Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chelle

Chelle was still trying to remember that the clock was ticking on this whole limited-time marriage, but it was hard when she was at Gable House with Nash and his family.

Fiona Hartigan—soon to be Beckett—had already gotten her to agree to be her date for the next Ice Knights game, since Dixon rooted for the hated Cajun Rage. Kinsey, who had a delicate engagement ring on her left hand, had tied a tea towel apron around Chelle’s waist the second she said she’d help make the cranberry biscuits. The secret ingredient, she’d learned, was enough butter to clog every artery in Harbor City—in other words, the first batch was absolutely delicious. Griff had become best friends with Sir Hiss the moment the cat had landed on his shoulders, and the giant, tattooed guy grunted at him, then proceeded to ignore the feline completely as he worked on stringing the lights around the Christmas tree in the front room.

Meanwhile, Mary Puppins and Groucho Barks were having the time of their lives out in the massive yard between the house and the lake, chasing after Maurice the attack goose, who was racing after Dixon, who was sneaking the huge bird squares of watermelon from a plastic baggie in his pocket while he added metallic red garland to the shrubs with Fiona’s help. Bristol and Macon had teamed up to unpack all of the Christmas dishes their grandmother had collected while Karmel told them all the good gossip about everyone in Hollywood.

And Nash? Well, if he wasn’t next to Chelle, using a water glass to cut out biscuits after she rolled the dough, he was checking on her pets, or sneaking kisses in the butler’s pantry, or exchanging covert high fives with Alexandra, the housekeeper and knower of all things big and small when it came to the Becketts. The woman was a character, all regal silver hair and sparkling green eyes that never missed a thing. She’d given everyone their decorating assignments as soon as they’d walked in the front door of the brightly painted Victorian mansion. As a first timer, Chelle won the coveted job of putting the angels on all of the Christmas trees throughout the house.

And there were a lot—like fifteen—all with their own themed decor and filled with handmade decorations signed with one of the cousin’s names and what grade they were in when they made them. She’d spent the last thirty minutes visiting each one with Nash, who carried a giant box of delicate angels that he unwrapped for her. His grandma had knitted each of the angels with such a soft touch and detail that they were works of art.

The Becketts were so different from the Finches that she had to keep reminding herself to stop expecting the worst, because unless the Becketts were complete sociopaths, their family was pretty close to the polar opposite of the one she’d grown up in. For one, the men weren’t all in the den, drinks in hand, waiting for their wives to come refresh them. The women, in turn, weren’t all packed into the kitchen or the laundry room, alone, doing the often unseen labor it takes to pull off a family gathering.

It was nice, and calm, and it would be easy to imagine that this was what her life would be like from now on—a large part of her wanted to live in the fantasy even knowing she had a few days to go before the timer went off on her marriage.

“I have a surprise for you,” Nash said as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, tucking her in close so that the top of her head brushed the underside of his chin as they stood in front of the last Christmas tree.

“Does it involve a quickie in a closet?” Not that she’d been eyeballing the closed door under the stairs or anything—but she totally had.

Nash shifted his stance, bringing her closer against him. “No, but I like how your mind works.” He spread his hand wide over her lower belly, sneaking a few fingers under the waistband of her jeans. “You know, I think we should try out all of the closets.”

Was she tempted? Hell yes. Was she going to take Nash up on the offer? No. Getting caught going at it in a closet was not the way she wanted the Becketts to remember her, even if she’d likely never see them again after Christmas.

That little reminder had her blinking away unexpected tears as she stared hard—really fucking hard—at a badly cut-out stock-paper glove with a picture of Santa Claus drawn in crayon and signed Nash, first grade. Clenching her jaw tight enough to hurt, she inhaled a deep breath while making sure not to flinch or let her shoulders sink or in any other way show how hard the reality of the situation hit.

They had an agreement. She would stick to it. She owed him that much for helping her save the foundation from her uncle.

Pulling her shit together, she exhaled and did her best attempt at being casual. “What’s the surprise, Nash?”

He stepped back, drawing his hand slowly across her belly as he did, as if he didn’t want to let her go, either. Then he held out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

“This better not be a closet,” she said as she intertwined her fingers with his, a shiver of anticipation winding its way through her.

“Next time.”

