Page 84 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“Oh, Beckett. I can wash fruit and make the plate look so fancy, you’re going to think you bought it at the store.”
I raise a brow, calling her bluff. But hey, if she’s cocky about it, this I gotta see. “Prove it.”
She wants to back down, I can read it in her eyes, but she doesn’t. She’s a proud one, and I’m here for it. Even if it’s not up to par, it’s fruit on a plate. Not much to mess up.
A kiss to the top of her head elicits a moan and has her swooning. Does she realize she gives up her tells so easily? Much as she’s guarded, she’s let down some of her walls, letting me in one tell at a time.
I exit the bedroom, make a stop in the bathroom, then move to the kitchen, seeking the recipe for the rolls and the ingredients.
Some traditions never die. Cinnamon rolls were Mom’s specialty on Christmas Eve morning. The first year I moved out, I showed up early, anxious about the recipe she made once a year. Turns out, it was a kids’ tradition, and once we were gone, she stopped. I argued Shania was still a kid who’d need the tradition to continue, but Mom stood her ground. The only time in my life she was stubborn. I griped about it way too long, but no one played into it. Not even playing the youngest card convinced her to make them.
The next year, I made them myself, but it wasn’t the same. The appeal was gone.
Yet, the year after that, it was like I couldn’tnotmake them. I ended up delivering them to a homeless shelter a few townsover, and as much as I wanted that tradition to continue, the place closed down the next summer.
Last year, I made them for the B and B, but Heidi told me, in no uncertain terms, “This tradition isn’t welcome here.” It was harsh and a definite blow to my ego, but I understood when she whipped out plates of baked French toast. And okay, she wasn’t wrong.
Resignedly, my plan this year was to forgo my tradition and have breakfast with her and Lenny. Until Willa came crashing—no pun intended—into my life.
The memories assault me as I whip up the dough, watching it transform from a bunch of ingredients into a ball on the dough hook of the mixer. I’m so lost in the motion, I don’t realize Willa has appeared.
“I didn’t know dough could be so entertaining.”
I’m startled by her voice, but I don’t let it show. “Gobs better than watching paint dry.”
A hearty chuckle is her response. I assume she’s laughing at my metaphor, but she says, “I used gobs in a book once. My readers weren’t too keen on it. Will never make that mistake again.”
I tear my attention away from the mixer, seeking her ensemble. As predicted, she’s wearing a pair of flannel pants she’s yet to wear and an Aspenridge sweatshirt. She tied her hair up in a knot, her glasses perched on her nose. She’s a vision of beauty. I won’t even try telling her that. She wouldn’t hear it and would start an argument for argument’s sake.
I’ve never been drawn to women who need a full face of makeup to feel beautiful. A woman’s natural beauty is more my speed. Willa has it in spades, even first thing in the morning, dressed in PJs. She bears some effects of exhaustion, but it enhances her charm.
“Beckett.” My name at a decibel louder than inside appropriate breaks the trance.
“What?”
“You’re zoning out and staring. Creepy.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’ll need a large platter or a cutting board will do.” Confusion settles in, so she continues, “For my fancy fruit plate.”
“Right. Bottom shelf in the pantry. On the left.”
“Of course he knows exactly where they are,” she mocks.
“I do live here,” I defend. Not very well. It’s not my best comeback.
She retreats to the pantry, returning with a serving platter. It’s red, but that’s the most “festive” part. If memory serves, it was on the bottom of the pile.
Baby steps. Getting her to leap won’t help anyone.
24
willa
The morning flies by.
We consume the most mouthwatering cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted, viewDie Hard, and after Beckett compliments my fruit platter, we devour it.
When Beckett mentions napping, I wonder if he’ll stay on the couch. When he follows me to the bedroom, I’m ecstatic. I can’t get enough cuddles with this man. The thought is heady, sobering, because this isn’t permanent.
I shouldn’t be this preoccupiedwith him.
