Page 50 of To Have and to Scold

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 awhile.” 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 andboard 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.

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