23. Beckett
23
beckett
Willa’s quiet on the drive to the cabin, her gaze trained outside her window. I avoided Main Street, not wanting to upset her, knowing she must be over her limit after spending hours listening to plans for the holiday and surrounded by decorations all night.
It’s not until I’ve parked in the garage and we’re inside the cabin does she regard me. “I had fun. Your family is truly great. Overbearing, overwhelming, and all. Thanks.”
“Glad you had a good time. Was it too much?”
She chortles. “At times? For sure. But I lived to tell about it. Clem’s going to be so proud of me.” At the mention of her sister, her voice changes. “I can’t wait to tell her tomorrow.”
“Speaking of tomorrow, are your plans to stay in the cabin all day?”
In the dim light of the entryway, her swallow is hard to miss. “It’s probably best. I don’t want to ruin anything for you.”
The bit of hope I had she’d join me deflates. “K.” After sharing why she detests the holiday—man, I’m not sure even I can blame her after something like that—I hoped she was making progress, albeit small. I won’t force her out of her comfort zone. I have too many obligations to the town tomorrow to worry about Willa, too.
“What time do you have to leave for the parade?”
“It starts at two, so I have to be in place around one-thirty. Probably leave here around one. I can throw something together for breakfast and lunch, though I’m not sure what we have. Or you can order something. Most places stop delivering around noon, so it’ll have to be early.”
Her gaze casts down, but I can’t tell why. I itch to tip her chin back up, read her expression, know what she’s thinking.
Ah, fuck it.
Gently, I reach my fingers under her chin, lifting it. Her expression is unreadable, a mix of emotions.
“I wasn’t asking to guarantee you’d provide the food. I didn’t want to be in your way when you’re getting ready.”
I share a small smile. “Ironically, I like cooking for you, Willa. Gives me purpose. It’s more fun to cook for two than one.”
“You have so much purpose in your life, Beckett. Why you feel the need to find more in feeding me is a mystery.”
The words to answer her get stuck in my throat.
This is temporary. She’s temporary.
She’ll be gone in a few days, never to return. And I’ll go back to living my life, forever changed by this stranger who crashed into my life unannounced and stole a piece of my heart, altering the fabric of my entire being.
Heidi’s right. I watch too many Hallmark movies.
I wouldn’t change a thing about this week, even if it means never again experiencing the feelings she brings out in me. Never finding my true love.
She is not your true love, the rational part of my brain argues.
I shake out of my stupor, this trance she has me in.
“I owe you orgasms. Let me lock up, and I’ll meet you in bed.”
A shy smile crests her lips. She steps closer to me, the traces of whatever seemed to bother her moments ago diminished. Her finger rakes over my chest, trailing a soft, zigzag line along the hard planes. “Let’s start with your blow job. You’ve been waiting longer than this afternoon.”
It isn’t what I expected her to say, but I’m not at all disappointed. Who am I to deprive her of what she wants?
I didn’t bother setting an alarm last night. I’m always up before the sun. Creature of habit and my internal clock. However, I made good on my promise to Willa and kept her up most of the night worshipping her body. She reciprocated, starting with an out-of-this-world blow job, helping me feel more manly after questioning if I was too soft, too delicate.
After the way she let me fuck her mouth, I decided I can be both—hard and soft as needed.
A conundrum through and through.
Lazily, I move my head to watch her sleep. Even at rest, she’s beautiful. The fine lines around her eyes are smoothed out. She’s got one arm tucked under the pillow, her hair messy and framing her head. Needing to feel the silky strands in my fingers, I broke her hair tie when I ripped it out of her hair.
“Don’t be a creeper,” her groggy voice instructs. Her eyes remain closed, but her mouth parts.
“You don’t know I’m watching you.”
One eye peeks open. “You confirmed what I believed. Your thoughts are loud. Shut them off.”
I chuckle at her use of imagery, as if she can hear my thoughts. Better yet, as if I could shut them off. Not a chance. Not with her.
“No can do, beautiful. Not with you in my bed.” I stop myself from adding any more. That’s enough of a reason I can’t shut them off.
Because she’s the freaking star of my thoughts, and I don’t want to shut them off .
“What time is it? And don’t say early. The actual time, Beckett.”
I suppress my chortle. “Hardass. Almost seven. I slept late today.”
She flips from her stomach to her side, keeping that same arm tucked under her pillow.
My pillow.
“Maybe if you had the decency to let us get some sleep overnight, you’d have been up at your normal time. But no. It was ‘one more, Willa. You can give me one more,’ and ‘that’s it. Another one just like that. Come for me.’”
“Didn’t hear any complaints last night.”
So maybe that’s a lie. She wasn’t complaining, but I pushed her beyond where she was comfortable. Or at least, where her previous comfort zone was. The last round was hard and fast, yet she took it like a champ. I would think if she was truly uncomfortable, she would have said so. I hope.
“That was delirious Willa. Whatever she said and did, you can’t use against me today.”
“Okay, sure. Got it. Which Willa am I having this conversation with?”
“Hungry Willa. Also, needs coffee Willa.” She bats her eyes, her expression what my sister calls Shania’s “puppy dog face.” Do I have to mention I’m a sucker for it?
“Keep me company in the kitchen. Regale me with more tales about young Willa and growing up in North Carolina.”
“If I must.”
Not able to resist her lips any longer, I lean in and plant a kiss on them. A quick one, so she doesn’t yell at me for proper hygiene or anything.
“You must.”
