18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Dallas
Just an hour ago, I was frustrated. Behind in my work. Upset that I couldn’t find the items I needed at the store—the opposite of retail therapy. Would that be called retail trauma? That’s probably too dramatic.
I was sticky hot physically and maybe a tad emotional as I painted, with sore shoulders and neck, next to Beck Billingsley, a man I met only a couple of weeks ago.
Now, I’m driving my sore shoulders and the rest of me to his house , to hang out with his brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law.
And about that. I have to relax. Things are not roses and daisies between the three of them, since Beck isn’t sure it’s going to last. Or maybe he doesn’t want it to? Or maybe it’s just a case of him having to mourn the fact that his brother’s moving on in his life and getting married?
In any case, I really need to stop analyzing things I have no real clue about and focus on following Beck to his house.
Except…now I’m analyzing that.
Beck’s house. Suddenly, I’ll be stepping through the threshold of co-workers to…what? Friends?
Maybe I don’t want to be just friends with Beck.
Ugh. This is inconvenient. And not at all what I had in mind when I came to Willow Cove, frantic to prove that I’m okay—professionally. Anxious to get my life back on track the way I’ve always planned.
And maybe I wanted to prove I’m okay personally, too, with the whole Holden and McKenna thing.
These thoughts send an uncomfortable twinge through me and stir up some prickly realizations.
I’m not going to be leaving Willow Cove unscathed, am I? Whatever happens, this whole “getting in, getting out” thing isn’t going to be so straightforward, is it?
I groan. Maybe I should call my mom. She has wisdom and would probably say all the right things. But I’m not ready for that yet.
I follow Beck’s truck—he’d even offered to drive us to his place and then bring me back to my car later, but I do have a shred of standards—workplace ethics—what have you.
He drives his truck into the garage of a blue house that’s on the smaller side--quaint. He quickly hops out, directing me to park behind him in the driveway. His brow is knit together, his usual casualness fighting against an undercurrent of concern. Does he not want me here?
I turn my car off and he opens my door. “Thanks for coming to my place,” he says, his concerned, worrywart scowl softening.
“Of course,” I say, trying to brighten the mood. It’s casual. Everything’s casual. His family’s here. We’ll be eating ribs.
Ribs are not romantic in the slightest, right? They’re messy and spicy. Should I be sure to get some on my face so I’ll feel enough like a fool that I won’t entertain thoughts of kissing the man?
I glance down at my yellow shirt. And my outfit isn’t romantic in the slightest, either. Which is technically a good thing, except my pride won’t let me feel good about it. I really should have driven home to change first. It’s just that my mind was overpowered by trying to find meaning in all this craziness that I didn’t think of it.
Which is so not like me.
See? Beck is messing with my head again.
I pull on the elastic that’s holding in my wacky top-knot deal out of my hair and run my fingers through it. I catch Beck staring at me, the light of the moon overhead illuminating his eyes and making them sparkle.
I almost lean into it, the way he’s looking at me. Unleashing the beast that is my hair isn’t sexy, is it?
“If I’d known I was eating a meal with your family, I would have done something different with my hair. And clothes!” My tone is as jaunty as I can get it, like I want him to understand I take professionality seriously, but I’m not bent out of shape about it, either.
He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You look good.” He sears me with a look, a tumble of quiet, yet pressing, kindness.
A shy smile tingles across my lips and since I can’t think of anything to say to that, I simply move past him. “Nice place!”
It’s a Cape Cod style. Which is just great. A navy blue with white trim Cape Cod? With two little dormer windows even? It’s unfair how many boxes Beck checks without even trying.
He grasps my elbow and steers me into the tire-scented garage, letting go as I reach the short staircase that leads to the door to the house.
I barely have time to process my riotous feelings over his house, his kindness, and him before we’re inside. The pitter-patter of paws on the tile floor makes me smile.
“Ace!”
A bright yap sounds before the golden retriever bounds around the corner. He assaults Beck with yips and licks, and Beck beams, bending down to press his forehead against the top of the dog’s head.
