Page 49 of To Have and to Scold

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 hishouse, 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 Beckto his house.

Except…now I’m analyzingthat.

Beck’s house. Suddenly, I’ll be stepping through the threshold of co-workers to…what? Friends?

Maybe I don’t want to bejustfriends 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!”

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