Page 112 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“It’s my contribution. I’ll pay rent, too.” I punctuate my statement with a nod. I won’t be a freeloader if we’re living there together.
“Cabin’s paid off.”
“Utilities, then. Cable, Wi-Fi, your car loans and insurance,” I try.
He raises his right hand in the air. “I’m not having this discussion now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not in the mood to argue.” His tone leaves no room to challenge him. Not that I obey.
“Who says it will be an argument?”
“Don’t couples always fight about money?”
“Are we a couple?” I don’t need confirmation for something I already know, but I can’t take it back after asking.
“Do you think I invite just anyone to live with me?”
“After you asked me, I sure hope not. The cabin’s not big enough for more than two people.”
“So you’re saying it’s not our forever home?”
My belly twinges at the thought of what he means. “What? You got that out of what I said?”
“We’ll save the kids discussion for later, too. Still not in the mood to argue.”
“So you’re saying there will be times you will be in the mood to argue?”
“A plethora, I’m sure. If you let me. You’ll see.”
“Whoa. I didn’t sign up for this crazy persona you’ve inhabited the past few days.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No. Certainly not. I don’t do crazy.” I can’t even get the words out with a straight face. Because of the two of us, he’s the less crazy.
“You do the best kind of crazy, Willa. I love your brand of crazy. Serial killers, girl detectives, split personalities, hating my favorite holiday . . . shall I keep going?”
I’ve joined him in the kitchen, my hip leaning against the counter. “Plenty certain of my type of crazy. But hey, when it comes down to it, remember I was born this way. You’re choosing to love me.”
I get all in my feels every time I hear him say anything with the word “love” in it as it relates to me or our relationship. Call me crazy—ha—but this man gets me, down to my core. Fast or not, when I picture my future, it’s Beckett I see. Maybe a couple of kids, a pet or two, but always Beckett.
“How long will you need to pack up your apartment and things here before you move home?”
He keeps saying “home,” and every time, I fall deeper. Ironically, none of my places of residence has ever felt as much like “home” as being with Beckett at the cabin.
“Other than figuring out the lease, packing and hiring movers should about do it. Lucky we don’t have to cross state lines. Don’t even need to get a new license.”
His brow dips. “You’ll have a new address. Hence, a new license.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
He turns off the burner, pushing the pan of eggs to a back one that’s not on. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“A month?” I propose.
“Too long. I’ll give you a week.”
