Page 82 of Perfect Composition
“Following a simple holiday tradition.” His finger follows the whorl of my ear until it touches the delicate mistletoe earring I’d slid in that morning.
“I…I’m sure…” I stammer, but I get no further when Beckett’s head lowers not to my lips but to whisper in my ear, “Beneath the mistletoe, is it?”
Then his lips lay siege to my rapidly beating pulse just beneath my ear. I’m paralyzed by the feeling welling up inside me. If I close my eyes, I’d swear we were in a field of sun-warmed grass. I’d believe the next thing about to happen would be him sliding my shirt over my head just as…
With a final flick of his tongue, he nips at my ear. “Maybe if you’re a good girl. Santa loves giving gifts to good girls.”
And not giving the first shit my hands are covered in dough, I shove him in the chest. “Get out of my sight before I murder you!” I shout.
He laughs, the idiot. He has no idea how close I am to deathly impulses—mainly out of embarrassment that I whispered all of my innermost thoughts aloud.
“God, I’m such an idiot,” I moan, my face falling forward into my hands.
Then I do scream, because despite shoving Beckett, my hands have dough stuck on them. And it ends up in my hair. “Great. Just great. I am not taking this as a positive sign for tonight.”
Quickly, I wash my hands and pop the first rounds of appetizers into the refrigerator to chill before baking. Then I race upstairs to shower and scrub my head hard.
Maybe it will shake something loose like my sanity, which I fear I’m losing.
Because the longer he stays, the more I fear I’m feeling things for the man Beckett Miller’s become. He’s kind, considerate, and overprotective of those he cares about. “And let’s not forget he’s hot as fuck,” I mumble as I towel dry my hair.
There’s a knock on my door. I call out, “Who is it?” Damn, I didn’t use to have to do that. I used to be able to just yell “Come in” to Austyn. “The man has everything jumbled up,” I grouse as Austyn comes in.
“Who is it doesn’t mean come right in, kiddo. What if I was doing something personal?” I lecture her.
She rolls her eyes before flopping back on my bed. “Like what? Taking care of business because you’re hot and bothered—again—over my father?”
I open and close my mouth like a fish. “I hope that muzzle I bought you for Christmas fits because even if it’s too tight, you’re wearing it anyway.”
“Should have gone for the ball gag. I hear they’re more comfortable with the same result.”
“I raised you to be smart, independent, and discreet. What happened?”
She shrugs. “Blame my birth father. You always used to.”
“Yeah. I’ll blame him,” I say with relish.
“Or just bang him to see if the sparks are still what they used to be. I mean, if a man as hot as he is attacked my neck like Dracula in the kitchen…” Austyn fans herself.
I flush. “You saw that?”
“Mama, anyone entering or exiting the house in the 9.2 minutes it lasted saw that. And even if they didn’t, they’ll see that,” Austyn points in my general direction.
My mind blanks for a moment. Then Austyn’s words click. I race into my bathroom and spot the purplish-red mark on the side of my neck. My scream of frustration echoes off the still-steamy tiles.
Austyn leans against the jamb. “I mean, I’m not saying I’m speaking from experience here—”
I shoot my daughter a filthy look.
“—but guys try to avoid marking women they’re not interested in, Mama. And I do mean seriously interested in. Think on that.” She turns to leave when I call her name. “Yes?”
“Come sit with me for a moment.” I crawl onto my bed with my daughter. “I want to preface this by saying I don’t have a crystal ball.”
“Oh-kay.”
“But you’re a part of this now—the biggest part of this,” I start. But before I can continue, Austyn’s already shaking her head.
“No, Mama. That’s where you’re wrong. We’re all connected because of you.” She reaches out and touches my heart. “You kept us both alive inside you here for twenty years, but I got to live inside you here once.” Her other hand presses against my towel-covered stomach. “So, I’m not the connection; you are. And if you want to explore what you’re feeling with the other person who has always lived in your heart, don’t ask me for permission. Don’t ask me for forgiveness. You don’t even have to ask me if I’ll support you.”
