Page 24 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“I’m so?—”
“Don’t apologize. Not your fault.”
I can’t help feeling itismy fault. If I hadn’t crashed my car, he wouldn’t have had to rescue me nor have to give up his bed to me as his guest.
With practiced precision, he moves the pan to a back burner, flicks the knob off, and joins me at the table. His mug is red and festive with Christmas lights spelling out the words “Holly Jolly Christmas.”
Gag me.
“Coffee’s good. What’s the flavor?”
He smirks behind his mug. “You don’t want to know.”
I’m ashamed to admit how much I’m enjoying it. One, because I didn’t have to make it. Two, because he made it. But three, because it’s tasty and has a unique flavor. Yet I’m frustrated because I’m sure it has something to do with the upcoming holiday.
An internal war begins—finish it because it’s so delicious or pour it down the drain on principle.
The latter isn’t a logical choice because I don’t want him to think I’m wasteful or not appreciative of his help.
“I’m going to pretend it’s not what you imply.”
“Suit yourself. There’s plenty more.”
“Who taught you all these kitchen skills?”
“My grandmother. Her father owned the first restaurant in Winterberry, but they had to sell it when the recession hit. Her dream was to reopen it, but life happened, she got married, had babies and grandbabies, and the dream got pushed to the back burner.”
“And now she’s too old?” I surmise.
“She passed about three years ago.” A smattering of melancholy clings to his words, the grief of her passing still felt deeply.
I swallow, not allowing myself to take on the emotion of his loss. “I’m sorry.”
The timer buzzes, and Beckett hops up and removes the quiche from the oven. “White, wheat, or rye toast?”
“Rye, please. With butter.”
I feel pampered. The comfy bed. Ready-made coffee. A nutritious breakfast. I could get used to this.
As if goading me, my eyes snag on the tree.
Or not.
Beckett’s not too chatty during breakfast, but I’m glad for the reprieve of having to answer his questions. He wants to ask—toknow—what I have against Christmas. I can’t tell him. It’s not for him to know or understand because it’s not his life. What and how I choose to live my life has no impact on others, specifically a stranger I’ll never see again once my car is fixed.
I offer to clean up, and with some hesitation, he agrees. While he prepares to head out for a day of plowing, I load the dishwasher, hand-wash the pans, and wipe down the counters, leaving it as I found it yesterday. Or to the best of my ability.
Dressed in a heavy sweatshirt, track pants, a hat, and gloves, Beckett grabs snow boots from the closet. “Make yourself whatever you can find for lunch. Remotes are in the ottoman. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I can text you?” He asks it as a question, like he’s not sure I’ll agree, but there’s a morsel of hope embedded in it.
I can’t be the one who bursts his bubble.
“Sure. Do you have my number?”
He produces his phone from his pocket and waves it. “Got it, Bundy.” He flashes a sinister smile.
It should be nefarious or irk me in every way.
Except there’s no hatred found.
