Page 11 of Christmas By Design

“My what?”

“Your fuel filter. In your car.”

I frown. “How should I know?”

“You don’t know what kinds of routine maintenance you have done on your vehicle and when?”

“Is it routine maintenance to change a fuel filter?”

Beckett drags his hand through his hair that’s still more pepper than salt and blows out an exasperated puff of air through pursed lips. “Yes, Woodard. That is routine maintenance.”

“Okay…” I say slowly, hunching over and staring out the passenger window. My hand involuntarily finds its way to my mouth again so I can bite the nail on my ring finger. “So, I killed my own car. You don’t need to rub it in.” I sound like a sullen child, but I don’t even care. It’s one thing to razz him about his design choices; it’s another to make me feel like shit because I can’t handle my own life.

“You… what? No.” He grabs my wrist and pulls it gently away from me. “Stop doing that. You’ll have no nails left.”

His hand is so warm and pleasant. It shocks me, because it seems so incongruous with his crusty exterior, and I’m surprised to find I like his touch on my wrist. There’s something so kind and reassuring about it. It almost takes some of the tension out of my shoulders. Almost.

I roll my eyes, scrambling to get a handle on my hormones. “Sure, Mom.”

He regards me for a long moment. Long enough that his expression softens, and I start to get uncomfortable again.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask as I shift in my seat. The leather squeaks under me. Of course it does. Just another reminder of something else I can’t afford even in my wildest dreams.

“Your car is fine. My guy just had to replace the filter. We can pick it up on our way back.”

I straighten in my seat. “Are you serious?” I ask excitedly, then I slump again when I remember what this is going to do to my wallet. “How much is this going to set me back?”

“Nothing.”

I raise my pinched eyebrows, then look at him like he’s completely lost it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says carefully, “that it’s not costing anything. I told you, he owes me.”

“He owes you a last-minute tow, parts, and labor on a car that’s not even yours?”

He breathes out a long-suffering sigh. “All tows are last-minute.”

I throw my hands up and slap them on my thighs in frustration. “You’re not answering my question.”

“What’s the question?” he asks, equally annoyed.

“I don’t believe you!” I cry out.

“That’s still not a question.”

I glare at him and swallow hard. “I told you before, BK. I can take care of myself.”

My relief at being able to come up with another nickname on the fly after almost being caught reusing one is short-lived. Beckett’s expression turns soft again, and he tilts his head. “I know you can, Woodard. But does taking care of yourself mean you can never let anyone do anything nice for you?”

I reel back as if he’s hit me. “I let people do nice things for me.”

“You wouldn’t even let me buy you a coffee.”

“It was a hot chocolate,” I retort, “and I think we both know it wasn’t about the beverage. I don’t want people paying for my things, especially when they think I can’t do it myself. I can.”

He studies me again, then nods once and puts the car in reverse to back out of the driveway. Conversation over, I guess. Back to awkward silence while I watch the flat Midwest pass me by in Beckett’s fancy-ass car.

Beckett eases onto the country road that will take us to the highway as he says, “I’m not paying for your car. This guy is a buddy of mine. I loaned him some money to start his repair shop.” He glances at me, then turns his attention back to the road. “He paid me back, but he does the odd favor for me every now and then. So I called one in. But if your pride won’t allow you to accept a kind gesture at Christmas, then it’ll probably total around five hundred dollars.”