.
“Ready?” He stretches his hands in the air, palms linked, bending back his fingers in a warm-up.
“Not even a little,” I mumble.
To make him happy, I open up a new Word document, the blinking cursor taunting me.
Write words.
Write words.
Write words, it seems to blink.
Beckett messes with his phone and declares, “Go.”
I stare at the blank screen.
Words. I can do this. They don’t even need to be actual words. Letters strung together in any order. That’s what Beckett said, right?
From the other side of the table, I hear the hunt and peck of Beckett’s fingers pressing one key at a time. I crack a smile. Elias hated typing on the laptop, too. He was more of an iPad guy, using the laptop only when forced.
My fingers type Elias . Then the words I miss you. I miss you so much. I wish you were here. But if you were here, I wouldn’t be here, and that makes me kinda sad. Because Beckett is the best kind of host, even when he doesn’t have to be.
The words pour out of me. A love letter to Elias, filling him in on the last two years and all he’s missed. The good parts and the bad, the highs and lows, even the lowest of lows. The words leap from my fingers. Words locked up in a box with a missing key. Until Beckett found it and set them free.
“Time.”
So involved with the words, Beckett’s voice makes me jump.
I scan the screen. It’s at least a page of words, sentences, and paragraphs. My eyes find the time.
“That was not five minutes,” I grumble. A smirk rests on Beckett’s mouth .
“No joke about you getting in the zone. I didn’t want to stop you. How much gibberish did you write?”
I survey the page. Some random typos, but it’s filled with real words.
“None, actually. All English.”
His brows rise. “Really? Excellent. Anything worth sharing?” He wears anticipation like a badge. But I’m not ready to share what I wrote.
“No. Just some ideas for a new story,” I lie easily.
“Secretive. Fair.”
“How did you do?”
Beckett pushes his laptop toward me. On his screen is a grocery list of ingredients and a Costco list.
“This took you thirty minutes?”
He shakes his head. “Five. Spent the rest of the time watching you. You squint a lot when you’re looking at the screen. It’s adorable.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a bad habit. The glasses are supposed to help, but most of the time, I’m not even reading the words. I wasn’t this time. I suppose it could be gibberish.”
Except I know it’s not. Elias’s name is written too many times to be gibberish. And let’s not forget Beckett’s, too.
“I’m going out on a limb to say you won.”
“I did,” I confirm. Not the movie choice, but a victory over writer’s block. Even if only for today and a topic that has nothing to do with Hidden Clues Club, it’s a win.
A huge win.
“Thanks, Beckett. Your idea was brilliant.”
He sits up taller, his chest physically puffing out with pride. I’d knock it, but it’s well-deserved. He closes his computer, laying his folded hands on top. “Can I ask a follow-up question to your confession?”
“Sure.”
His eyes meet mine, the sky blue of his holding mine steady. “Did you always hate Christmas? ”
My guffaw is loud, tearing out of me like a wild animal released from a cage. “I did not. Used to be my favorite. But losing the love of my life sucked all the happiness from it. The lights, the decorations, the joy. It doesn’t seem right to celebrate without him.”
Beckett nods, his understanding acknowledged. “How long were you together?”
“Almost four years, though some days it felt like I’d never not known him. In a good way.” I sigh, a rush of memories flooding in. “The best way.”
“You lost a lot that day.”
“Everything.” It sounds cliché, but it’s true. Every plan I’d had went up in smoke when he died.
The future we were building.
My writing career.
Christmas.
I lost it all.
“I’m sorry, Willa. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. It means a lot.”
There have been a lot of “I’m sorrys” over the last two years, enough to last a lifetime. Beckett’s feels different, more important. The most important. Heck if I can explain it.
“Hey, any chance you’re up for making that cake you teased me with last night?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Damn do I love how agreeable he is.
“With your help.”
I take it back.
I hate how agreeable he is.
The cake in the oven, I inspect the kitchen. Beckett’s workspace neat and tidy, like the man himself. Mine, a disaster. I’d say it mirrors me, but I hate to put myself down. It’s more of a mess because I haven’t a clue what I’m doing in the kitchen.
“What do you eat for meals at home?” he asked as he attempted to “teach” me to bake. Wasted breath on his part. His smile never faded, the man didn’t get frustrated, and I kinda loved it.
“I order takeout or use a meal delivery service. Someone else does the shopping and prepping, and all I have to do is heat them up. My microwave sees more action than my stove.”
