Page 4 of Christmas By Design

Which is also why I needed this project to fill out the down payment on a house. I have trouble finding people to work with. And Beckett said no.

Typical.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before he nods curtly. “Woodard,” he says as if my name tastes bad in his mouth.

“Imagine seeing you here, Becky.” I use one of my endless supply of nicknames for him because it pisses him off. I’m rewarded for my efforts with his narrowed eyes.

“Becky!” Nova shouts, and I bark out a laugh. It’s probably the lingering adrenaline from my near-panic attack that makes me laugh so loudly, but it feels good. Beckett’s face is impassive, though I think I see a corner of his mouth tick up as he looks down at her again. It’s gone too fast to be sure.

His gaze slides back up to me. I’m not really sure why he’s still standing here, empty-handed and just looking at me.

It finally occurs to me that he didn’t order anything back there. I raise an eyebrow at him. “What, no coffee as black as your heart to stoke the devil-fire in your belly?” I ask.

That corner of his mouth ticks again, but this time it looks more like a twitch than a glimmer of amusement. He glances at Nova, then back to me. “At least one of you has some manners,” he drawls. “And no, I wasn’t in line for coffee. I’m here to find a gift for my mother.”

I tilt my head and hum. “So, he does have family,” I muse. “I don’t suppose she taught you your excellent manners?”

He purses his lips as he regards me with that icy stare. “She taught me enough that I wouldn’t let a woman hold up the line for coffee.”

I shrug a shoulder. I’m suddenly too tired for a witty comeback. Anxiety will do that to you. But I’m also not thanking this asshole. Fifteen dollars is nothing for a guy who lives in a penthouse apartment. Okay, not a penthouse, but I know it’s still expensive, and I’m sure it’s pretty sweet. It’s the least he can do after costing me my own house.

“See you Monday, Beckster.” I take Nova’s hand and try to pull her past him, since he’s dead set on just standing there.

But Nova removes her hand out from mine so she can wave enthusiastically at Beckett. “Bye-bye, Becky! Merry Christmas!” She beams at him.

I could swear he softens just a fraction. He actually waves back, which would be sweet in any other circumstance.

But I cackle coldly. “Yeah, Becky. Merry Christmas.”

Chapter 3

Beckett

Despite what Gemma Woodard might think of me, I’m not a heartless bastard. My mother did, in fact, teach me how to treat women right. She raised me by herself; my dad left before I can even remember. She had a boyfriend when I was around seven years old, and he left, too. Broke both our damn hearts. After that, it was just me and her, forever.

When I saw Gemma on Saturday as I entered Macy’s, her movements were choppy and laced with panic. Her little girl was squeezing her leg as if she, too, were afraid of something. Or, maybe, like she felt she could single-handedly keep her mom from crumpling into an anxious puddle on the floor. I remember moments like that from my own childhood—my mom crying over bills when she thought I was in bed, or her telling me I couldn’t have a toy from the dollar aisle because we couldn’t afford it.

So, there was only one thing to do. Pay for her order.

Who says I have no Christmas spirit?

Well, Gemma seems to think so. I’m not sure why she hates me so much, but she clearly does.

It isn’t until Sunday afternoon that I realize she must have needed that historical house renovation to make ends meet. She’s not paid the same salary I am. Jacob pays most of his employees smaller salaries, and then they receive bonuses for each house that sells. Gemma must see this one as a sure thing since the old woman who owns the house isn’t moving, so the owner will pay for the renovations no matter what.

I prevented Gemma from getting the money from the start of this project. So, just like Saturday, I do the only thing there is to do. I call Jacob and tell him I’ve changed my mind.

See? I’m brimming with Christmas spirit. Which is why I’m shocked when, almost immediately upon entering my office on Monday morning, the door opens and slams shut before I have even dropped my bag on the floor next to my desk.

I turn around slowly. Gemma is standing there, breathing heavily. Her cheeks are flushed prettily, and her green eyes are on fire in a way that stirs something deep inside me.

But I try to ignore whatever that is, because she’s definitely not here to thank me.

She doesn’t seem to be here to say anything at all, just breathe loudly and stare at me as if she could shoot lasers out of her eyeballs. I take my time removing my coat and hanging it up. By the time I lower myself into my chair and look back at her, her face is even redder, her eyes are even more fiery, and I still have no fucking clue what’s going on.

“Can I help you, Woodard?” I ask, keeping my tone measured. The last thing I need is for her to fly off the handle.

“I don’t need your pity,” she snaps.