Page 31 of A Not So Merry Rescue
An idea sparks.
“Wasn’t your original plan to stay at the Airbnb you own?” I forgot about it until now, not even fazing me last night when he slept on the couch instead of heading to the rental.
“With the storm passed, I can do that.”
“No. I didn’t mean for you to leave. Let me go there. If I can’t get a rental car, I’ll stay there so I’m out of your space. You’ll just have to drive me there. How bad can it be?”
“It’s kinda bad. I checked it out this morning on the way to the shop. There’s no working heat or running water. It’s not an option.”
The little elation I felt falters. “Oh. Guess it’s kinda good you didn’t go there the other night.”
“I’m sorry, Willa. I didn’t realize the undercarriage damage in the dark. I feel bad.”
“You feel bad? Dude, I’m eating you out of house and home, sleeping in your bed, because I crashed my car. You have nothing to feel bad about.”
“You could stay with me. If you can’t find a rental,” he presses. “I honestly don’t mind. I kinda like having the company.”
I’m not sure what to make of his suggestion.
Had you told me last week I’d be considering staying at this stranger’s house, I would have told you you were crazy. But it hasn’t been all that bad. Beyond the seizure-inducing lights and decorations. There’s an odd sense of peace here. There’s something about Beckett that sets me at ease, like someone had a hand in our paths crossing. As if we were meant to meet.
If Clem could hear me now . . .
“Let me call my insurance and see if they’ll even pay for a rental car.”
“Okay. Let me know what they say. Do you want steaks for dinner? I found a new recipe I want to try.”
His sudden change of subject is jarring. So is his question. He asks like it’s an everyday situation for the two of us. As if it’s normal for him to be asking what I want for dinner.
“What if I can get a rental car?”
“You’ll still need to eat, then you can be on your way, if that’s your hesitation. Unless it’s that you don’t want steak or to help me try a new recipe. If that’s the case, I can make something else.”
“You’re very accommodating.” It’s the first thing I think to say as I process his offer.
Do I want to stay for dinner?
Yes. I want to stay for more than just dinner.
The truth pummels me, but I don’t have time to make sense of it because Beckett says, “It’s purely selfish reasons. I have a plethora of recipes I want to try. You’re bound to choose one of them.”
“A plethora? No one uses that word except writers.”
“Says you. I use it a lot.”
“All the time,” comes Meredith’s voice.
I giggle, the sound freeing something inside me. “I want steak for dinner.”
“Super.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you need anything else at the grocery store while I stop there? Or do you want to come?”
Why do I have a sudden urge to go grocery shopping?
Except for one thing . . .
“It’ll be daylight, right?”
“Yes. No chance of any light-inducing medical conditions for you.” It’s like he can read my mind, knowing exactly why I asked.
