Christmas By Design

12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Gemma

It’s completely dark when I wake, save for the fire burning brightly in front of me. Beckett is nowhere to be found, but there’s a soft piano melody coming from the next room. I wrap the blanket around me and follow the sound.

I have to rub my eyes a few times before my brain registers what I’m seeing. Beckett is sitting at Mrs. Dash’s grand piano. And he’s playing it quietly. Not only is he playing it, he’s actually good. Like, really good. And if that weren’t shocking enough, he’s playing a Christmas song. I didn’t think he even liked Christmas.

This man is full of surprises tonight.

I lean against the door frame to watch him. His eyes are closed as if he’s fully absorbing the music into his being. He’s playing “O Holy Night,” but it’s so slow and soulful that somehow, despite it being about Christmas, it feels sad coming from him.

The light from the fireplace in the living room bounces off the shiny, black surface of the piano and catches on the silver hairs nestled among the darker ones at Beckett’s temple. He almost looks as if he’s one with the piano, all polished black and white. He’s strikingly handsome like this, his eyebrows pinched together and his body swaying with the melody as his long fingers gently press the keys.

I hold my breath as I watch him and try very hard not to think about those dexterous fingers.

He holds the last chord as if mimicking the breath in my lungs, then releases the keys and places his hands in his lap without opening his eyes. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says after a moment. When his eyes finally open, he finds me immediately.

I shake my head. “That was beautiful,” I breathe. “I didn’t know you played.”

His gaze drops to the keys in front of him as he runs his hands over them lovingly. “My mom insisted I learn. She didn’t have a lot of money while I was growing up, but she made me pick one ‘cultured’ activity, and I thought learning how to play the piano would take away the least amount of time from other things I would have rather been doing.” He seems wistful, like it’s a good memory. He sighs, looking up at me. “Turns out, I loved it.”

“Was it just you and your mom growing up?”

He slides over to make room on the piano bench and pats the space to his left. I cross the room and lower myself next to him, careful not to get close enough to touch.

“Yeah. I don’t know much about my dad. She doesn’t talk about him, and I never pressed her.” He tinkers with a melody, then adds a few chords and finishes with a flourish.

I giggle. “Show off.”

He shrugs as his blue eyes meet mine. His gaze is intense and focused solely on me. “I only show off when I have a reason to.”

I’m drowning in his eye contact. In him. From this close, I can smell the rosemary notes of his aftershave. All of a sudden, I’m overheated despite the chill this far away from the fireplace. I let the blanket slide off my upper body and pool in my lap.

I swallow hard. “Are you suggesting you have a reason to?”

He tears his eyes away from mine and plays another, spirited melody. My heart skips along with it.

“Maybe,” he says when he’s finished. “You should eat something.”

Even though I could listen to him play all night, just the thought of food gives my stomach other ideas. It rumbles loudly. Beckett shoots me a pointed look.

“Fine.” I swipe at my still-sleepy eyes, and my fingers come away dark with runny makeup. I suppress a groan at how awful I must look. “I’m going to… clean up a bit.” I take a nearby flashlight with me to the bathroom and pray that the water wasn’t also shut off.

When I turn the faucet on and water pours out of the tap, I sigh with relief. It’s cold water, but at least I can clean up my face and flush the toilet. I do the best I can in the dim light, then leave the tap dripping to keep the pipes from freezing.

I make my way back to the kitchen to find Beckett smearing peanut butter and jelly on pieces of bread. The plates he’s set out already have our muffins from the coffee shop on them, and he arranges the sandwiches carefully next to them.

“Are you a crust person or a no-crust person?” he asks without looking up from his task.

I raise an eyebrow as I sidle up next to him at the counter. “I’m a grown up, so you can leave the crust on.”

He’s silent and still doesn’t look at me, so I say, “Wait. Do you cut the crusts off of your sandwiches?”

“They are objectively disgusting,” he responds as he slices the sides off the sandwich in front of him.

“They’re the best part,” I counter. I grab one of his discarded crusts and pop it in my mouth. “It’s where all the nutrients are.”

He eyes me skeptically. “That is hippie nonsense.”

“It is not,” I protest, grabbing another piece of crust and eating it. “That’s why it’s darker. It’s nutritionally different.”

