Page 8 of Christmas By Design

“Then use the favor on yourself.”

He scoffs. “My car isn’t going to break down.”

“How could I forget?” I ask sardonically. “Only the best for Beckett Camdon.”

I could swear his light blue eyes flash at the use of his full name. Probably out of anger. Or surprise. He clears his throat. “Do you want to wait with your car?” The question is gentle and laced with understanding. Not sympathy, though. He’s just being… nice. Which is unexpectedly attractive. But it’s also clear he’s not letting me call my own tow truck. Which might actually also be him being nice.

It completely throws me off.

“Uh…” I stammer. I run a hand over the steering wheel, willing the lump in my throat not to rise. This car has been with me through a lot. Saying goodbye to her on the side of the road is making me gloomy.

Beckett, to his credit, just waits for me. It doesn’t feel impatient or moody. It almost feels like he understands.

“No,” I say finally. “This has been a long time coming. I kind of doubt your guy will even think it’s worth fixing. Let’s just go.” I slide my gaze from the dashboard to meet his, which is impassively trained on me. “But it’s your lucky day. You get to spend even more time with me.” I forcefully twist my mouth into a cheesy grin.

“Oh, joy,” he responds with zero emotion.

There’s the Beckett I know. It settles me to be on firmer ground with him. I tap the steering wheel once and check my rearview mirror before stepping out of the car. He follows behind.

Chapter 5

Beckett

For an entire week, I couldn’t get the image of Gemma searching for money in her bag out of my mind. She said I pity her. I don’t. She might be a bit of a mess, but she’s a strong woman. I’ve heard her talking to contractors on the phone at the office. She doesn’t take any shit from anyone. But seeing her near panic brought up some memories of my mom that I thought I had hidden long ago.

Any time I’ve tried to talk to her about the project in the past few days, she closes off. It’s like her perpetual brightness has been replaced by skepticism. I’ve found that I don’t like it very much.

So, when she called me on my way to the Dash house and her voice sounded shaky and defeated, something came over me. As if watching her cynicism grow by the day has changed me in some way, and listening to her breaking up is just too much to bear.

I don’t hesitate. I step on the gas and call my car guy on the way to her.

I can’t name the feeling I get when I slide into the passenger seat of her car and see she’s okay. She hadn’t told me what happened. For all I knew, her car was on fire. So when I see her, I can’t help but check her over. The worst I can say for her is that her nails are bitten to all hell, and her nose is pink with cold.

She’s just… fine.

But that’s probably the best I can say for her, too, as she sits in my car saying nothing, alternating between chewing on her lip and her nails, watching the bland, winter scenery pass us by for the entirety of the drive to the Dash house.

If she wants to drive in silence, that’s fine by me. I prefer it. But I can’t shake the feeling that I should say something, if only to stop her from chewing on her thoughts along with her fingernails.

I wish I were better at small talk. Forty years old, and I’ve never been able to master the skill. If anything, it’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older. Probably because I see less and less of a need to make other people comfortable the longer I’m on this planet. But it doesn’t change the fact that, right now, it would be a nice skill to have.

When we pull up to the Dash house, though, Gemma gasps. Honestly, I share the sentiment. The house is, in a word, enormous. It’s two full stories tall with dormer windows on a smaller, third floor—probably an attic. There’s a huge wrap-around porch and multiple entrances. From where we sit, it appears as if the siding and porch have been refinished. It looks brand new. The siding is painted a bright canary yellow, and the porch and surrounding fence have been whitewashed. Not my first choice of color scheme, but I remind myself that this design project isn’t about what I’d pick. I’m begrudgingly here to make Mrs. Dash happy.

Upon further inspection, the windows look warped. The sunlight reflected in the panes is distorted, and there’s a classic diamond pattern in some of them. Leaded glass, most likely. Interesting.

I take in the landscape as well. This huge, old farmhouse stands on one hundred acres of land in Northwest Indiana. It would be the perfect location for a bed and breakfast or a wedding venue, both possibilities I know Gemma has talked to Mrs. Dash about.

The front door opens, and exactly the type of old woman I’d expect to own this place walks out. Her hair is gray and pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head. She’s wearing an old, brown crew neck sweatshirt and baggy jeans that are hastily shoved into boots as if she pulled them on when she saw us approach. She tugs a huge, crocheted shawl over her shoulders against the chill of the December morning. She looks like she could be a farmer’s wife, though I know this land hasn’t been used for any real farming for at least a decade.

Gemma wastes no time getting out of the car. She doesn’t even spare me a glance as she pushes her door open and steps out. It makes me wonder if the drive was so unbearable that she can’t stand to be in this car with me for one minute longer. The thought of it sends an unexpected pang through my chest. What the fuck? I rub at it as if that could take the feeling away.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dash!” she calls as she slams the door shut behind her. I still need a minute to recover from that strange feeling, but it looks like I don’t have one. I scramble to turn the car off and get out, feeling uneven and a bit shaky.

Mrs. Dash meets Gemma about halfway to the porch, and I’m bringing up the rear just as a huge, gray dog comes bounding out the front door. No, that’s not a dog. That’s more like a horse. I freeze, and I must make a noise because Gemma whips around to see me standing there, wide-eyed, staring at this monster creature who seems to only have eyes for me.

Gemma doesn’t hesitate. She steps right in front of the dog, drops to her knees, and opens her arms wide. That thing bounds right into her open arms. She wraps it in a hug of sorts as she rubs its ears and lets it lick her face.

Disgusting.