24. Willa
24
willa
The morning flies by.
We consume the most mouthwatering cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted, view Die Hard , and after Beckett compliments my fruit platter, we devour it.
When Beckett mentions napping, I wonder if he’ll stay on the couch. When he follows me to the bedroom, I’m ecstatic. I can’t get enough cuddles with this man. The thought is heady, sobering, because this isn’t permanent.
I shouldn’t be this preoccupied with him.
I shouldn’t be this comfortable, this giddy, with wanting to spend time with him.
I certainly shouldn’t be falling for him.
But I am. Undoubtedly.
Perhaps it’s my body’s way of finding some closure, especially after my meltdown a couple of days ago. Or it’s my version of casual, and when I leave in a few days, the feelings will stay here. As if casual feelings are only synonymous with Winterberry.
I laugh at the absurdity of that being true.
The fun side of my brain convinces me to stop thinking about it as a negative, to embrace the time I’ve been given with him, and let it happen. It’s not like I’m going to leave here with another broken heart for a future guy to mend.
Thoughts for another day and time.
“I’m gonna go work out in the garage before I have to report for duties. You, write some words.”
Beckett leans against the doorjamb, his feet crossed at the ankles, dressed in workout pants and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Leave it to Beckett to prove that’s a look I enjoy. From my vantage point in the bed, I wish I wasn’t so freaking sore. Because if we had time, I’d jump his bones.
Gingerly, of course, to not break any.
Except, no. Good thing we don’t have time because my vagina needs a rest.
That’s something I never thought I’d think.
“I’ll see what I can do. My editor will thank you if I manage any.”
He scratches his head, the movement causing the shirt to rise and showcase a band of skin. I soak it up, as if I wasn’t intimately acquainted with every inch twelve hours ago.
“Does incentivizing help you?”
“Depends on the incentive.”
He stares a moment, his eyes blinking slowly. “Sex, Willa.”
My vagina weeps with the thought.
“Sex won’t do it today. Before last night’s pounding, I probably would have said yes.”
“Dessert?”
My mouth waters. I want to tell him no, but damn if whatever he’s thinking isn’t appealing. Even if I don’t know what it is.
“Maybe.”
He snaps a finger. “New lingerie.”
Damn. I was hoping he wouldn’t go there . . .
My eyes shut, a moan escaping. “Don’t tease me. I’m weak regarding that, but I’ll just fail. And then be mad at myself for not earning new bras and underwear and having no words. It’s a trap I can’t fall into.”
As much as I want what he’s offering.
Incentives used to work. Even small rewards. A small piece of chocolate for every one thousand words written. A new notebook for every ten chapters written. A massage when my book was finished.
That was before. Before Elias died.
Now, nothing works. Not even the “open the manuscript” as the one task. Some days, that was too much. This week was supposed to be a jump-start to writing again, but look where that’s gotten me.
Being spoiled rotten by this hottie.
Which isn’t at all conducive to writing books.
“Got it. No lingerie. Fancy candy? The candy shop in town sells imported chocolates. I’ll pick some up and see what you get done. If you earn any. Otherwise, I’ll have to eat them myself.”
I open my eyes. “Bet you’d enjoy that,” I mumble, crossing my arms over my chest.
He mimics my position, though his biceps are more attractive to look at. A smirk catches on his lips. “Yep. Though I’d rather share it with you.” Sincerity laces each word.
How is he so perfect? So single? Granted, our current living situation is unconventional and temporary, but what could be so particular that other women might fault him for?
“I’ll do my best,” I promise. It’s a loose promise, but one I can attempt. For his sake. Heck, for my sake. For the sake of my readers and everyone waiting for the next installment of the Hidden Clues Club.
“I’ll be back.” He turns around, and I ogle his ass as he walks away. “Words, Willa,” comes his stern directive.
“Too bad I don’t write romance,” I lament. “I’d have lots of fodder and inspiration.”
With nothing else to do, I untuck myself from under the covers and push out of bed. I look up at the ceiling. “Any help is much appreciated.”
The back door opening startles me. My fingers freeze on the keyboard, the “mys” of mystery interrupted. Beckett materializes, beads of sweat on his brow and under his nose. His hair is tousled and damp spots dot his shirt.
