Christmas By Design

7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Beckett

The next Monday, I’m sitting in my office with the door open, grumbling over the renderings of the Dash house on my monitor. Not even the gorgeous, instrumental piano versions of Christmas carols playing softly from my computer speakers can save me from the reality that is this kitchen. I had called Mrs. Dash at the end of last week trying to get her to change her mind on the teal retro refrigerator under the guise of the expense and difficulty of finding such a piece. But she simply assured me—yet again—that she has the utmost faith in my ability to find one, and that there is no budget. I suggested a white or even almond design, but she just laughed, told me I was a funny young man, and hung up.

So, now, I’m playing around with a kitchen layout that needs to get done today or else we risk the contractors falling behind schedule, and I’m trying to place a teal refrigerator somewhere that won’t look overly garish.

“Oh wow. That’s hideous.”

I startle in my chair, then swivel it to find Gemma standing behind me, her head cocked and a couple of wayward red curls hanging over her cheek. She’s frowning at my computer screen, but from the way her mouth is twisting, it’s pretty clear she’s holding back a laugh. “Did I scare you?”

“I was working. You should try it sometime,” I say drily.

“Hmm,” she hums as she cocks an eyebrow. “I have to say, I’m impressed, Becky-pop. I didn’t think you had that fridge in you.”

I glare at her, wishing I could shoot actual daggers at her across the desk. “You shouldn’t have suggested it, then,” I grind out.

At that, she does chuckle as she raises her hands, palms out. I hate to admit the sound of her easy laughter does something to my insides that I don’t want to think about. I’d much rather go back to shooting daggers in her direction.

“I honestly just said that to fuck with you. I didn’t think she’d go for it.”

All I can do is blink incredulously at her. “You saw the outside of that house. You heard her say she likes color. And you didn’t think she’d want the teal refrigerator you suggested?”

“Okay, I see your point. But it’s one thing to like color and another to want an actual teal fridge in your home. That lady is wild.” She shakes her head with an appreciative expression on her face. “I kind of want to be her when I grow up.”

I frown. “You are a grown up.”

She tilts her head back and forth. “Sort of.” Then, her expression turns mischievous. “Not as much of a grown up as you, though.”

“Are you calling me old?” I ask.

She grins at me, and I want to sink into it, even despite what she says next. “No. Just calling you older than me.”

I clear my throat, trying to also clear my head of this nonsense. I don’t know where this is coming from, but ever since she slipped and said my full, actual name in the car on the way home from the Dash house, I’ve had a hard time getting her out of my head. And yet, as she has so clearly stated, she’s too young for me. Along with a whole host of other reasons I’d never pursue anything with her.

No matter how pretty she is standing there in a bright green Christmas sweater with curly tendrils of her red hair escaping from the bun piled on top of her head.

I take a deep breath, trying once again to flush my brain of these unwanted thoughts. “Did you need something, Woodard?”

She blinks a few times as if she’s also trying to rid herself of similar thoughts. But, no, that has to be wishful thinking on my part.

Get a grip, Camdon.

“Uh, yeah. Mrs. Dash called and said she had stopped by the house this morning to grab a few things she had forgotten since the foundation repair was supposed to be finished and demo was supposed to be underway. Except demo has not started, the electricity is completely out because of some rewiring they had to do, and the place still looks pretty torn up, apparently.” She folds her arms across her chest and slides her hands under her arms, squeezing them. The image of her biting her nails in the car comes to mind, and I wonder if she’s squeezing her hands to avoid doing it again.

I glance at the kitchen plans on my monitor, but quickly look away from the teal monstrosity taking up a third of my screen. “That’s less than ideal.”

Gemma nods, worrying her bottom lip. “I’m going to go out there again to check it out myself, I think. The general contractor can meet me on Thursday afternoon.”

“The day before Christmas eve?”

She shrugs and drops her hands to her side. “He’s not happy about it, but the foundation needs to be finished before we can start demo, and demo needs to happen between Christmas and New Years if we’re going to be on track. That foundation put us back already, and I don’t want to fall further behind.”

Against my better judgement, I glance at my screen and let my thoughts take over. I had my buddy do a once-over on Gemma’s car before we picked it up to make sure nothing else would go wrong with it, but after stalling out on the highway last time, I don’t love the idea of her driving out there alone again. And I could probably stand to get some more measurements myself instead of relying on the blueprints.

“I’m driving,” I say before I can think better of it.

She shakes her head rapidly. “No, I didn’t mean for you to have to come with—”

“I need measurements anyway,” I cut her off.

She starts biting her full bottom lip again, and I wish she’d go back to biting her nails so I could stop wishing those were my teeth teasing her mouth.

“I can’t get a straight answer on what the state of the place is. There’s no guarantee you’ll be able to get in there for measurements.” She’s protesting, but it’s half-hearted. I don’t dare hope that she actually wants my company on this trip.

I shrug. “Worth a shot. Worst-case scenario, I can spend a day not staring at a teal refrigerator.”

Her teeth release her bottom lip as she smiles, and it feels like a small victory. “Okay,” she says. “But I’m buying the hot chocolate.”

I nod curtly. “Sounds fair.”

She turns on her heel to leave, and I scoot my chair closer to the monitor again so I can figure out where to put this monstrosity, once and for all.

“You’re sitting a little close to the screen, old man,” Gemma says over her shoulder, her voice a playful singsong. “You might need to think about getting yourself some glasses.”

I’m glad she’s quickly out of earshot, because I can’t help the chuckle that bursts from me, and if she had heard it, she’d never let me live it down.