Page 14 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“I can hear you,” comes her reply from the living room.
“Good. And if I were a murderer, before I killed you, I’d torture you with Christmas music and lights and movies and eggnog and anything else I could think of. Because who hates Christmas?”
I’m practically out of breath when I finish, my lips foaming with frustration. I trod back to the living room, my trek halted at the end of the hallway where Willa stands, hands crossed over her chest, a different fire blazing in her eyes.
“I have reasons, okay?” she shouts at the same decibel I used. “But I don’t have to tell them to you. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” I can’t imagine what “reasons” she could have that would be valid, but damn if I’m not invested.
You don’t grow up in a place like Winterberry Junction and not become obsessed with Christmas. The magic, the splendor, the festivities. Every year, the town’s celebration gets bigger, and in my humble opinion, better. The holiday is commercialized to the nth degree, the true meaning of the day commemorated only by the smallest manger on the church’s lawn. I can’t fathom hating it even a sliver.
Willa shuffles from one foot to the other, her body fidgety. “It’s . . .” She shakes her head and drops her gaze to the floor. “Reasons, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. You don’t owe me an explanation or anything. I only saved your ass.” I blow out an irate breath. I don’t mean for the comment to sound so trite, so impending, but I’m worked up, a frantic energy best spent by running or tinkering in the garage. However, I’m a little afraid of what I might break instead of fix.
Our gazes lock, the brightness in her eyes of moments ago now dimmed.
“Thank you. I’m truly grateful for your help with my car and for letting me stay here. I’m sorry we don’t share the same thoughts about the holiday?—”
I cut her off with an incredulous laugh, but it doesn’t stop her from continuing.
“But as soon as my car is fixed and the roads are clear, I’ll be out of your way. Plenty of time for each of us to observe the holiday any way we choose.”
She pauses, giving me time to compose a comeback. But the only thing I can say is “Bedroom and bathroom are down the hall. Sheets are clean. Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. There’s coffee for the morning. I have your number. I’ll be in touch.”
Ripping my duffle from where it dropped during my tirade, instead of walking out the front door, I step into boots at the back door, needing to get this pent-up energy out of my system.
5
willa
“Well,that was rude and uncalled for,” I say to the empty room once Beckett slams the door behind him and disappears into the night. “What’s his problem, anyway? What’s it to him ifIdon’t like Christmas? He’s acting like a toddler who lost his favorite toy.”
I spin around where I’m standing, taking in the quaint cabin.
Besides the hideous decorations, it’s cozy. Especially for a guy who appears to live alone. If there was a woman in his life, I can’t imagine she’d be okay with me staying here, so I’ll go out on a limb and say he’s unattached.
Why does my stomach flutter with that presumption?
The dark couch has seen better days, the cushions sunken in where Beckett must usually sit, but it looks super comfy. It’s positioned directly in front of the fireplace, a TV mounted on the wall above. My thoughts drift to a prone Beckett watching TV in front of the fire.
Nope. No thanks.
I stride to the kitchen, not hungry but curious about what he has in the fridge. I’m shocked to find it stocked with ingredients and a few containers of homemade leftovers. A box with a half-eaten pizza takes up most of one shelf. For funsies, I poke myhead in the freezer, finding it piled with meats and more containers of food. I didn’t peg him for a guy who cooked, but then again, I haven’t given too much thought to who he is beyond his striking appearance.
Why does a man who looks like him have to be so into Christmas?
As if when I leave here, I’ll ever see him again.
As if I’m in the market for a man in my life.
I’ve told you, you should be . . .
His voice hits from out of the blue, so loud and real, I’m forced to catch myself on the counter and find my footing when I almost stumble.
I check in with my mom. She’s already spoken to Clem and knows the situation. Her concern about my predicament hardly mirrors Clem’s. She seems more worried about being in a snowstorm than being stranded at a stranger’s house without a car, a very fitting reaction for my mother. She asks if she should put my dad on a plane to Vermont, but I turn down the offer. My dad’s not the best man in a crisis, and I’m sure his anxiety would make the situation worse.
If that’s possible.
