Christmas By Design

20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Gemma

Once I finally make it to the shower, I let the hot water roll over my shoulders until my fingers are prunes. We kept warm enough in the Dash house—even when we weren’t engaged in any heated activities—but there’s something chilling me down to my bones that I don’t think has anything to do with the cold December air. And, sure, I feel pretty shitty about telling Nova I’ll be back in a few minutes and then spending at least thirty in the shower, but she’s okay. She missed me, but she was fine all night without me.

Being on the other side of it now, I can admit it was actually kind of freeing. I’ve had two years of being the only parent. Of being the only one who could feed her or calm her or get her to sleep when she was a tiny baby, and then the only one she wanted when she got a little older. I do leave her for work every day, but that feels different. It’s a necessity. Leaving her so I can have a little fun on my own? That’s revolutionary.

Maybe that’s the best I can say for this situation with Beckett—that I learned how to leave my daughter for a little while to take a bit of my life back. And, I guess, if that’s all that comes from it, it’s not too bad. I hadn’t realized how anxious I was about leaving her until last night, but I hadn’t realized how badly I needed it until then, either.

Even so, as I look at myself through the steam fogging up the bathroom mirror, I can’t help but wonder what it might have been like if we were able to have something more.

Oh well. No sense in dwelling on it, I suppose. We were in it for a fun night. We both made that clear, even if we had danced around the possibility of an extension. What’s done is done.

I cross the hallway to the room I share with Nova with a towel wrapped tightly around my torso and another in my hair. I take my time massaging product through my curls in front of the small vanity in the bedroom. As I’m doing that, the doorbell rings. It’s probably the same neighborhood carolers who come around every Christmas Eve, and I’m suddenly too tired to stand at the door smiling and pretending they sound good.

Ever-so-slowly, I pull on black leggings, a garish Christmas sweater, and fuzzy Christmas socks. I consider doing my makeup just to be sure the carolers are gone by the time I get down there but decide against it. There’s no one to impress here.

I perch myself on the edge of my bed and am just about to scroll aimlessly on my phone for a minute when the unmistakable sound of Nova banging on my parents’ piano wafts up to me. The groan that escapes me isn’t loud enough to be heard downstairs, but it’s close. Why my mother insists on leaving the upright piano open when Nova is around is beyond me. Mom plays sometimes—mostly to entertain her granddaughter—but more often than not, it’s Nova herself who puts on a concert for the family. I use the word “concert” loosely; it’s more like a cacophony of noise.

When I’ve persuaded myself that the banging is better than the carolers, I throw open the door to the bedroom. The sound suddenly stops. It’s followed almost immediately by a beautiful rendition of “O Holy Night.” It’s slightly more upbeat than Beckett’s version at the Dash house, but that doesn’t help the pang in my heart when those notes float up the stairs.

Jeez, Mom. Twist the knife, why don’t you?

Nova lets out a high-pitched giggle, which is imitated almost perfectly by the piano. It makes her laugh even harder.

That’s impressive. Mom has really been practicing.

It’s the laughter that gives me the push to turn the corner to the living room despite the sadness still tugging at me. Nova always could pull me out of whatever was getting me down. She’s magical like that.

But when I get to the living room, I stop in my tracks. Mom isn’t playing the piano. She’s standing there watching with Dad’s arm around her shoulders. I turn slowly to the upright piano against the wall of the living room, and I have to blink a few times before I can process what I’m seeing.

Beckett is sitting on the piano bench, his long fingers flying over the piano keys. Nova is on his lap between his arms, gently pushing random keys as he plays.

It’s the sweetest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

He finishes the song with a flourish. My parents applaud, and Nova also claps her chubby little hands together as she cries, “Again!”

I just stand there like an idiot. I’m not exactly sure what’s happening or why he’s here, and I’m afraid if I move, he’ll disappear up the chimney.

Beckett holds onto Nova as he spins his long legs over the back of the piano bench to face us. His ice-blue eyes meet mine immediately, like he sensed me enter the room a few minutes ago.

“Hi,” he says. As if him sitting at my mom’s piano in my parents’ living room holding my daughter on his lap is the most normal thing in the world.

“Uh, hi?”

“Oh, honey, your coworker here said you forgot this in his car, and he wanted to drop it off for you.” Mom holds a bookstore bag out to me. “Isn’t that nice?”

I take the bag with numb fingers, my eyes still on Beckett. “I… forgot this?”

“Sure,” he says. And if I’m not mistaken, his eyes sparkle with mischief. If I hadn’t spent a night with him, I’d think he was the portrait of casual nonchalance, but there’s a stiffness to his shoulders that suggests he’s wondering if he made the right choice showing up here.