My time shouldn’t be wasted on writing when this hot specimen is available for the taking. If I only get several days with him, why am I wasting it writing a book? I can do that when I get home. I should take advantage of this well-abled man and get my fill of orgasms.
If only that were a real possibility.
“How was your workout?”
“Demanding. Quiet, yet loud. I had to blast music to drown out my thoughts.”
It’s a nod to our conversation earlier. Wonder if he’ll tell me what the thoughts were.
Before I can ask, he interrogates, “Get some words?”
I can’t keep the smile off my face. Because I did. Not a love letter to my dead boyfriend, but a rough outline of the next AJ Hart book.
I squint at the screen. “Just shy of one thousand. Holy shit.” I look at Beckett. “Ho-ly shit. That’s the most I’ve written in two years.” I stare at the number, convinced it has to be wrong. Nope. 995. Wow.
His broad smile is not a reaction to my enthusiasm. His is genuine pride for my accomplishment. “That’s amazing, Willa.” In socked feet, he trudges to the fridge, removing two bottles of water. He places one in front of me. “Drink.”
The one-word blasts me to the past, a vivid memory of Elias placing a cup of water in my hand, forcing me to take sips. “ Drink,” he’d command, knowing I tended to go long periods without hydrating.
I blink back to the present, Beckett sitting across the table. He drains half the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What?”
“No-nothing.” But it’s not nothing. It’s so much not nothing. “How did you know?” I blurt.
Confusion furrows his brows. “Know what?”
“I needed water.” I unscrew the top, taking a healthy sip, invigorating my body for the next round. Excitement rattles through me at the possibility of another round of words.
He shrugs, finishing his water. “You looked thirsty. I’m sorry?”
“No, don’t be. It’s just . . . it’s what Elias would do. Put water in front of me and tell me to drink. It’s like you knew but you didn’t know. Eerie.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, blowing out a breath, his eyes darting around the room, not focusing on any one spot. “I’m gonna hit the shower. Almost time to head out for the parade.” Sorrow fills his tone. I hate I’m the cause of it.
“Where would one go to watch the parade? If one had free time and wanted to check it out. For research,” I tack on.
His brows quirk, but that’s his only tell. His stoicism doesn’t falter. “For research purposes, park in the lower lot of the high school and walk to the front lawn. For the best view, though? I’d suggest the driveway of the Fernwood Fables B and B. Fewer people. Better snacks.”
I nod, soaking up his advice. “What time did you say the roads close?”
“On the back roads to the B and B, you’re good until two-ish easy. Straight down Main and to the high school? By one-thirty.” There’s more excitement in his voice the more he speaks.
“And which vehicle do you drive?”
“The last one. You can’t miss it.” He stands up, stretching his arms above his head, giving me another delicious view of his abs. “I’m going to be late if I don’t shower. If you want a ride, be ready in twenty.” He doesn’t give another option. Because his choice is for me to ride with him. Yet, I haven’t even decided if I’m going.
Part of me feels like I owe it to him. He’s done so much for me, the least I can do is sit and watch a parade, something he takes great pride in. He’s been so invested in my stuff, I should do the same. The whole celebrating, being joyous and festive, has me hesitating.
What if it’s too much?
What if I have another emotional breakdown?
What if I ruin a parade for a town that adores Christmas?
“Okay.” It’s a whisper, all I can manage. I don’t want to give in and not be okay, but I also want to support him, not be the one to cause the smile on his face and the spark in his eyes to disappear. I can’t be that person.
I won’t be that person.
It’s time to shit or get off the pot.
Kinda wish I knew which way to lean . . .
My heart in my chest, my nerves are running the show.
I follow Beckett’s directions to the B and B, maneuvering his SUV down the long driveway. Holiday lights illuminate the old white Victorian house, but against the daytime sky, they aren’t as luminous. A small crowd of people gathers to the right of the driveway, but he mentioned by the time the parade rolls down the street, the front lawn would be packed. I find a spot in the back lot, one of the last few.
I chose not to have Beckett drop me off because I wanted the freedom of the car in case an immediate escape was necessary. Not that I’ll be able to get the car out if something happens, but it gave me a little more peace of mind. The way my brain’s going crazy and keeping up with my erratic heart rate, I’m grabbing onto any slice of peace and clinging with both hands. It’s giving me the grounding I need.
Because I’m not grounded in the slightest. I’m all out of sorts, wondering what the hell I’m doing here and why I made this decision.
