Christmas By Design

3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Beckett

Despite what Gemma Woodard might think of me, I’m not a heartless bastard. My mother did, in fact, teach me how to treat women right. She raised me by herself; my dad left before I can even remember. She had a boyfriend when I was around seven years old, and he left, too. Broke both our damn hearts. After that, it was just me and her, forever.

When I saw Gemma on Saturday as I entered Macy’s, her movements were choppy and laced with panic. Her little girl was squeezing her leg as if she, too, were afraid of something. Or, maybe, like she felt she could single-handedly keep her mom from crumpling into an anxious puddle on the floor. I remember moments like that from my own childhood—my mom crying over bills when she thought I was in bed, or her telling me I couldn’t have a toy from the dollar aisle because we couldn’t afford it.

So, there was only one thing to do. Pay for her order.

Who says I have no Christmas spirit?

Well, Gemma seems to think so. I’m not sure why she hates me so much, but she clearly does.

It isn’t until Sunday afternoon that I realize she must have needed that historical house renovation to make ends meet. She’s not paid the same salary I am. Jacob pays most of his employees smaller salaries, and then they receive bonuses for each house that sells. Gemma must see this one as a sure thing since the old woman who owns the house isn’t moving, so the owner will pay for the renovations no matter what.

I prevented Gemma from getting the money from the start of this project. So, just like Saturday, I do the only thing there is to do. I call Jacob and tell him I’ve changed my mind.

See? I’m brimming with Christmas spirit. Which is why I’m shocked when, almost immediately upon entering my office on Monday morning, the door opens and slams shut before I have even dropped my bag on the floor next to my desk.

I turn around slowly. Gemma is standing there, breathing heavily. Her cheeks are flushed prettily, and her green eyes are on fire in a way that stirs something deep inside me.

But I try to ignore whatever that is, because she’s definitely not here to thank me.

She doesn’t seem to be here to say anything at all, just breathe loudly and stare at me as if she could shoot lasers out of her eyeballs. I take my time removing my coat and hanging it up. By the time I lower myself into my chair and look back at her, her face is even redder, her eyes are even more fiery, and I still have no fucking clue what’s going on.

“Can I help you, Woodard?” I ask, keeping my tone measured. The last thing I need is for her to fly off the handle.

“I don’t need your pity,” she snaps.

I huff. “What would possibly give you the impression that I pity you?”

She clenches and unclenches her fists at her sides. “You saw me looking for cash, assumed I needed some kind of knight in shining armor, and paid for my order. And then, you took a project you don’t want because you feel bad for me.”

“I wasn’t—” I start, but she cuts me off by slamming some cash on my desk.

“I didn’t need you to pay for my hot chocolate,” she says between clenched teeth.

“Okay…” I say slowly, sparing a glance for the crumpled bills on my desk.

But she’s not done. “I can take care of myself,” she insists, tilting her chin up and folding her arms.

“I have no doubt—”

“And I can take care of my child.” That’s when her voice cracks slightly. Just enough to be noticeable. She clenches her jaw against it, as if steeling herself could erase the sound.

I don’t pity her. I wasn’t lying about that. But the way she falters opens something inside me I have a feeling will be difficult to close.

Standing slowly, I remove my wallet from my back pocket. I wasn’t going to take her money, but it’s clear to me that this is about more than a couple bucks. I take my time fitting the bills into my wallet, then lay it on the desk before meeting her gaze again.

“As I was saying, I have no doubt you can care for yourself and your daughter.” I ensure my voice stays quiet and neutral. “I thought I was doing a nice thing. Spreading some Christmas cheer, if you will. I can see now that you didn’t need any extra cheer. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

Her shoulders relax slightly, though her arms stay folded. “Good.”

“And as for the Indiana house, I simply changed my mind.”

Her shoulders and jaw tense again. “You ‘changed your mind’”—she practically air-quotes the words—“because you thought I needed this gig after your misguided chivalry on Saturday.”

I shake my head. “I thought about what you said. Preserving local history is important, and I know the company could benefit from diversifying our offerings.”

She eyes me skeptically as she raises an eyebrow. “Really.” It’s meant to be a question, but it doesn’t sound like one.

I run my hand through my hair. “Look. This isn’t public knowledge, but profit margins aren’t what they once were. Real estate prices are increasing. Homebuyers are more and more skeptical of flips after seeing disasters and lawsuits over houses from those television shows. If I’m doing this for anyone, I’m doing it for Jacob.” I sit back down and rifle idly through some papers on my desk, hoping she can’t see through the half-lie.

She narrows her eyes. “You aren’t doing this in part because of Saturday?”

I sigh out a quick puff of air. She’s not going to let this go unless I really drive it home. “Woodard, what about me suggests I would take on a project with a homeowner who surely has opinions about her house, in Indiana, three weeks before Christmas—with you of all people—out of some ‘misguided chivalry?’”

I lock eyes with her, and we stare at each other for long enough that it starts getting uncomfortable. But if she won’t back down, neither will I. She needs this project whether she wants to admit it to me or not.

Eventually, she presses her lips into a tight line and nods curtly. She turns on her heel and pulls open my office door.

I blow out a long breath through pursed lips. “Can’t wait to work with you, Woodard,” I mumble under my breath, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I really hope I didn’t make a mistake agreeing to this project.

“I heard that, Bucky,” she calls back just as the door closes behind her.

She levels a glare at me through the window next to the door. Her eyes track me as she walks slowly out of sight. When she can’t twist her head around to glare at me any longer, she turns to walk backwards. She keeps me in her line of sight until her entire body disappears from my view.

It’s so ridiculous that I can’t help but chuckle. Fortunately, I’m able to hold in my laughter until she’s out of earshot. The last thing I need is for her to know I find her antics amusing. It’ll only encourage her.