Christmas By Design

6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Gemma

We finish up with Mrs. Dash just before lunch. She tries to get us to stay and eat, but I can tell that Beckett is uncomfortable. As much as I love seeing him squirm, I think I’ve instigated enough trouble today. I agree to leave, though I’m going to make him stop for a sandwich on the way home.

We say our goodbyes, and Beckett’s phone rings loudly as we’re getting into the car. It’s the old rotary phone ring, which is so him , it’s almost as if someone scripted it. He slides in behind the steering wheel and answers it without starting the car. I rub my hands together, then slide them under my thighs to ward off the already cold air as I watch Mrs. Dash re-enter her house.

Beckett eyes me sidelong, then says, “Yes. Okay. Great,” and hangs up the phone. His head turns slowly in my direction. Those ice-blue eyes bore into me, and a small part of me basks in his singular focus. But the way he’s staring at me also makes me very, very nervous.

“When was the last time you changed your fuel filter?” he asks.

“My what?”

“Your fuel filter. In your car.”

I frown. “How should I know?”

“You don’t know what kinds of routine maintenance you have done on your vehicle and when?”

“Is it routine maintenance to change a fuel filter?”

Beckett drags his hand through his hair that’s still more pepper than salt and blows out an exasperated puff of air through pursed lips. “Yes, Woodard. That is routine maintenance.”

“Okay…” I say slowly, hunching over and staring out the passenger window. My hand involuntarily finds its way to my mouth again so I can bite the nail on my ring finger. “So, I killed my own car. You don’t need to rub it in.” I sound like a sullen child, but I don’t even care. It’s one thing to razz him about his design choices; it’s another to make me feel like shit because I can’t handle my own life.

“You… what? No.” He grabs my wrist and pulls it gently away from me. “Stop doing that. You’ll have no nails left.”

His hand is so warm and pleasant. It shocks me, because it seems so incongruous with his crusty exterior, and I’m surprised to find I like his touch on my wrist. There’s something so kind and reassuring about it. It almost takes some of the tension out of my shoulders. Almost.

I roll my eyes, scrambling to get a handle on my hormones. “Sure, Mom .”

He regards me for a long moment. Long enough that his expression softens, and I start to get uncomfortable again.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask as I shift in my seat. The leather squeaks under me. Of course it does. Just another reminder of something else I can’t afford even in my wildest dreams.

“Your car is fine. My guy just had to replace the filter. We can pick it up on our way back.”

I straighten in my seat. “Are you serious?” I ask excitedly, then I slump again when I remember what this is going to do to my wallet. “How much is this going to set me back?”

“Nothing.”

I raise my pinched eyebrows, then look at him like he’s completely lost it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says carefully, “that it’s not costing anything. I told you, he owes me.”

“He owes you a last-minute tow, parts, and labor on a car that’s not even yours?”

He breathes out a long-suffering sigh. “All tows are last-minute.”

I throw my hands up and slap them on my thighs in frustration. “You’re not answering my question.”

“What’s the question?” he asks, equally annoyed.

“I don’t believe you!” I cry out.

“That’s still not a question.”

I glare at him and swallow hard. “I told you before, BK. I can take care of myself.”

My relief at being able to come up with another nickname on the fly after almost being caught reusing one is short-lived. Beckett’s expression turns soft again, and he tilts his head. “I know you can, Woodard. But does taking care of yourself mean you can never let anyone do anything nice for you?”

I reel back as if he’s hit me. “I let people do nice things for me.”

“You wouldn’t even let me buy you a coffee.”

“It was a hot chocolate,” I retort, “and I think we both know it wasn’t about the beverage. I don’t want people paying for my things, especially when they think I can’t do it myself. I can.”

He studies me again, then nods once and puts the car in reverse to back out of the driveway. Conversation over, I guess. Back to awkward silence while I watch the flat Midwest pass me by in Beckett’s fancy-ass car.

