Page 21 of Christmas By Design

He shakes his head incredulously, but even in the dim light, I can see the smirk playing at his lips. It feels like a victory to have made that smile appear.

Beckett scoops up his discarded crusts and deposits them on my plate. And I don’t know why, but it strikes me as such a sweet thing to do—to give me more of something I like, even if he didn’t want it anyway.

He catches me watching him, and I could swear he blushes, but it’s hard to tell when the only light is a propped-up flashlight and an ambient fireplace. After dropping the knife in the sink, which he’s also started dripping to prevent freezing pipes, he hands me my plate and waves his hand at two glasses resting on the far end of the counter, each half-full of amber liquid.

“I found a bottle of whiskey in the pantry. I don’t think Mrs. Dash will mind, given the circumstances.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not a huge fan.”

He takes a glass with him and moves toward the fireplace. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought it might help us keep warm.”

I study the glass. On one hand, strong alcohol plus Beckett plus a cozy fireplace is probably going to equal disaster. On the other hand, he has a point.

Ultimately, I take the glass with me. Which, I suppose is a choice on a number of levels.

Beckett has spread a blanket out on the floor next to the fireplace. He’s sitting cross-legged in front of his plate, so I do the same across from him. And then I proceed to practically inhale the sandwich and all the pieces of crust he’s made for me. I wash it down with the whiskey, which burns, but is followed by a nice warmth that radiates out from my belly.

When I glance at Beckett, he’s sipping from his own glass and watching me, amused. “Would you like another? Or maybe five?”

“Listen, I didn’t expect to go almost twenty-four hours without food when I was running late and skipped breakfast this morning, okay?” I glare at him playfully over my glass as I take another sip of the warm liquid. I wince a little as I swallow, but it’s actually not so bad once you get used to it.

“Mom life?”

I sigh, breaking off a piece of muffin and popping it in my mouth. “Yeah,” I say around my bite. “Even with my parents’ help, it’s a lot. I don’t want to depend on them too much, you know? Especially since I don’t plan to be living with them much longer.”

“Why not stay with them?” he asks, taking another—much more polite—bite of his sandwich.

“Nova’s getting older, and we share a room at my parents’. I want my own space, and I think she needs hers, too. And, I don’t know”—I shrug—“it probably sounds stupid, but I want to prove I can do it.”

“Seems to be a theme with you.”

“Is it so bad to want to live your life on your own terms?” I frown at him as I take another sip of whiskey. It’s starting to make me feel all gooey, and I can’t say I don’t like it.

“I…” he snaps his lips shut and looks as if he’s considering something. “No. But I don’t think it’s bad to have help, either.” He nods once as if that’s that.

“I’ll still have help. I’ll just have it my way. My parents are great, but they’re always there. I need space.”

“For boyfriends?” He studies the fire as he says it, but there’s a note of bitterness to his tone.

It might be the whiskey making me bold, but I can’t help poking the bear. “What would be wrong about that?”

He takes another bite and follows it up with a sip. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing, Becker.”

Why am I doing this? Why am I instigating? I know well enough that grumpy Beckett Camdon is a loner and a scrooge, and any interest he may have shown in me is either fleeting, out of common human decency, or a figment of my imagination. I shouldn’t let it go to my head just because he hugged me a few hours ago, and I certainly shouldn’t let my hormones talk. It’s not on him that I’ve been practically celibate since Nova was born.

But, for some reason, I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s boredom or the whiskey or the way his ice-blue eyes are focused on me, as if drinking me in is warming him more than the whiskey.

“What?” I ask, after he’s been silent for a while.

“Were you flirting with me?” He spits out the words like he’s worried if he doesn’t, he’ll never say them.

“Trust me, Beecher. You’d know if I was flirting with you.” I cock an eyebrow and take another drink, only to find it empty.

“Like now?” he asks, and I’m pretty sure I detect hope in his voice.

“It’s inappropriate to flirt with coworkers. Especially ones with fancy salaries and offices.”