Page 48 of To Have and to Scold

Of course he can finish weatherstripping the windows. He owns his own company. Sometimes, me and my mouth…

“I was pretty much done. We can paint if we can stand the heat in here.” He nods, pulling at the neck of his T-shirt.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you…” I trail off, gesturing to his shirt. “You’re more than welcome to take it off again.”

He’s fighting a smile. “Oh, really?”

Oh my gosh.“I didn’t mean—” One note of a laugh bursts out of me.

“It’s fine,” he says, leaving his shirt on.

We get squared away with the painting, back to the bedroom we painted the first night I was here. The second coat looks fabulous, and that’s what I’m focused on. The paint and only the paint. Not the stifling heat, even with the window open. Not the stifling hot man next to me.

We’re both quiet, subdued even. Listening to more Benson Boone songs like there will be a test on them

later.

In the silence between songs, Beck’s phone rings. He turns off the music and answers it. “Where’d you disappear to? We’reat your house,” a guy says on the other end. There’s a lilt of feminine laughter joining in.

I don’t try to listen in on other people’s phone calls, I honestly don’t. But the room is small. It echoes. And Beck and Iarestanding quite close to one another—which only adds to the heat.

“I’m at Willow Wood, just finishing up some painting.”

“Uh, where’s your crew?” The guy on the other end asks.

“It’s nine at night. I’m not going to ask them to come. It’s fine.” He says it dismissively, and his tone tells me it’s his brother on the phone.

He turns away and I, regrettably, can’t hear what the brother is saying anymore, only Beck’s responses. “I’m not sure I can.” He pauses to listen, then adds, “Not until at least ten…I can’t just leave her to work by herself. That’s rude.” Another pause. “Dallas, the wedding planner.” He sighs, puts it on speaker, and hands the phone to me. There’s annoyance and a hint of mischief in his eyes. “My brother would like to talk to you.”

I take the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dallas, it’s Elliott. Hey, will you convince Billy the Workaholic that it’s okay to rest once in a while, that he’s still super cool, even if he takes breaks sometimes?”

I hesitate, then Elliott laughs. “I’m kidding. That’s not why I wanted to talk to you. Although, if the subject comes up…?” He clears his throat. “Anyway. My fiancée and I have a ton of food leftover from an event at the high school and wanted to share. After you guys get done there, why don’t you both come over to Billy’s house and eat with us? I realize it’s late, but it’s the weekend, so—?"

“Oh, I can’t impose like that…”

“It’s not imposing! We’re inviting you,” a female voice cuts in. I must be on speaker.

“Yeah, the lunch ladies made it. But before you have flashbacks to some slop you used to eat in school, be prepared to be amazed,” Elliott says. “We paid them to come in and prepare something different and special. They’re honestly the best cooks around.”

The woman giggles. “I can confirm that the lunch ladies’ catered food is leagues above what they’re allowed to prepare at the school. But you certainly don’t have to come.”

“Yes, she does. You both do. No sense working on a Friday night,” Elliott says.

“Please come?” the woman says. “I’m Portia, by the way, Beck’s future sister-in-law.”

“I don’t know,” is what I say. But sweat is starting to bead on my back and Beck’s cheeks are looking red. My frozen-meal dinner wasn’t nearly enough, either…

“We’ll see you in a half hour,” Elliott insists before the call ends abruptly.

Maybe I imagine it, but there’s something extra behind that big grin of Beck’s.

“You really haven’t lived until you’ve tried the lunch ladies’ short ribs, Dallas.”

Chapter Eighteen

Dallas

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