Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Joey
Outside the office window, bleak gray clouds blanket the sky, promising rain and distracting me from work. Okay, maybe the clouds aren’t to blame. I’m distracted because I can’t stop thinking about all of my interactions with Beckett over the last seven-ish weeks.
When we’re together, he never makes me feel like I’m an inconvenience. When I make a mess in the kitchen, he simply chuckles. If I forget to buy coffee for myself, he insists I use his. Last week, when I left my clothes in the washer and got sidetracked, he quietly moved them to the dryer for me.
Each time I apologized profusely.
Each time he told me there’s nothing to be sorry for.
He hasn’t once scoffed at me in a demeaning way. If anything, his deep green eyes flash with amusement when my brain buffers and stalls in a moment of forgetfulness.
With him, I feel accepted for who I am. Like my value and worth aren’t based on my outward traits but on my innermost self.
The only part that truly matters.
“Ready?” Max’s voice invades my introspection.
I let out a heavy sigh, my heart sinking. “I suppose.”
We have another meeting with the Droplet team today, and quite frankly, I’m in no mood for Norma’s bullshit.
I’m exhausted, and on top of that, my bra is digging into my side and my new shoes are pinching my feet. And I would commit murder for some chocolate chip ice cream.
That’s how I’m feeling this afternoon.
The moment I step into the conference room, Norma gives me another once-over and shakes her head. Being the immature person I am, I roll my eyes and hope she notices.
I sit at the long conference table, open my laptop, and share it to the wide screen in front of us. This is my second round of designs for the team to review, so with any luck, one of them will be acceptable.
With a steadying breath, I start my presentation. “Here are the concepts with the requested changes. My thought process behind these—”
“I don’t like them,” Normal blurts out, interrupting me.
Well, I don’t like you, Norma.
Even Bryan reels back a little at her outburst.
I suck in a sharp breath. “The last time we spoke, you said you wanted—”
“The black and white is boring. We asked for color.” She scoffs.
Anxiety grips my throat. “That’s not what—”
“We approved a color palette during the design brief. Why didn’t you follow that?”
My shoulders cave in on themselves, and suddenly, I wish the floor would open up and swallow me. “I did. You told me you didn’t want—”
“I told you no such thing.”
My stomach lurches. Oh my fucking god. I can’t even get a single thought out of my mouth. And on top of that, the woman is gaslighting me.
She tsks, her nose in the air. “I expected more from Fernrose.”
Anger swells in my chest, and when I discover all eyes on me, unease joins it. Norma is making me look like an unqualified brand designer who doesn’t listen to her client. And that makes the whole company look bad.
I sit back, speechless. How does one even defend themselves when another person comes at them this hard and fast?
Bryan clears his throat and adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. “How about we move forward with the rest of the presentation? Sure, the colors aren’t what we were hoping for, but I love the choice in typography.”
Heart pounding, I nod and move to the next slide.
It’s funny how a person can so easily yank another’s confidence away. And the worst part is I don’t understand why.
Raindrops splatter on my windshield as I drive along the dark, winding forest road back to the cottage. Even though it’s not even five p.m., the trees shadowing the road block out what little light is left in the day.
All I want is to wash my makeup off, get into a pair of oversized sweatpants, faceplant into my bed, and forget this day ever happened.
By the time I pull in the driveway, the rain is falling in slanted sheets. Lit up the way it is, the cottage looks warm and inviting. A safe haven from my shit day. With my bag over my head, I sprint to the front door. Inside, I slam it behind me and drop my head against its surface heavily.
“Everything okay over there?” a deep voice says, startling me.
Without opening my eyes, I say, “Are you asking if I’m okay mentally, physically, or emotionally? Actually, it doesn’t matter. The answer is a firm no to all of the above.”
Beckett lets out a deep, rumbly chuckle that turns my insides to liquid. Every time this man laughs, my knees almost give out.
Quickly, I kick off my wet boots. Then I drop my bags from aching shoulders, letting them hit the floor with a resounding thud.
My roommate is sprawled out on the couch with Barbara sleeping peacefully on his chest and a well-worn paperback in his hand.
He’s wearing a black cardigan over a thin gray T-shirt and loose black sweatpants that sit low enough on his hips to expose the thick band of his boxer briefs.
When he shifts on the couch, the hem of his shirt rides up, offering me a glimpse of his defined lower stomach.
