Page 22 of A Not So Merry Rescue
I shrug a shoulder. “It’s not a stretch for you, an adult, to make the leap.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but once it’s out there, I’m not taking it back.
“How did you get into writing?”
“My mom says I’ve been penning tales since I could talk. I’d take her phone and record ideas and notes and eventually, dictate ‘stories’ all before I could write. One year for my birthday, she typed up my garbled mess and had it published into a ‘book.’ I couldn’t even read, but I was so proud to see my words in print. I chased that high until my first mystery book was published six years ago. It never gets old seeing my books on the shelf of the bookstores or kids’ shelves. It amazes me every day kids read words I’ve created.”
Passion leaks out of her, her zeal for her craft evident in every word she speaks.
“Do you still have that first book?”
She nods. “Want to see it?”
I roll my eyes. “Duh.”
She takes another bite of brownie and exits the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with her phone. She points it in my direction, and a photo of a bookshelf stares back at me. Front and center is a handmade printed copy of a book called “Sammy’s Superhero Cape” propped up by some sort of small stand. It’s well-loved, wrinkles on the front, and the corners creased. I barely have a chance to peruse the titles of the books before she removes the phone.
“That’s really cool, Willa. I’ve never met a published author before. Now I can tell people I know you. That you slept at my house. Do you write under your real name?”
“No.” I wait for her to give more, but when she doesn’t, I don’t push her for it. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. I’ll respect her privacy.
Her mouth stretches wide in a yawn. “Shit. I’m crashing.”
“Even with the sugar rush?” I point to the sliver of brownie remaining on her plate.
“Tea always makes me sleepy.”
“You have everything you need for the night?”
“I think so. Thanks for the delicious brownies and middle of the night drinks. An unexpected delight, definitely the yummy brownies.”
“Now you’ll know not to doubt me again.” Before she can refute my claim, I add, “I’ll probably be out early in the morning to plow. I apologize in advance if I wake you.”
She stares at me, her eyes like saucers. “You plow too? Is there anything you don’t do?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Can’t tell you why those words rush from my mouth, but soon as they’re out, I stand up and clean up the dishes, hoping she takes the hint not to push me.
If I’ve learned anything about this girl in the last several hours, it’s I doubt that will happen.
7
willa
The smellof bacon rouses me from a deep slumber. My mind struggles to make sense of why there would be bacon cooking in my house. More importantly, who would be cooking it.
I blink my eyes open, noting the unfamiliar room. Coupled with the distinctive—but not unpleasant—fresh scent of linen and masculinity, I recollect where I am.
Beckett’s bedroom in his cabin.
What is it about this room causing me to lose my sense of where I am? It’s happened twice now.
Another aroma filters in—the smell of strong coffee. If it weren’t for the need to relieve the pressure in my bladder, I’d cocoon myself in the sheets and blanket, taking comfort in a space that should be the opposite.
With my glasses on, I take care of business in the bathroom and go in search of liquid sustenance. I’m met with the gorgeous sight of Beckett’s backside standing in front of the stove. I stare for way longer than appropriate.
Still in the same T-shirt as he wore in the middle of the night, he wears holiday PJ pants, and his brown hair is tousled with sleep. His arm moves, making his bicep stretch the materialaround it, and veins pop in his forearm. I’m at a vantage point to be front and center of what my sister refers to as “arm porn.” I did not think it was real. But here’s this real-life, living and breathing man proving me wrong.
