Page 12 of Christmas By Design

My eyes practically bug out of my head. I can’t shell out five hundred dollars if I’m going to be able to buy a house. “Well, if it makes him feel good to do these favors for you, far be it from me to take that away from him.”

Beckett hums in an I thought so kind of way. It’s irritating, but I’m suddenly too tired to engage. The adrenaline I got from giving him crap at the Dash house is wearing off, and the lack of sleep from Nova’s wakefulness last night must be catching up with me. It’s especially hard to stay awake with the landscape rolling hypnotically by. I settle in for more silence.

After a few minutes, I’m almost nodding off when he says, quietly, “You asked to work with me.”

I don’t take my eyes off the winter landscape, still too tired to give him shit or lie or even tease. “I did.”

“Why?” His voice is gruff, like just asking the question requires a good deal of effort.

I could say something sarcastic about how I love his stubborn ways and his boring neutrals. But what’s the point? I’m too drained to even think of a stupid nickname, let alone lie. The truth is, he’s not the easiest person to work with, but he’s not a bad guy. It’s why I started with the nicknames, originally. After I got to know him, pissing him off ended up being a bonus. The other guys in the office all had stupid names they called each other, and he was the only one who insisted on calling me by my last name only. Not “honey,” or “sweetie,” or worse. I don’t know if he respects me—that might be a strong word. But he doesn’t demean me, and the more my anxiety has been ramping up, the more I needed this job to be easy.

“Honestly, Beckett? I needed a win before the end of the year, and you’re the only guy at the company who doesn’t give me crap about my kid or being a woman or a whole host of other probably offensive things about me. So, I thought working with you would be tolerable.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and I could swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch up just a bit. But it lowers just as quickly. “Tolerable,” he repeats.

“‘Fun’ would be a step too far, I think. But yeah.”

“You don’t have to put up with harassment from them, you know,” he says after a pause.

“Yes. I do.” I sigh. I don’t owe him an explanation, but the angle of his head and the tense grip he has on the steering wheel make me think he’s invested in this. Almost like he cares. It makes me want to give him the benefit of the doubt, so I add, “This is what being a woman in a male-dominated profession is like. If I complain, I’m a bitch. If I let it continue, it’ll never end. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I chose a long time ago to let it roll off me. It’s easier that way. But you’re not like them. You don’t really give a shit about much outside of the office. You’re happy as long as the work gets done.” I reconsider. “Well, happy might be pushing it. But you know what I mean.”

“What you’re saying is I’m the nice guy in the office.”

Is he… teasing? It seems like he is, but his expression is stoic, so it’s hard to tell.

“That’s not what I’m saying. That’s what you’re hearing,” I correct him. He needs to come down a peg or ten before he lets this get to his head.

“I can be nice,” he says softly. “I have even been known to buy a coffee for a coworker on occasion.”

I roll my eyes. “Hot chocolate. And I’ll never say no to a hot chocolate from a coworker. Just not when he thinks I’m a damsel in distress.”

“No,” Beckett says, and there’s that almost-smirk again. It lights him up, in a way, and I’m shocked to find he’s even more handsome when he almost smiles. “You’re only a damsel in distress when your car is stalled on the side of the highway.”

I flare my nostrils and flatten my lips. Never mind. It’s hard to find someone handsome when they’re a total asshole.

“I could have called my own help, you know. I’m perfectly capable of using a phone. You were just closer.”

“Of course,” he says.

I could retort because he’s clearly patronizing me, but I don’t. The problem is that he’s not entirely wrong. So, instead, I let the flat Midwest landscape lull me into relaxation while I try very hard not to think about Beckett’s almost-smiles.

Chapter 7

Beckett

The next Monday, I’m sitting in my office with the door open, grumbling over the renderings of the Dash house on my monitor. Not even the gorgeous, instrumental piano versions of Christmas carols playing softly from my computer speakers can save me from the reality that is this kitchen. I had called Mrs. Dash at the end of last week trying to get her to change her mind on the teal retro refrigerator under the guise of the expense and difficulty of finding such a piece. But she simply assured me—yet again—that she has the utmost faith in my ability to find one, and that there is no budget. I suggested a white or even almond design, but she just laughed, told me I was a funny young man, and hung up.

So, now, I’m playing around with a kitchen layout that needs to get done today or else we risk the contractors falling behind schedule, and I’m trying to place a teal refrigerator somewhere that won’t look overly garish.

“Oh wow. That’s hideous.”

I startle in my chair, then swivel it to find Gemma standing behind me, her head cocked and a couple of wayward red curls hanging over her cheek. She’s frowning at my computer screen, but from the way her mouth is twisting, it’s pretty clear she’s holding back a laugh. “Did I scare you?”

“I was working. You should try it sometime,” I say drily.

“Hmm,” she hums as she cocks an eyebrow. “I have to say, I’m impressed, Becky-pop. I didn’t think you had that fridge in you.”

I glare at her, wishing I could shoot actual daggers at her across the desk. “You shouldn’t have suggested it, then,” I grind out.