Nova squirms off his lap. He hasn’t changed out of his clothes from yesterday, and on top of the wrinkles in them, there’s now a streak of flour that Nova leaves behind. I’m sure when he notices it, it’ll drive him nuts, but right now, he only has eyes for me.

“Let’s go finish those cookies, shall we? Give these two a minute.” Mom lifts Nova onto her hip.

“Any chance I can get out of it?” Dad pleads. He’s avoided cookie-pocalypse every year since I was a kid. I’m actually surprised he came out of his cave—also known as the den in the basement—to hear Beckett play knowing the cookies weren’t finished.

“Nope!” Mom uses her other arm to gently push him toward the kitchen. “I’m down a pair of hands, so yours will have to do.” She winks at me as the three of them pass by and out of the room.

Beckett stands slowly but doesn’t step away from the piano. “Sorry to ambush you.”

“I forgot… what is this?” I ask, lifting up the bag.

“A gift. For Nova,” he says gruffly.

I pinch my eyebrows together, confused. “You bought Nova a gift?”

He looks down at the bag in my hand as if it holds the answer. “Well, technically, yes. But you said you hadn’t had time to get her anything, so I thought…” he trails off and finally looks up at me. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes. He must see them, because he immediately backtracks. “It’s not that I think you can’t buy your own gifts. But I figured you wouldn’t be able to go out to get her anything, is all. You can pay me back if it means that much to you.”

His tone is hard, but is expression is soft. Words are failing me, so I swallow to try to ease the dryness in my mouth as I peek inside the bag. A baby doll stares up at me with big, green eyes.

Nova has an entire play chest full of baby dolls in various states of dress and cleanliness. She found scissors once, so a few of them are also missing chunks of hair. But she won’t let us throw any of them away. She pitches an absolute fit any time we try. So we are left with this gruesome play chest full of creepy-ass dolls in the family room. We absolutely do not need another doll. In fact, I had put a moratorium on baby doll purchases after her birthday four months ago.

But my smile stretches wide across my face, almost hurting my cheeks as I meet Beckett’s ice-blue gaze. “It’s perfect,” I say.

He visibly relaxes but stiffens again as if realizing something. “I’ll get out of your hair, then. Merry Christmas, Gemma.” Beckett says my name gently, like it’s a gift he’s keeping for himself. He spins on his heel and walks back toward the front door.

It would be devastating to never hear my name on his lips like this again. And that realization propels me forward.

“Sure seems like you don’t want to go,” I taunt.

He slowly faces me again. “What do you mean?”

“You came all the way back here with a gift for my daughter, lied to my parents about it, then played the piano with a child on your lap wearing wrinkled clothing with a flour stain. Pretty uncharacteristic of you, Becko.”

He looks down at himself, then brushes at the flour and smirks. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I tilt my head and narrow my eyes. “Why don’t you try something else completely unlike you?”

I fully expect him to scoff and walk out the door, but he takes a step toward me and says, “Like what?”

“Like stay for dinner. Like hang out with us tonight instead of in your sad, lonely penthouse.”

“It’s not a penthouse,” he grumbles, but he takes another step.

“Like spend some time with me when you’re not forced to.”

“I’m here when I’m not forced to be, aren’t I?” Another step. Then another. He’s just a few inches from me now.

“Like—”

“Like kiss you under the mistletoe?” His eyes drop to my lips.

“There is no mistletoe,” I whisper.

“Funny,” he says, circling his arm around my waist and pulling me close. “I could have sworn I saw some. I guess I’ll have to try something else, then. Maybe like giving this thing between you and me a shot?”

Beckett brushes his nose back and forth against mine. My breath catches. My heart aches. “You… want that?”

“If you do.”

First the gift, then he says he wants to be with me? Call me a snowman in April, because I’m a puddle.

I drop the bag unceremoniously on the floor and wrap my arms around his neck. It only takes a moment for our lips to come together. His hand snakes up my back, and he angles his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue teases mine, and his rosemary scent overtakes the smell of cookies and pot roast and pine.

I’m about to wrap my legs around his torso and let him pin me against the wall when I hear the paper bag crinkle at my feet. We break apart at the same time and look down to see Nova pull the doll out and squeal.

Beckett chuckles, the sound warm as it vibrates through me. I rest my head on his chest, and he squeezes around my shoulders.

“I couldn’t design a better Christmas if I tried,” Beckett says into my hair.

“That’s because Christmas is supposed to be messy,” I tease. He pinches my side, and I jump away from him, giggling.

But he’s right. This Christmas is already one of the best I’ve ever had.