8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
BECKY
D igging that enormous hole with Seth, I felt a rush of childhood nostalgia. His gleeful shouts filled the air, and I couldn’t help but join in his laughter. It was a feeling I hadn’t expected to find on this beach trip, especially not after the morning’s uncomfortable encounter with that guy. Seth’s grandmother snapped a picture of us, her smile as wide as the horizon. And then it was time to part ways.
We watched the sweet pair amble toward their towels. Turning back to Weston, I hesitated. I didn’t want to stay on the beach any longer—I couldn’t shake off the unease that clung to me like the sand on my skin. I held my hand up to shield my eyes from the morning sun and assessed him. He stared right back, not giving anything away .
“Um… Could I catch a ride with you back to my cottage? I...” The admission that I was scared felt like conceding a point in a battle I didn’t want to lose. “That guy earlier freaked me out more than I expected,” I confessed, staring down at my feet, tracing patterns in the sand with my toe to avoid his gaze.
Weston didn’t say anything for a moment, and I felt as if he could see right through to the churn of thoughts I was struggling to sort.
“Sure,” he said, and I looked up. He gestured toward the parking lot with a jerk of his head. “Let’s go then.”
As we walked to his car, the silence stretched between us. I wanted to fill it with mindless chatter, but his quietness halted my words. It was maddening how he could do that—make me reconsider my usual stream of bubbly talk with just a few gruff words and silences.
Left to my own thoughts, I replayed his words from earlier in my mind. You deserve better.
He opened the passenger door of his truck for me, a small courtesy that felt exaggerated given our usual dynamic. I murmured a thanks, climbing in and pulling the seatbelt across my body. The click seemed to echo.
We pulled out of the parking lot. I noticed how he focused on the road, his jaw set, hands firm on the wheel. There was a steadiness about him I found infuriatingly appealing. Why did his opinions bother me so much? Perhaps because, deep down, I feared he might be right.
I wanted to challenge him, to tell him he was wrong about me needing protection, wrong about the kind of attention I deserved. But every time I gathered the words, they dissolved under the weight of my own doubts.
Weston’s voice broke through my thoughts, surprisingly gentle. “You okay?”
I flicked a glance his way, wrestling with my pride. “Yeah, just thinking.”
I reined in my thoughts back to the safety of the superficial as we drove.
He pulled into the driveway of Gray’s house, and the silence felt heavy. I hesitated before opening the door, the morning air warm and inviting compared to the cool tension inside the cab. “Thanks for this, Weston. And for... you know, earlier.” The words stumbled awkwardly out of me.
He gave me a curt nod.
I hopped out of the truck and shut the door with a thud before he pulled off. I’m not sure what Gray wanted me to look out for, but Weston seemed his normal self. Perhaps a bit more fatigued and irritable than usual. Could he be more than just tired—maybe depressed ?
As I walked to my cottage, I let my thoughts return to the events of the morning. I’d always appreciated attention, never really pondering its quality. But here was Weston, suggesting I deserved better. It made me question the worth of all the male attention I’d ever received. Even the attention I garnered from my thousands of followers on social media.
Aside from the questions his speech brought up, a tiny piece of my heart danced at the realization that Weston, Mr. “I’m not interested in anyone”, thought I was special enough to deliver his “worthiness” monologue.
In the past, he’d never ever hinted at being attracted to me. I mean, it made sense that he wasn’t. I think he was four years older than me; he obviously had his ducks in a row. He probably had a whole host of women who were into grumpy men lining up to date him. In the past, his lack of interest bothered me. Maybe it was because I found him intimidating. In truth, the whole time he was next to me on the beach, I was a ball of nerves. Thankfully, issues with Mom were at the forefront of my mind, so I managed to hold a normal conversation. Which was a good thing because, whether or not he found me attractive, Weston would never go for a girl like me. He had his life together. I clearly did not .
It was now mid-morning on the first day of this lonesome holiday and I was already bored. I thought about reading my Bible for a bit, but I was too antsy to sit still. So, I tidied up my little cottage.
While I was washing my breakfast dishes, I had the bright idea to do some cooking. Maybe this was how I could help Weston if he was indeed not coping? Then I could even tell Elle I’d tried to help. His dinner last night still made my stomach turn. Yes, I’d cook some tasty, yet healthy food for him. Plus, in his backward way, it was sweet of him to look out for me on the beach and I still felt bad about indirectly bringing up his deceased father last night.
I opened the cupboards of the kitchenette to look for some pots, but all I found was a small frying pan. Not to mention zero casserole dishes. This would not work. Perhaps I could cook at Gray’s place—now also my sister’s house. His kitchen was gorgeous. I decided to call Elle to see what she thought.
“Hey Elle, how is the trip going?”
“Great. Is the cottage comfortable enough for you?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s perfect. Please tell Gray thanks for arranging everything.”
“How is Weston?” I could hear the worry in her voice .
“He seems his normal grumpy self, so I don’t think you need to be concerned about him. But I have an idea of how I can help him.”
“How?”
“I don’t think he’s eating as well as he should for the exercise he’s doing. I thought I could cook him some blood-sugar-friendly meals.”
“Ah, Becs, that would be so awesome.”
“The only problem is I need some larger cookware and an actual kitchen. I wanted to ask if you and Gray would mind if I cooked in your kitchen while Weston is at work?”
“Um, I suppose you can if you don’t bother Weston.” She sounded unsure.
I paced the small cottage, trying to think of a way to convince her. “Well, you can hardly call cooking him yummy food a bother. Is there a key hidden under a mat or something?”
“Gray often leaves the kitchen door unlocked, so you can try that. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait until Weston returns.”
“Alright, thanks. I’ll figure something out.” I hung up the phone and strutted straight to the main house kitchen door, eager to help and do something I loved. But the door was locked. I wasn’t one to give up that easily, so I took a stroll around the house, hoping another door would be open. No such luck. But then, as I was about to head back to the cottage, I noticed a window in the lounge that was slightly ajar. Curious, I pulled it, and to my surprise, it swung open. Perfect! I had a small enough frame that I could climb through the window. It wouldn’t be elegant, but it would work. Not sure if I’d find keys inside, I opted to gather my groceries from the cottage and I pushed them through the window first. Then I hoisted myself up and shimmied and wiggled my way through the gap like an earthworm. I made it in without a scratch. But the same couldn’t be said for the tomatoes. They took one for the team and acted as my landing pad. It was no problem though, because those tomatoes were destined to be blitzed into a sauce anyway.
As I carted my goodies to the kitchen, I wondered if breaking and entering was a good idea, but then I considered the alternative. Alone with my thoughts in the cottage all day. No, thank you. Besides, I’d be out of here long before Weston came home.
I fiddled around in Gray’s music collection and selected some Harry Belafonte tunes to accompany my cooking session. This day was turning out to be much more fun than I expected. I danced and cooked and cooked and danced. Nothing could spoil my mood.