Page 20 of Christmas By Design

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.”