“Good thing I said no.” I turned on my heel to leave. “If you don’t have time for friends, you don’t have time to date me.”
I walked away, hoping he enjoyed the view of my good-butt jeans.
Chapter 8
A few days later, I picked Summer up from ballet. Pressly was working late, and Beckett was MIA, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to see the kiddo. I even brought her a surprise.
“It’s not really from me,” I said, watching Summer’s eyes catch fire as she slid the book from the bag. “It’s from Thatcher. He gets a lot of advance reader copies…” My words trailed off and emotion choked my throat.
Like a blossom unfolding to the first ray of dawn, Summer’s smile beamed. “The new Clan series? But it doesn’t come out for months.”
“Thatcher is magic like that.”
Her smile grew and then faded as she became serious once again. “I wish I could start now.”
I reached over and flipped on the light above her visor. “There you go.”
“But my mom says it distracts her too much.”
“My dad never let me either.”
We exchanged a knowing eye roll, then Summer grinned and turned her attention to her book. I heard her surprised gasp and knew she’d seen the author’s signature on the title page.
“It’s signed!” Summer squealed again, examining the page.
“I know.” Having a signed copy of a book was worth more than gold. I only had a few, but they were some of my cherished possessions. I packed my signed books carefully with each move. Someday, when I settled down permanently, they would occupy a shelf of their own.
The remaining ride to Beckett’s mountain house was quiet, filled only with Summer’s sighs and bursts of laughter.
I’d told Pressly I would stay until she got off work. After taking Aslan for a walk, Summer and I settled down for some serious reading.
The L-shaped sofa had been cleaned and was back to being ivory. I was reluctant to sit on it.
“Why is everything in here white?” I asked Summer.
She looked up from her sprawled position in the corner of the sofa with a shrug. “I dunno. Uncle Kit isn’t good at decorating.”
I laughed, knowing full well Beckett had paid someone a lot of money to cultivate the white-on-white aesthetic.
Who has a white rug? Someone who is never home to walk on it.
After a moment’s hesitation, I joined Summer on the sofa. It was surprisingly comfortable. Sinking into the cushions, I stroked Aslan’s coarse fur and felt a sense of calm wash over me. Maybe there was something to the lack of color.
Beyond the windows, the snow-capped peaks of the mountains gleamed in the moonlight. I bet the sunsets were amazing from this spot.
Did Beckett ever make time to sit and watch the sunset?
No, he seemed more of a sunrise kind of guy. I could imagine him waking early and padding out onto the eastern-facing deck with a mug of coffee in his hand.
Did Beckett drink coffee? I had no idea. I hadn’t seen any evidence of a coffeemaker. Then again, it had taken me nearly a week to locate the refrigerator hidden behind the seamless cabinet.
I decided, for the sake of my fantasy, that Beckett did drink coffee, and he took it black. A no-nonsense man like him wouldn’t want his caffeine laced with milk or sugar. He’d want it strong and bitter, serving its purpose as a morning wakeup call. Then again…He did wear socks with rubber duckies. Maybe he liked cream and sugar after all.
In my fantasy, Beckett was shirtless. He wore a pair of pajama bottoms that hung off his lean hips and no socks. Bracing his elbows on the railing, he leaned artfully, watching the sun rise over the horizon. His hair would be tousled from sleep, his jaw dusted with the shadow of his dark beard, and his eyes bright. He would smell of clean sheets, and he would turn to me, opening his arms…
“Uncle Kit!” Summer cried.
My pulse hammered, and I was pulled from my fantasy to see Beckett striding down the hall in a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. His eyes found me, and a tingle raced down my spine. My cheeks flushed as I recalled I was about to walk into his arms in my little dreamworld.
