Page 59 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“Get up.”Beckett stands up in a flash, like there’s a fire outside of the fireplace he needs to put out. When I don’t immediately follow his issued demand, he holds his arms out. “Please, Willa. Come with me.” His tone softens, a layer of sadness and some other emotion clinging to it.
“Where are we going?”
“Kitchen table. Get your laptop. You trust me?”
There’s so much hope in his question and his matching expression. I can’t say no.
Besides, if I did, it would be a lie.
Bizarre as it may be, I trust this man with my life.
“Yes.”
He pulls me to standing, ushering me on my way to grab my laptop while he disappears into a closet I haven’t yet explored. We both meet at the kitchen table, each with our computers.
“It’s been a long while—longer than you—since I’ve had to write anything but an estimate or an email. Forgive my rustiness.”
His statements make no sense, but he’s giddy. I’m curious to see what he has planned.
I feel lighter after unloading on him, telling the story fewpeople know. Between the crying spell and spilling my guts, it’s a catharsis I needed. Something I’ve needed for over a year.
The irony isn’t lost on me who helped me find it.
We sit across the table from each other. He plugs his computer in mentioning how he doesn’t use it often. Still in the dark about what we’re doing, I don’t question it.
Once his laptop is up and running, he studies the screen. “Microsoft Word. Is that still the thing to use for word processing?” His inquisitive glare makes him so appealing. His curiosity is high on the list of what I enjoy most about him.
“I suppose. Some people use Google Docs.”
“What do you write in?”
“A program called Scrivener.”
He stares a beat too long, then chuckles. The sound is a balm to my soul. Not quite like one of Beckett’s hugs, but close. “Word it is. You use scrive—that program you said.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I have Word for exchanging manuscripts with my editor. If whatever we’re doing is being shared.”
He points a finger in my direction. “Yes. Good idea. Word all around.”
How this man elicits so much excitement from me is a mystery.
“What are we doing exactly?”
“Writing.”
“Wr-writing?” I stutter. My pulse quickens, fear clutching me in its grip. “Writing what?”
“Gibberish.” He doesn’t offer me a chance to interrogate what he means and continues, “Spelling and grammar don’t count. And of course, it doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be letters and words on a page.”
It dawns on me what he’s doing—persuading me to write. Doesn’t matter what. Like I told him Elias would do.
I gasp, staring at this man who’s been more than a gentleman since I first spoke with him on the phone. This man who’s taken care of me the past three days, who’s cooked meals for me,who’s given me more orgasms in a twenty-four hour period than I’ve had the last two years. My heart clenches, a swell of sentiment coursing through me at his compassion.
“Beckett. I don’t know what to say.”
“Good. Don’tsayanything. Write it. Gibberish, English, Greek, Parseltongue, just get words on the page.”
A smile creeps on my lips. “Parseltongue, huh?”