My mouth goes dry as I stare at his strikingly handsome. . .well, everything. Everything about this man is attractive and it’s more than skin deep. His personality. His heart. Hell, even his hobbies are hot.
He peers at me over the rims of the glasses positioned low on his nose. Wide-eyed and clearly confused about why I’ve gone frozen.
It annoys me how good he looks right now, all effortlessly sexy, with a sleeping cat on his chest. In contrast, I’m sure I look like a rat that’s emerged from the depths of a sewer.
My hair is wet, and I imagine mascara is running down my face.
Don’t even get me started on how puffy my eyes must look.
Grumbling, I stalk toward my room. “I would like to opt out of today,” I say flatly. “Is there a form for that?”
Beckett huffs a laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“Figures,” I mutter. “Women haven’t been allowed to opt out of emotional suffering for centuries.”
His face twists into a look of horror.
I sigh. “Seriously! There was a time when women received lobotomies for having emotions. Which is completely absurd. Meanwhile, the big, strong, manly men were out there starting wars and calling it leadership.”
Beckett’s face pales. He opens his mouth, but I keep going.
“And before that? They treated ‘hysteria’ with a pelvic massage.” I waggle my eyebrows.
“Which is just a Victorian way of saying vibrator therapy. Who needs to talk when you can have an orgasm or five? It’s probably the only time in medical history women left an appointment satisfied. ”
His ears turn crimson and it fills me with joy.
I lift an eyebrow, smiling. “So if I start showing signs of hysteria, just hand me my vibrator and call it preventative care. Anyway, I’ll be right back.”
After a quick shower to wash away this horrible day, I slip on a set of pastel blue pajamas with strawberries on them, then wander back out to the living room.
As I approach, Beckett smirks, taking me in from head to toe.
“Why are you smirking at me? I’m not sure I like that smirk.”
He flattens his lips, though his eyes dance. “No reason.”
I stomp over to the couch, hands on my hips. “No, there’s a reason and I want to know what it is.”
“Strawberry waffles, strawberry pancakes, strawberry-patterned pajamas.” His eyes flick back to his book, but the flush on his cheeks deepens.
“And you even smell like strawberries.” With a breath out, he licks his lips as he turns the page.
“I like it.” He whispers the last part, but the words come through to me loud and clear.
Blood roars loud in my ears, drowning out the rain pounding on the roof of the cottage.
All the while, he flips through his book, unaware of the effect that his comment had on me.
Mind boggled, I head into the kitchen to grab a drink of water. Outside the window over the sink, the shaking of tree branches shows me the wind has really picked up. The tall trees bend with each howling gust and rain pelts the window. Above me, the kitchen lights flicker.
I look up, ready to call out to Beckett and warn him the lights may go out, but before I can, darkness blankets the cottage. Setting my glass on the counter with a thud, I let out a tired sigh. This day truly can’t get any worse.
Or maybe it can and I jinxed myself. The night is still young, after all.
Beckett’s slippers scuff on the floor as he makes his way into the kitchen. “Do you know where the flashlights are?” He opens a drawer and rummages through it.
“The drawer second from the bottom,” I reply flatly, still staring out the window. “Candles and a lighter in a drawer above that one. Maybe we should light a few of them.”
He sidles up beside me, placing his large hand on my shoulder. The touch should light me up inside, but I’m too drained to do anything but stare out at the rain.
“You’ve had a terrible day,” he says softly. The back of my neck prickles with awareness as I sense his penetrating stare, the way he studies me. Worries about me.
He glides his hand to my upper back, his heat soaking into me, and moves it in soothing circles.
Relishing the sensation, I drop my chin to my chest and close my eyes. Under his touch, my tense muscles finally loosen.
With each hypnotic stroke, another of the day’s terrible events melts away.
“Go lay on the couch and relax, Josephine. I’ll handle this.”
While some of the tension has drained from me, I’m still all out of fight, so I nod and shuffle my way to the living room.
In the corner, Barbara has made herself at home on the chair. When she sees me, her ears perk up and she flicks her tail from side to side. Dare I say, she looks happy to see me.
Even I can admit she looks pretty cute right now.
I collapse onto the soft cushions with a groan and curl into a ball, watching Beckett set two candles on the coffee table, along with a glass of water, a bowl of pretzels, and a crossword puzzle book.