Oh my gosh.
“Hello, boy.” I can’t help giggling.
Beck laughs and scratches both of the dog’s ears. “Ace, tell Dallas how many baths I had to give you to get all that paint off you.”
“You poor thing.” I chuckle and hold out my hand for him to sniff. “Well, however many it took, it was worth it because he’s adorable. And he even smells nice.”
Beck smirks. “Don’t let his looks deceive you. He’s a melodramatic hypochondriac. I’ve taken him to the vet, worried about his owies, only to find out after scans and blood tests that he had a tiny sliver in his paw or some muscle soreness from a hike we went on.”
I don’t know what’s cuter. Beck saying “owie” or the fact that Ace has him wrapped around his little paw.
“I see the way you are with him,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes. “You love him.”
Beck snorts. “And your point is?” But his grin makes a flutter of sunshine feather across my middle.
We leave the small mudroom and enter the kitchen, my nose assaulted by the tangy, smoky scent of good food. The kitchen has exposed ceiling beams, dark floors and countertops, with contrasting white and light blue cabinets. Tan woven shades cover the windows. A row of red metal stools line the bar, and Ace’s huge corduroy dog bed takes up most of the corner dining area.
It’s lived in. Warm. And my heart picks up speed at the thought of Beck cooking in here.
“Hey!” A woman with a sheet of long black hair wearing sequined-trimmed bell bottoms and a flowy, gauzy floral shirt gets up from a barstool and crushes me in a hug. “You must be Dallas.” She pulls me away from her and grins. “I’ve heard so much about you!”
She has? I wish I could say the same about her. But Beck’s vibe about his brother’s fiancée has been confusing. “You must be Portia?” I stare up at her. She’s got several inches on me.
“Yes, this is Portia, and this is my brother, Elliott,” Beck says before turning to a cupboard. “You guys could have started eating.” He pulls out glass plates and sets them on the table.
“We ate at the event. But I wouldn’t mind another bite or two.” She puts a hand on her heart. “Best homestyle meal I’ve had in a while.” She shoots me a pained look. “I’m not a good cook.” She crinkles her nose and giggles.
“She doesn’t have to be,” Elliott says, standing behind her and wrapping his arms around her. “I’ll be the chef, and Portia says she’ll take care of the laundry.”
She giggles and turns to look at him, placing a hand on his cheek before kissing him swiftly. “Gladly. I adore stain removal. And Elliott likes to cook, so I got lucky.” She hesitates. “Except, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say ‘chef.’” She winks at us.
“Hey!” Elliott protests.
“I’ll be back down in a minute,” Beck says, before disappearing up the narrow staircase behind the kitchen wall.
“So, tell us all about yourself,” Portia says. She indicates for me to sit on one of the barstools.
“Oh, well.” I clear my throat. Every thought I land on is a no-go. I’m not going to mention my disastrous last few days at Amore, or how my career goals mean I have to leave Willow Cove. “I’ve been a wedding planner for about five years now. I really enjoy it because I love creating beautiful things, and since I can’t draw or paint worth a lick, pulling together an unforgettable wedding is my artistic outlet of choice. Besides, I like a good challenge.”
“Tell me about your worst bridezilla,” Portia says. “Have you done any celebrity weddings? Oh, and tell me about the latest trends, because no offense, but I want to know them so I can avoid them, you know?” She offers an apologetic laugh.
“Portia likes to think outside the box,” Elliott says.
I nod. “That’s good. I love it when people bring their own personalities to the table. Doing the same thing over and over again is boring. There was a time where I thought if I had to see another Mason jar drink display, I’d fall asleep on the spot!”
I answer her questions one by one and before I know it, Beck is jogging back down the steps. He’s not wearing the shirt and board shorts anymore. Now he’s in soft black shorts and a clean T-shirt…this one in white. His hair is wet and carefully combed. The smell of soap wafts to my nose.
