Ollie shook her head. “To dry the lettuce, Uncle Beck. Mom says you still need to be domesticated.”
Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I’ll be sure to thank her,” he said as he watched Presley bite her bottom lip. He arched his brow at her, a dare to laugh. Her lips quivered but she held strong. Little sparks flickered in his stomach, interest he didn’t need and hadn’t felt in a long time stirring.
“I’m going to grab the steaks. You staying for dinner, Ollie?”
“I’m just here for the marshmallows. I already ate. Chef made me mac and cheese.”
“Chef likes you,” Beckett said, grabbing the steaks, a plate, and a fork.
“He let me help make it.”
He smiled at his niece. Chef Shane, like most other people, was charmed by her outgoing, mini-adult personality. The chef was an older man who’d been cooking for the lodge for close to fifteen years. When they’d taken over, it was actually the one part of the business running smoothly. Though they had a small room for him off the kitchen, his husband traveled back and forth each day to drop him off and pick him up. The men had each other but not much in the way of other family, so they tended to treat all of the Kellers like their own kids.
Or grandkids. “You’ll be running this place before long.” Looking at Presley, ignoring the little clutch in his chest, he asked, “You’re okay?”
She nodded. “I am. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He realized, even though he’d wanted nothing more than the night to himself, that he meant it.
They ate around the tiny table that had come with the cabin. Ollie begged to stand even though he told her she could have his seat. She nibbled on small bites of steak even as she chatted nonstop about the guests, the grounds, finishing first grade, her mom and her uncles.
When she started a story about how Beckett almost fell into the lake last week, he interrupted her. “You should ask Presley something about herself, kid.”
Ollie stood straighter, her face a mask of concentration like she was trying to come up with the best question possible.
“Tell us about yourself, Presley.”
Presley smiled and started to talk. Ollie interrupted with a barrageof questions. “Are you married? Do you have kids? Do you like to fish? How old are you? Mr. Dayton is sixty-seven.”
Beckett ground his teeth together to avoid letting out a sigh. Bernard—Bernie—Dayton, a guest who’d been with them for about four days now, was about the only person Beckett knew who could outtalk his niece.
“Is he someone special?” Presley asked as she cut a tiny piece of steak.
Ollie shook her head. “Nope. He’s just a guest, but mom said all guests are special. But he likes to ask a lot of questions.”
That was an understatement. The old guy was likable, funny even, but he liked to talk and ask questions, and when Beckett was fixing things, he enjoyed pointing out how to make other improvements. He’d booked a room through the middle of July, so they were trying to make his stay worthwhile and enjoyable. He didn’t seem to mind that other guests weren’t frequent. “Like someone else I know. You didn’t give her a chance to answer, Ollie.”
Ollie ducked her head. “Sorry.”
Presley leaned over, squeezed Ollie’s arm. “Don’t apologize. You’re delightful. Let’s see, what did you ask? I’m not married, no kids, no siblings either. I have a best friend who has probably texted me a hundred times today. I don’t like to fish. At least I don’t think I do. To be honest, I never have. I’m thirty-one.”
“Uncle Beck is the big three-oh.”
Presley’s laugh got him again, making his chest feel too tight. He liked the way she looked smiling at his niece, talking about herself, and sharing a meal with them. Usually he avoided guests because he ran out of things to say, but with her, he didn’t feel the need to fill the empty space with words.
“You’re older than him,” Ollie noted.
Before Beckett could mention something about manners, Presley nodded her head, met his gaze with a smile and then looked back to Ollie. “I guess I am. How about you? Any husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, pets?”
Ollie giggled. Beckett wasn’t sure he’d ever had a dinner that was in turn nerve-racking and completely enjoyable at the same time.
“None. But I’m trying to convince Uncle Grayson we should get a goat. It would help with the lawn.”
“You’re right. But it might eat your garden,” Presley said, stabbing some lettuce with her fork.
She didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. Beckett was nearly finished with his dinner and still hungry.
