Page 55 of A Whim and a Prayer

Her look was almost maternal. “Because you’ve been in love with Winnie for a long time, Beckett Campbell, and that kiss on stage just rubber-stamped it.”

He smiled as he shook his head. “I sure wish your sister was as astute as you, Jewels.”

“She will be, once the fear goes away.”

The bridge of his nose buckled. “What fear?”

She gave him another hug and stepped back with a compassionate tilt of her head. “I think she’s afraid she’s going to lose your friendship, Beck.”

A harsh grunt popped from his lips. “She’s only going to lose it if she pushes me away,” he said, hardly able to believe he was having this conversation with a little girl.

Julia nodded sagely. “Which is why I’m going to pray my heart out for you both because I don’t want to lose you either.”

He stared, saltwater burning once again. Nor do I want to lose you or the rest of the Dennehys, he suddenly realized. They were family … and oh, how he wished that someday, they would be for real. “Aw, Jewels”—he swallowed her up in a powerful hug—“you’ll never lose me, sweetheart, because you’re a little sister to me, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded so small as he set her back down with a tap of her nose. “Now you better get Winnie’s room cleaned up because if she won’t talk to me, I’ll need you to fill in.”

She grinned, the effect almost shy. “You can count on me, Beck.”

“I know,” he said under his breath as she scooted up the steps. “Now, I wish I could do the same with your sister.”

“Beck—you’re here!” Mrs. Dennehy’s head popped out of the kitchen door with a bright smile as she waved him forward. “Come on in—I need your help.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Dennehy.” He followed her into the kitchen and rolled up the sleeves of his light-blue Oxford button-down shirt. “How can I help?”

She pointed to the chair. “Sit. You can help by talking to me.” She opened the oven to peek in at two large meat loaves, and instantly Beck’s mouth began to water. Setting a timer, she turned around and clapped her palms together. “Now, how ’bout some snickerdoodle or chocolate chip cookies?” She hesitated, teeth tugging her lip. “Oh wait, that could ruin your dinner, I suppose.”

He grinned and shook his head, his mouth watering a second time over his favorite cookies that Mrs. D sent him during his brief stint in the war. “Uh, I’m twenty-four years old, Mrs. Dennehy. I’m pretty sure cookies are not going to daunt my appetite for your world-famous meat loaf.”

She giggled like a schoolgirl, reminding him so much of Winnie and Julia despite her sophisticated appearance. “Oh, well, okay, you talked me into it, I guess.” She promptly set a plate of cookies in front of him and then pulled a glass from the cabinet. “Milk as usual?”

“Yes, ma’am, that would be great.”

“I tell you, Beck, you’re like a second son to me and if my prayers have any sway”—she shot him a pointed look before pouring his milk—“you will be.” She thudded the milk down before him as if punctuating her remark.

He laughed as heat ringed his collar, quickly gulping his milk to try and douse the fire crawling up the back of his neck. He knew Mrs. Dennehy liked him because she always told him so, and he had a standing invitation for dinner once a week, always issued through Winnie, of course.

Until lately.

But deep down he suspected her affection went beyond Beck being Winnie’s best friend and protector to something more. Especially the last few years, as if she wanted to pair them romantically as much as he and his mother did.

Winnie liked to complain that her mother was the proverbial “busybody,” “bloodhound,” and a relentless “yenta” who loved matchmaking, plotting, and digging up dirt. Of course, she always rolled her eyes when she said it, but Beck was grateful for Mrs. D’s interest and tenacity because it made the current strain in his and Winnie’s relationship easier to talk about.

And Beck had no doubt that was exactly what Mrs. D wanted to do.

No doubt at all.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“So …” she said as she lifted lids to check several pots simmering on the stove. She lobbed a glance over her shoulder with a playful pump of brows, “those were some kisses onstage, Beckett Campbell, which appeared to be a wee bit more than acting.”

The blood stormed up the back of his neck again, this time making it all the way into his face. Even so, he appreciated Mrs. D’s point-blank approach—let’s get it out on the table without dancing around.

Or in Winnie’s case, running away.

She hurried over to sit with him, blue eyes lit with excitement as the bloodhound in her sniffed him out. “You’re in love with my daughter, aren’t you?”

More blood broiled his face, but by this time he was used to it. No fuss or muss—just right for the jugular. “Yes, ma’am, I am,” he said with another gulp of milk, never one to dilly-dally—something he and Mrs. D obviously had in common.