Beckett.
A smile finds my lips at the mere thought of the man. I’m here for him. And maybe a little for myself, too. To prove I can do this. Not ruin other people’s fun and take away their joy. To reclaim my own. Elias isn’t coming back. It’s not the holiday’s fault he was killed. I’ve got to let go of these depressed feelings and let myself live again.
One event at a time, I’m going to regain the happiness, the delight, the Christmas holiday offers. I doubt it will be easy, but if not now, when?
Seems like Winterberry Junction is the perfect place to start. And if my emotions overwhelm me, it will be a distant memory in a few days. No one will remember the crazy girl who ruined the town’s Christmas.
My phone rings, and I dig it out from my bag.
“How are you holding up?” is Clem’s greeting.
We texted yesterday about dinner with the Nicholas family, but I didn’t tell her what I was up to.
“I’m a little freaking out, to be honest.” I whisper the words, so they don’t get past the car. As if anyone’s around and paying me any attention.
“Is he pressuring you to celebrate today?”
“No, the opposite.” I suck in a big breath, exhaling it out slowly. “I’m choosing to celebrate. Rather, watch the town’s parade.”
“Willa, that’s?—”
I cut her off. “Crazy? Idiotic? Insane? The worst decision I’ve ever made in my life?” I’m more dramatic than I’m pretending to be.
“I was going to say amazing. I’m proud of you, kid. ”
Her words uncover something buried deep inside, first shaken loose by circumstances of the past few days. Tears spring to my eyes, but I will them not to fall. I can’t get out of the car and take part in the festivities this emotional.
“Thank you. You don’t know how much I needed to hear that. I’ll even excuse the ‘kid’ part.”
Her chuckle vibrates my ear. “I’ll let you get to your parade. Got an inkling I needed to check in on you.”
“Thanks for not ignoring this one.”
“Sure thing. Have fun at the parade and what comes next. Call me tonight. No matter how late. I want to hear all about your day.”
“It may be really late . . . or early.” I cringe at my implication. “I don’t want to interrupt any plans you’ve got with the boys and Keith.”
“You won’t be. I promise.” Her voice is lower, and there’s something she’s not saying, but I let it go.
“Great. Talk later. And thanks again, Clem. Thanks for sharing half my brain and knowing what I need before I do.”
“Always, kid. I’ve got your back. Love you. You’ve got this.”
I can’t let the guilt wiggle in. The guilt about ruining her Christmas last year. Her pride is genuine. And she’s right. I can do this.
“Oh. I wrote almost one thousand words today. Useful words, some of which might even make it to the final draft.” I laugh, letting go of more of the tension circulating through me. Clem’s voice helped dislodge unneeded anxiety.
“Willafred! Go you. We’ve got so much to catch up on when you get home. You can come for a visit, and we’ll do a day just the two of us. Keith can wrangle the misfits. But go. You’ve got a parade to watch.”
“Love you, sis.” I hang up, a renewed sense of pride from our conversation. Until my heart jumps into my throat at the knock on the passenger window. I lower it about halfway.
“Willa? Beckett told me you’d be coming. Parade’s arriving soon.” Heidi holds up a plate of cookies. My mouth waters, even with the green and red colors, the sprinkles, and other festive decorations.
“Hey. Yes, sorry. Finishing up a call.” I hold up my phone in case she thinks I’m lying. “I’m coming.” I return the phone to my bag and grab the thermos of coffee Beckett poured for me. “Spiked,” he informed. “Will help keep you warm. That and my hoodie.”
Not once in all the time we were together did Elias try to understand my aversion to coats. Not once did he suggest I wear something of his to keep warm. He’d often roll his eyes when I’d get super frustrated by having to wear it when the weather was extremely chilly when we’d go to Vermont for a visit.
Yet, one action and Beckett not only didn’t question why I couldn’t stand the coat but made sure I had something less constraining and more to my liking. His reasons aren’t purely for me, but it’s easy to pretend they are. Especially because I’m not the one fighting suffocation, and as a bonus, I get to smell like him. Win-win in my book, no matter the ulterior motive.
With a smile on my mouth and glee in my steps, I reach into the back seat and slide my arms into the sleeves of the hoodie. Making sure the car is locked, I join Heidi at the back of the car, stealing a cookie from her plate.
“Okay, let’s do this."