Beck flashes a brief smile before concentrating on dishing up from the foil pans of au gratin potatoes, Caesar salad, and boneless ribs swimming in a thick red sauce. There’s an undercurrent I can’t read. Either he’s distracted by the food, or he’s not entirely comfortable with Elliott and Portia. Or he’s not entirely comfortable with me.
Beck digs into the salad with the tongs, and Portia steps out from Elliott’s arms. “There’s cheesecake, too,” she says as she makes her way to the refrigerator.
“How’d you do in the auction?” Beck asks. He looks at Elliott like he’s bracing himself for his answer.
Elliott sighs. “We don’t have numbers yet, but the turnout wasn’t quite what we were hoping for. I’m starting to think the donated items were more big ticket than a lot of people want to spend right now.”
“What’s the fundraiser for?” I ask.
“The new YMCA addition.” Portia shrugs. “Just wanted to help in any way we can. And when the person originally in charge of it got sick, we offered to take over.”
“Wow, that’s really nice of you.” I remembered Beck saying Portia hadn’t grown up in Willow Cove, that she’d only moved here to be closer to Elliott. A prick of regret hits my middle. Here I am, so intent on doing my job, for me and my benefit alone, and getting out of here. But Portia, who will be moving away in the fall, is already involved, even chairing a fundraiser last minute?
“Well, like Elliott said, the success of it is still to be determined.” Portia slices through the cheesecake with a knife. “But we’re hopeful people will continue to bid online through the weekend.”
“Yeah, you got the winning bid on a set of fishing poles, by the way,” Elliott says before grabbing a plate and, with the other hand, sinking a large serving spoon into the au gratin potatoes.
“Really?” Beck says, grinning. “Do I want to know how much they’re going to set me back?”
Elliott chuckles. “Probably not.” He takes a bite of potatoes.
“Here you go.” Beck has gathered a thick white paper napkin and a fork, spoon, and knife from his silverware drawer. Then he turns to the island to get the food he’d just plated for me.
It feels good to be fussed over.
The smell of the food makes my mouth water. “It’s generous of you to share,” I say, looking at Elliott and Portia.
Just as Beck is finishing eating, the back door opens and a teen kid and what looks to be his mom walk in.
“Well! Hello.” She reaches out a hand. “I’m Rosie. I live next door with my youngest son, Leo. Are you Dallas Cardon?”
“I am. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, wiping my rib sauce-coated sticky hands with the napkin so I can shake hers.
“If Beck gives you any trouble, you come to me,” she says, winking. I like her instantly. And the way they just walk into the back door of Beck’s house feels friendly and comfortable. It’s nice.
“Dallas and I work together,” Beck says.
“I wasn’t talking about anything other than work,” she insists, her face the picture of amused innocence. She turns to Portia. “How are the wedding plans?”
“We think we’ve nailed down a location. It’s taken us some time, but I think we have it.” Portia’s eyes gleam as she glances at Elliott. “I’d love to get a wedding planner’s opinion on some things.” She holds up both hands. “Fair warning, though. I like what I like and my style’s not for everyone. But it would still be nice to have a professional’s opinion.”
“I’d love to take a look at what you have so far.”
While Portia shows me her Pinterest board with the mix of Bohemian and seventies chic bridesmaid dresses and décor, I tune into what Beck is doing. He’s stationed on the great room sofa, sitting with Leo, looking at the fishing pole Leo brought.
He threads a fishing line through the eyelets on the top of the pole. “You trying to get some Reds tomorrow?” he asks Leo, who’s watching with great interest.
“I hope so. The guys I’m going with have all caught them before, but I haven’t yet.”
“You’ll get one soon,” Beck says. “What time are you leaving in the morning?”
“We’re supposed to meet up at the cove at six. Be on the boat on the water by six fifteen.”
Beck whistles. “It’s a Saturday. That level of dedication has got to be good luck.”
“I hope so,” Leo says.