He shakes his head incredulously, but even in the dim light, I can see the smirk playing at his lips. It feels like a victory to have made that smile appear.

Beckett scoops up his discarded crusts and deposits them on my plate. And I don’t know why, but it strikes me as such a sweet thing to do—to give me more of something I like, even if he didn’t want it anyway.

He catches me watching him, and I could swear he blushes, but it’s hard to tell when the only light is a propped-up flashlight and an ambient fireplace. After dropping the knife in the sink, which he’s also started dripping to prevent freezing pipes, he hands me my plate and waves his hand at two glasses resting on the far end of the counter, each half-full of amber liquid.

“I found a bottle of whiskey in the pantry. I don’t think Mrs. Dash will mind, given the circumstances.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not a huge fan.”

He takes a glass with him and moves toward the fireplace. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought it might help us keep warm.”

I study the glass. On one hand, strong alcohol plus Beckett plus a cozy fireplace is probably going to equal disaster. On the other hand, he has a point.

Ultimately, I take the glass with me. Which, I suppose is a choice on a number of levels.

Beckett has spread a blanket out on the floor next to the fireplace. He’s sitting cross-legged in front of his plate, so I do the same across from him. And then I proceed to practically inhale the sandwich and all the pieces of crust he’s made for me. I wash it down with the whiskey, which burns, but is followed by a nice warmth that radiates out from my belly.

When I glance at Beckett, he’s sipping from his own glass and watching me, amused. “Would you like another? Or maybe five?”

“Listen, I didn’t expect to go almost twenty-four hours without food when I was running late and skipped breakfast this morning, okay?” I glare at him playfully over my glass as I take another sip of the warm liquid. I wince a little as I swallow, but it’s actually not so bad once you get used to it.

“Mom life?”

I sigh, breaking off a piece of muffin and popping it in my mouth. “Yeah,” I say around my bite. “Even with my parents’ help, it’s a lot. I don’t want to depend on them too much, you know? Especially since I don’t plan to be living with them much longer.”

“Why not stay with them?” he asks, taking another—much more polite—bite of his sandwich.

“Nova’s getting older, and we share a room at my parents’. I want my own space, and I think she needs hers, too. And, I don’t know”—I shrug—“it probably sounds stupid, but I want to prove I can do it.”

“Seems to be a theme with you.”

“Is it so bad to want to live your life on your own terms?” I frown at him as I take another sip of whiskey. It’s starting to make me feel all gooey, and I can’t say I don’t like it.

“I…” he snaps his lips shut and looks as if he’s considering something. “No. But I don’t think it’s bad to have help, either.” He nods once as if that’s that.

“I’ll still have help. I’ll just have it my way. My parents are great, but they’re always there. I need space.”

“For boyfriends?” He studies the fire as he says it, but there’s a note of bitterness to his tone.

It might be the whiskey making me bold, but I can’t help poking the bear. “What would be wrong about that?”

He takes another bite and follows it up with a sip. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing, Becker.”

Why am I doing this? Why am I instigating? I know well enough that grumpy Beckett Camdon is a loner and a scrooge, and any interest he may have shown in me is either fleeting, out of common human decency, or a figment of my imagination. I shouldn’t let it go to my head just because he hugged me a few hours ago, and I certainly shouldn’t let my hormones talk. It’s not on him that I’ve been practically celibate since Nova was born.

But, for some reason, I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s boredom or the whiskey or the way his ice-blue eyes are focused on me, as if drinking me in is warming him more than the whiskey.

“What?” I ask, after he’s been silent for a while.

“Were you flirting with me?” He spits out the words like he’s worried if he doesn’t, he’ll never say them.

“Trust me, Beecher. You’d know if I was flirting with you.” I cock an eyebrow and take another drink, only to find it empty.

“Like now?” he asks, and I’m pretty sure I detect hope in his voice.

“It’s inappropriate to flirt with coworkers. Especially ones with fancy salaries and offices.”

“Only if it’s unwelcome,” he fires back.

Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

“Are you saying you want me to flirt with you?” I draw the words out slowly in disbelief.

He shakes his head. “I’m saying I wouldn’t take it up with HR.” He quickly swipes my empty glass from where it sits next to me and stands. “I’m going to need another drink,” he grumbles on his way to the kitchen.

Yeah. Me too.