Christmas By Design

8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Gemma

Not even the all-Christmas, all-the-time radio station can drown out the sound of Beckett’s laughter as I walked away from his office yesterday from replaying in my mind. It was a gravelly, rumbling sound that could have melted the frost forming outside the window next to my cubicle.

Who needs hot chocolate when Beckett Camdon has a laugh that sounds like that ?

“We might actually be in for a white Christmas this year,” the D.J. chimes in after a song ends. “Weather experts are calling for a winter storm Thursday evening into Christmas Eve…”

“Want to reschedule the trip to the Dash house?” Beckett’s deep voice sounds behind me. He saunters up to my desk and leans a hip against it. I have to physically drag my eyes away from where his ass rests, just out of my reach. When I finally meet his gaze, he’s looking at me as if he’s waiting for an answer to something, but my mind is blank.

“I’m sorry. What?”

He stares at me as if it hurts him to have to repeat himself. “That winter storm tomorrow might make a drive out to Indiana pretty dangerous.”

“Oh,” I say, coming back to Earth from my daydream. I glance out the window at the dreary, gray clouds hanging low over the Chicago skyline. “I don’t know. They’re always screaming about winter weather around here, but nothing ever comes of it. And it’s not supposed to start until tomorrow night, anyway. I think we’ll be fine.” I glance back at him with eyebrows raised. “Why, does winter weather make you nervous?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He dips his chin to my hand laying on the desk. “You’re the nervous one.”

Normally, I’d think he was taking a jab to make me feel shitty about my anxiety. And usually, it would work. But he says it so quietly, so gently, that it’s clear he’s just looking out for me. Almost like he cares.

That can’t be right.

I study his ice-blue stare. His dark eyebrows are pinched, and his eyes are lined with concern.

Maybe it is right. Maybe he just wants to be sure I’m not worried about the winter storm.

I swallow heavily. “I don’t think it’ll be as bad as they’re saying.” My voice is surprisingly steady for how shaky he’s making me.

He nods, standing. “We can leave mid-morning tomorrow, then.”

It’s probably my imagination, but he seems to move slightly closer as he walks past me, as if he wants my attention on his ass.

No way. That is definitely my imagination.

I try to distract myself by drowning in one of the spreadsheets open on my computer, but it’s not long before I see someone else’s hands pressed on the side of my desk out of the corner of my eye.

“You’ve got to stop flirting with the designers, honey,” comes a familiar voice. It’s low to avoid being overheard, but it unmistakably belongs to Alex Brachs, one of the other project managers.

I grit my teeth and slide my eyes to him. “What do you need, Alex?”

He chuckles darkly, and the sound of it is so different from Beckett’s earlier laugh. Alex’s sends ice through my veins, and I have to fight a disgusted shiver.

“Nothing. Just wanted to let you know that if you needed someone to trim your tree this year, I’d probably be better at it than Camdon over there.” He ticks his head in the direction Beckett went.

This has to be the world’s worst euphemism, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of opening the conversation to his sexual innuendo. “My tree doesn’t need your help,” I respond flatly.

Alex’s eyes flick toward Beckett’s office as he huffs. “I bet it doesn’t,” he says suggestively. He pushes off the desk, but as he’s walking away, he calls back to me louder, for everyone to hear. “Offer stands, though. If you change your mind.”

I fight the urge to gag and, instead, switch my music to my earbuds and pop them in my ears. Alex Brachs’s ridiculous metaphor isn’t anything a little Christmas music can’t drown out. But Beckett’s words from the other day play over the dulcet tones of yet another Christmas carol.

You don’t have to put up with harassment from them, you know.

Usually, it’s not that bad. Most often, it’s just a diminutive nickname or a pointed question about whether or not I can get something done if I have to leave to get home to Nova. As if some of these men aren’t fathers who should also, probably, get home to their kids. But we all know the rules are different for mothers—especially single ones.

This time was more sinister. It leaves me feeling icky. And exposed, I realize as I bring my thumbnail to my teeth. I might not have been flirting with Beckett, but I was checking out his ass, truth be told. Even though I think he might have been flirting with me at times this week, I need to shut that down. The last thing I need is the other guys thinking I’m sleeping around. They probably already assume I’m easy , I think as my gaze catches on a framed picture of Nova on my desk.

Nope. I definitely don’t need to give anyone around here any more ammo. I just need to get this job done, get out of my parents’ house, and give myself a little more breathing room.

Beckett Camdon was barely on my radar before last week, so how hard could it be?