“I hate to sound like a stuffy old parent here, but let’s hurry up with this line so you can get to bed,” Beck says.
“Check yourself, Beck. My mom is well aware,” Leo chides.
“Oh, yes,” Rosie insists. “He’s going to bed as soon as y’all are done with that line.”
There’s such a feeling of brotherly affection between Beck and Leo that my heart does a little flippy thing.
Watching them working on the fishing pole and listening to Beck’s careful instructions to Leo have me grinning ear to ear.
It’s heartwarming.
If I was allowing my heart to be warmed by such a thing, which I’m not.
The discoveries about Mr. Beck Billingsley that have come to me today threaten to weigh my head down so much that it just might drop off entirely from the rest of my body.
When Rosie and Leo leave out the same back door they came in, Elliott’s face sobers. “Leo lost his dad to cancer last year,” he says quietly. “Billy’s…I mean, Beck’s been awesome ever since then. Hiring him for odd jobs and helping him with his homework.”
Okay. My weighty head really will roll off my body with all the new and tender and heart exploding Beck intel. And I’m sad for Rosie and Leo.
But Elliott and Portia are whispering to each other, and I even detect a quiet, fussy squeal of excitement. Portia turns to me. “We’ve been trying to do this on our own, but with my grad school preparations taking up so much of my time, it’s getting to be too much. Dallas, we’d like to ask you to be our wedding planner, if you’re available. And we want to get married in Willow Wood mansion!”
Wow. That’s a big deal. And with my stomach’s lurch of excitement, I see Beck’s clouded expression.
That I care what he thinks, and more importantly, that something is bothering him about this whole scenario is too much. I shouldn’t care about his feelings or his worries about his brother, and Portia seems like a genuinely lovely person.
But I do care. An unnatural amount.
I am in big, big trouble.
A few minutes later, after talking some more with Portia and Elliott about their visions for their wedding and picking a potential date—early August—they get up to leave. Portia gives me a hug and thanks me for my help.
If all brides could be as down-to-earth about their wedding like the brides I’ve been working with here in Willow Cove, I wouldn’t even need the stress balls I always keep on hand.
“Did you just get the sixth wedding booked?” Beck’s expression is serious, but I can tell he’s happy for me. He may not be happy that it’s his brother, though.
“I can’t believe it.” I place my hands on my warm cheeks. “It’s a relief to have met my goal of six.”
“I’ll walk you to your car, Dallas.” Beck’s eyes crinkle at the edges, the kindness and appreciation in his smile beginning to erode my promise to myself to leave Willow Cove completely unattached.
I should just take my own self out to my car like a responsible adult, but I nod and stand from the sofa, leaning towards Ace to give him a scrub around the ears. “You clean up nice, Ace. I’ll see you around.”
The dog gets up to follow us to the door, and Beck tells him to go sit on his dog bed.
“He’s so obedient,” I say as I glance back to see Ace trotting to his bed in the corner of the kitchen.
Beck’s head rears back in a loud laugh. “He’s only obedient when he wants to be, and only for nefarious purposes.”
I giggle under my breath as we go outside, but the night air and the full moon have me distracted, and as Beck and I reach my car door, I’m feeling the weight of what all this means. All these feelings for this good-hearted, sweet, handsome man. I’ve tried really hard not to fall for him, because we’re opposites in most ways and because I’m leaving Willow Cove.
But here we are. Standing next to my car. And I keep staring at his lips. I shift my focus, but now I’m gazing into his honey-brown eyes. That won’t work, either.
“Thanks for coming over,” he says, stepping toward me to wrap me in a hug.
I breathe in the scent of him, not wanting to let go but relieved that I’ve managed not to kiss him yet.
Although, if he were to take steps in that direction…?
No. This doesn’t fit The Plan . Holden didn’t fit The Plan either, and look where that got me. I’ve got to get back on track with what I’ve always wanted.
I pull away from the hug, bumping up against the door of my car. I flash a quick grin. “Anytime, Beck.”