Page 32 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“Cool. Text me when you’re on the way and I’ll be ready. I’m going to call my insurance company now.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”
After hanging up with Beckett, I called the insurance company, which approved a rental car. Except Beckett was onto something. Slim pickings amounted to nothing. Not anything in the close vicinity, at least. The nearest location that had a car with four-wheel drive is over fifty miles away and in the complete opposite direction from my final destination. I’d hate for Beckett to drive so far out of his way when he’s already done so much for me. I don’t doubt he’d do it in a heartbeat, but I don’t want him to feel more obligated than he already does.
I reach out to the host of the rental cabin to let her know I wouldn’t make it. Her understanding is evident, but when I mention I’m not worried about a refund, relief echoes across the line. It’s not her fault I’m not coming. Besides, it’s not like I’m paying to stay with Beckett. He’s been more than generous allowing me to stay, not even considering taking me up on my offer to pay. I’ll figure out a way to compensate him somehow.
By the time he texts he’s on the way home, I’ve showered, checked in on my social media accounts—even posted on one of them—cleared my email inboxes, and opened my manuscript. I forced myself to stare at the blank page for thirty minutes, hoping it would spark something. Sadly, I’m still stuck, my brain still broken. Every day I don’t write brings more frustration. It’s why this weekwas supposed to be my week. Get my groove back, write for the fun of writing. It’s like AJ Hart has gone silent or she’s dealing with her own shit going on in her life.
I laugh at the absurdity, how if I said that aloud, the only people who would understand would be fellow writers.
A text from my sister interrupts my thoughts.
Checking that you’re still alive
Still here. Car can’t be fixed so I’m here for the foreseeable future
The phone rings in my hand.
“How do you feel about that?” is Clem’s greeting.
I ponder how truthful to be. In the end, I go for brutal honesty. She’d see through anything less.
Exhaling, I begin, “I’m not sure I’m ready to leave. At least his house. I’ve settled in here, which is odd for me, but from the first moment I stepped in, a bigger power was at play, something bigger than myself. I can’t explain it.”
“Do your feelings have anything to do with one Beckett Nicholas?” she asks, her comment initiating a giggle.
“He doesn’t seem like a stranger.”
“And he’s hot to look at. Damn, girl.”
My lips pull into a frown. “How do you know?”
“A little thing called Google. He’s Winterberry royalty. And he is f-i-n-e fine.” She slips into a Southern drawl, and it’s my turn to laugh. “You want to jump his bones. If you deny it, I will force Christmas upon you when you return.”
I suck in a breath. “You wouldn’t dare. The holiday will be over.”
“Not in this house, it won’t be. My boys will love another celebration. Might even have Santa bring more toys . . .”
“You’re evil, Clementine.”
“And yet, you’re not denying it.”
Because I can’t.
While sleeping in his bed has been great rest, it’s been hell for my neglected libido. Because my brain’s worked overtime anytime I’m in it. And the thoughts are far from pure.
Closing my eyes and releasing a sigh, I admit, “I want to jump his bones.”
“Who’s the ‘his’ in this scenario?”
I jump out of my chair at Beckett’s voice. Not only at the sound of it but the implication.
Shit.
Of course, he’d walk in at this exact moment.