She flops to her back, the blanket falling from where she had it tucked under her. She was adamant about sleeping in a T-shirt, but I convinced her one of mine was the best choice. Thank goodness it’s too cold for her to leave the bedroom wearing only that. I’d probably lay her out on the table and let her be breakfast.
Hmm. Even with clothes, it’s not a bad idea, though she’d still be hungry.
“What are your thoughts on cinnamon rolls?”
She moans, and my dick takes notice. Guess it’s not too tired from last night’s action. A few hours of sleep has it raring to go again. Not that we have much time today.
Unless we’re quick or take advantage of the buffer of time the dough needs to rise.
“Love them. Even know how to cook them myself.” She beams at her compliment.
“From scratch?” I tease, knowing her answer before she speaks.
Her expression sours. “Um, that would be no. You’re going to make cinnamon rolls from scratch? How long does that take?”
“The longest part is waiting for the dough to rise. Any ideas what we could do while we wait?”
She shakes her head. “I’m too sore already. I can’t take anymore. My vagina wasn’t built for all-night sexathons. Nope. No.”
“Get your head out of the gutter. I was going to suggest a movie. Lying on the couch, maybe cuddling. But I see where your mind’s at.” I climb out of bed, not able to face her and keep a serious face.
“Uh, sorry. A movie would be great, actually. A fire would be better.”
As much as sex is always on my mind—she wasn’t wrong—cuddling on the couch with her, under blankets, a fire roaring in the fireplace, has merit. I turn back around. “Are you in the ‘ Die Hard is a Christmas movie’ camp?”
“Hardly.”
“Awesome. Die Hard it is. The dough’s going to take some time to prepare, then I’ll get the fire started. Want some fruit to hold you over? ”
“Did we eat all the berries? Man, those were good.”
“Why don’t you check while I make the dough? Put together a plate of fruit. You’re up for that task, right?”
She nods, though I’m not convinced she has faith in herself. If I had more time with her, I’d make sure she gained more confidence in the kitchen. Though it definitely wouldn’t be at the top of the priority list.
“Oh, Beckett. I can wash fruit and make the plate look so fancy, you’re going to think you bought it at the store.”
I raise a brow, calling her bluff. But hey, if she’s cocky about it, this I gotta see. “Prove it.”
She wants to back down, I can read it in her eyes, but she doesn’t. She’s a proud one, and I’m here for it. Even if it’s not up to par, it’s fruit on a plate. Not much to mess up.
A kiss to the top of her head elicits a moan and has her swooning. Does she realize she gives up her tells so easily? Much as she’s guarded, she’s let down some of her walls, letting me in one tell at a time.
I exit the bedroom, make a stop in the bathroom, then move to the kitchen, seeking the recipe for the rolls and the ingredients.
Some traditions never die. Cinnamon rolls were Mom’s specialty on Christmas Eve morning. The first year I moved out, I showed up early, anxious about the recipe she made once a year. Turns out, it was a kids’ tradition, and once we were gone, she stopped. I argued Shania was still a kid who’d need the tradition to continue, but Mom stood her ground. The only time in my life she was stubborn. I griped about it way too long, but no one played into it. Not even playing the youngest card convinced her to make them.
The next year, I made them myself, but it wasn’t the same. The appeal was gone.
Yet, the year after that, it was like I couldn’t not make them. I ended up delivering them to a homeless shelter a few towns over, and as much as I wanted that tradition to continue, the place closed down the next summer.
Last year, I made them for the B and B, but Heidi told me, in no uncertain terms, “This tradition isn’t welcome here.” It was harsh and a definite blow to my ego, but I understood when she whipped out plates of baked French toast. And okay, she wasn’t wrong.
Resignedly, my plan this year was to forgo my tradition and have breakfast with her and Lenny. Until Willa came crashing—no pun intended—into my life.
The memories assault me as I whip up the dough, watching it transform from a bunch of ingredients into a ball on the dough hook of the mixer. I’m so lost in the motion, I don’t realize Willa has appeared.
“I didn’t know dough could be so entertaining.”
I’m startled by her voice, but I don’t let it show. “Gobs better than watching paint dry.”
A hearty chuckle is her response. I assume she’s laughing at my metaphor, but she says, “I used gobs in a book once. My readers weren’t too keen on it. Will never make that mistake again.”
I tear my attention away from the mixer, seeking her ensemble. As predicted, she’s wearing a pair of flannel pants she’s yet to wear and an Aspenridge sweatshirt. She tied her hair up in a knot, her glasses perched on her nose. She’s a vision of beauty. I won’t even try telling her that. She wouldn’t hear it and would start an argument for argument’s sake.
I’ve never been drawn to women who need a full face of makeup to feel beautiful. A woman’s natural beauty is more my speed. Willa has it in spades, even first thing in the morning, dressed in PJs. She bears some effects of exhaustion, but it enhances her charm.
“Beckett.” My name at a decibel louder than inside appropriate breaks the trance.
“What? ”
“You’re zoning out and staring. Creepy.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’ll need a large platter or a cutting board will do.” Confusion settles in, so she continues, “For my fancy fruit plate.”
“Right. Bottom shelf in the pantry. On the left.”
“Of course he knows exactly where they are,” she mocks.
“I do live here,” I defend. Not very well. It’s not my best comeback.
She retreats to the pantry, returning with a serving platter. It’s red, but that’s the most “festive” part. If memory serves, it was on the bottom of the pile.
Baby steps. Getting her to leap won’t help anyone.