“Your stove must get jealous.” I thought he was kidding, but his expression remained stoic. I wasn’t sure what to make of the comment, so I shrugged it off.
Though something poked at me the rest of the time we prepared the cake.
The most pleasurable part of the night is now, licking the beaters, something I missed from living with my mom. She didn’t bake often, but Clem’s and my job was to lick the beaters, utensils, and the bowl. I’m really good at those jobs.
Fantastic, even.
“I promised myself sex was off the table tonight.”
Mid-lick, I stare at Beckett watching me, his eyes hooded and oozing sexiness.
“O-kay.” I draw out the word, my comprehension of his words nonexistent.
His eyes float shut, a rough exhale expelling. “It’s hard to do that with your tongue . . . doing what it’s doing.”
“Sorry?” Not sorry. Not for him and not for me enjoying this batter entirely too much. I can’t wait to taste the cake.
Beckett swears under his breath and stands. “I’m showering. You, clean the kitchen so it’s not so much a disaster zone.” He retreats from the table, stopping directly in front of me. “Thank you for trusting me with your story.” Tucking a loose strand behind my ear, his lips brush my cheek. “You’re the strongest person I know.” One more kiss to the top of my head before he disappears into the bathroom .
Like forehead kisses are to Elias, top of the head kisses will always belong to Beckett.
The notion pummels me. Hard. As if someone smacked me.
What am I even thinking?
Nothing “belongs” to Beckett, least of all something related to a relationship. The idea is laughable at best.
So why am I not laughing?
And why do I want them to belong to him? Give that spot over to him. To have no one after him reclaim it.
Perhaps I’m still on a roller coaster, this one being my life. There sure have been a lot of peaks and valleys, ups and downs, some spirals and twists thrown in for good measure. Life has been a lot, especially these last two years. Being here with Beckett is giving me some semblance of reality back, even if this week doesn’t resemble real life in the slightest. Not even a little.
While he showers, I clean the kitchen. Like it’s my job.
Wiping down the table and counters.
Washing the dishes and loading the dishwasher.
Mopping the floor.
I make it shine. Because if I can do one nice thing in exchange for all the things Beckett’s done for me, I’m doing it.
Beckett emerges from his room with wet hair, sweats, and bare feet. His eyes scan the kitchen, his teeth whistling in appreciation.
“Damn, Bundy. How long was I in the shower?”
“Long enough for me to do this.” I hold my arm out, twirling around to show off my progress.
The timer buzzes, signaling the cake is ready. It smells delicious, and my mouth waters. Beckett made it clear it would have to cool, but he confirmed it’s worth the wait. He hasn’t led me astray yet, especially with food, so I’m trusting him.
Damn, how much I trust this man.
A puzzled look breaches his face. “What?”
“I’ll be sad when I have to leave.” Oops. So not the words I meant to say. I slap my hand over my mouth. “Goodness, I don’t mean that.”
“So you won’t be sad to leave?” A smirk claims his mouth, the action jarring to my libido and every other part of me that wants more of him.
“I will be. I wasn’t supposed to say those words out loud. Internal thoughts should stay inside.” Now I’m babbling.
“I disagree. Tell me more of these internal thoughts.” Bending down, his sweatpants showcase the ass hidden beneath. With oven mitts on each hand, he carefully removes the cake from the oven, setting it on top of the stove. “Did you decide on a movie?”
“I want your thoughts on another Hallmark one. I don’t care which one. Non-seasonal, of course.” Something makes me add the qualifier, even though I don’t think he’d do that to me.
“Got it. I have just the one.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Hot cocoa or spiked coffee?”
As if that’s even a question. “Spiked coffee, duh.” I don’t let my eyes roll.
“Pull up the Hallmark app. I’ll make the drinks. Once the cake cools a bit, I’ll cut pieces.”
His proposition is so natural, so Beckett. How he’s such a great host when he doesn’t entertain people is beyond me. I’m not knocking it. It’s been one of the best parts of this unexpected detour.
The other is the sex.
I tamp down those thoughts immediately. I’m not opposed to more sex, but not tonight. After last night’s marathon and today’s breakdown, my body needs a rest.
However, I sure wish it didn’t. No matter how sad I’ll be, my time here will end. Everything with Beckett will be boxed up and become a memory.
Surely one of the best.