Beckett eases onto the country road that will take us to the highway as he says, “I’m not paying for your car. This guy is a buddy of mine. I loaned him some money to start his repair shop.” He glances at me, then turns his attention back to the road. “He paid me back, but he does the odd favor for me every now and then. So I called one in. But if your pride won’t allow you to accept a kind gesture at Christmas, then it’ll probably total around five hundred dollars.”

My eyes practically bug out of my head. I can’t shell out five hundred dollars if I’m going to be able to buy a house. “Well, if it makes him feel good to do these favors for you, far be it from me to take that away from him.”

Beckett hums in an I thought so kind of way. It’s irritating, but I’m suddenly too tired to engage. The adrenaline I got from giving him crap at the Dash house is wearing off, and the lack of sleep from Nova’s wakefulness last night must be catching up with me. It’s especially hard to stay awake with the landscape rolling hypnotically by. I settle in for more silence.

After a few minutes, I’m almost nodding off when he says, quietly, “You asked to work with me.”

I don’t take my eyes off the winter landscape, still too tired to give him shit or lie or even tease. “I did.”

“Why?” His voice is gruff, like just asking the question requires a good deal of effort.

I could say something sarcastic about how I love his stubborn ways and his boring neutrals. But what’s the point? I’m too drained to even think of a stupid nickname, let alone lie. The truth is, he’s not the easiest person to work with, but he’s not a bad guy. It’s why I started with the nicknames, originally. After I got to know him, pissing him off ended up being a bonus. The other guys in the office all had stupid names they called each other, and he was the only one who insisted on calling me by my last name only. Not “honey,” or “sweetie,” or worse. I don’t know if he respects me—that might be a strong word. But he doesn’t demean me, and the more my anxiety has been ramping up, the more I needed this job to be easy.

“Honestly, Beckett? I needed a win before the end of the year, and you’re the only guy at the company who doesn’t give me crap about my kid or being a woman or a whole host of other probably offensive things about me. So, I thought working with you would be tolerable.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and I could swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch up just a bit. But it lowers just as quickly. “Tolerable,” he repeats.

“‘Fun’ would be a step too far, I think. But yeah.”

“You don’t have to put up with harassment from them, you know,” he says after a pause.

“Yes. I do.” I sigh. I don’t owe him an explanation, but the angle of his head and the tense grip he has on the steering wheel make me think he’s invested in this. Almost like he cares. It makes me want to give him the benefit of the doubt, so I add, “This is what being a woman in a male-dominated profession is like. If I complain, I’m a bitch. If I let it continue, it’ll never end. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I chose a long time ago to let it roll off me. It’s easier that way. But you’re not like them. You don’t really give a shit about much outside of the office. You’re happy as long as the work gets done.” I reconsider. “Well, happy might be pushing it. But you know what I mean.”

“What you’re saying is I’m the nice guy in the office.”

Is he… teasing? It seems like he is, but his expression is stoic, so it’s hard to tell.

“That’s not what I’m saying. That’s what you’re hearing,” I correct him. He needs to come down a peg or ten before he lets this get to his head.

“I can be nice,” he says softly. “I have even been known to buy a coffee for a coworker on occasion.”

I roll my eyes. “Hot chocolate. And I’ll never say no to a hot chocolate from a coworker. Just not when he thinks I’m a damsel in distress.”

“No,” Beckett says, and there’s that almost-smirk again. It lights him up, in a way, and I’m shocked to find he’s even more handsome when he almost smiles. “You’re only a damsel in distress when your car is stalled on the side of the highway.”

I flare my nostrils and flatten my lips. Never mind. It’s hard to find someone handsome when they’re a total asshole.

“I could have called my own help, you know. I’m perfectly capable of using a phone. You were just closer.”

“Of course,” he says.

I could retort because he’s clearly patronizing me, but I don’t. The problem is that he’s not entirely wrong. So, instead, I let the flat Midwest landscape lull me into relaxation while I try very hard not to think about Beckett’s almost-smiles.