He led her to the door under the stairs, pushed it open, and stood back so she could see inside. At first all she could clock was how bright the room was with light coming in from south-facing windows that looked out toward the lake. Then she took stock of everything else in the room and her jaw dropped.

“Oh my God,” she said, squeezing Nash’s hand a little harder as she took it all in, trying to make sense of what he’d done.

What had been a small sitting room filled with several comfy-looking chairs bracketing a fireplace, had been transformed so that half of it was a near-exact replica of her writing space at home, right down to the same desk, a copy of her chair, and even the same brand of pens and notebooks that could only be found in a small, indie paper goods store in the Breakwater neighborhood that’s business hours were basically whenever the woman running the shop felt like opening. There were even matching dog beds next to the desk so Mary and Groucho could nap while she worked. A laptop sat in the middle of the desk right next to a bright red one-cup coffeemaker. A black mug with There Be Dragons printed on it in gold was next to a basket overflowing with different-flavored coffee pods—exactly like it was at home.

Nash came up behind her, still holding her hand, and tucked her in against his hard chest, her head fitting perfectly under his chin. “I know you gave up your writing time to be here, and my family can be a lot, so I thought it would be nice to have this as a room to escape to or write if the urge hit, or you just needed to get away from the family this weekend.”

Everything inside her went all gooey, and she had no clue how to process that. People doing things for her wasn’t the way things worked in her life—at least not before Nash—so she focused on one thing that had nothing to do with emotions. “Is that my laptop?”

“No,” he said, “but it’s the same kind preloaded with the software and apps you use so you can log in and pick up where you left off.”

Emotion clogged her throat, and she had to purse her lips together to keep the happy tears flooding her eyes at bay.

Had she thought laptops couldn’t be emotional triggers? Obviously, that was before her fake husband had taken the time to get her a duplicate laptop to work on at his family’s lake home.

And turned a sitting room into a replica of her office.

And held her against him while she tried to understand the jumble of happy, and excited, and terrified, and awed, and OMG everything fizzing around inside her like Pop Rocks.

Chelle didn’t know where to look, her gaze ping-ponging from one thing to another as an unfamiliar warmth blossomed in her chest until it felt like she might burst. Instead, she turned in his arms, pulling back just enough that when she tilted her chin up, she could see Nash as he chewed the bottom of his lip.

“Look, I know it’s not exactly the same, and looking at it now, it’s a little creepy. I swear I’m not building a shrine to you in a basement somewhere.” He let out a hard exhale, then looked down at her. “Do you hate it?”

And just like that, everything settled in her chest, a certainty that changed absolutely everything.

“I don’t hate it,” she said. “Not even a little.”

Sure, she was talking about the double office, but deep down she knew that wasn’t all she meant.

Deep down? Really? Honey, maybe a few millimeters below skin level if we’re really gonna swing for the fences. You’re into Nash Beckett. Fuck that. You love him.

She would have argued with herself if she could—but she couldn’t. She’d completely fallen for her fake husband a few weeks before divorce proceedings were scheduled to start after New Year’s. She had two choices.

One, cry about it.

Two, pretend time could be slowed down just like in one of her books and that day would never come and enjoy the next week.

There really wasn’t a choice, though. She might regret it later—she totally would—but that was for tomorrow. Until Christmas, she had Nash and she wasn’t about to waste even a moment of the next few days. So she curled a finger in one of the belt loops of his jeans and started walking backward into her office, tugging him with her.

“In fact, I need to show you just how much I don’t hate it, right now.”

Nash grinned at her, his hands already reaching behind his head for the collar of his sweater while he kicked the door of her office away from home shut behind them.

…

Chelle hadn’t realized that laughing so hard wine went up her nose was an actual thing that could happen in real life, but here she was sitting in the den after dinner with her nostrils burning from the Bottle Rocket California cabernet she’d brought, unable to stop laughing even with the pain.

Bristol was standing in the middle of the living room, a half-filled glass of wine in one hand and two Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies she’d won from Macon in a round of rock, paper, scissors in the other. She wasn’t weaving exactly, but her wine was sloshing a bit from side to side in her glass. Every time Macon went to go refill it, Nash glared at him with absolutely no sense of subtlety, to the point that Bristol just flipped her oldest brother off and held out her glass and told story after story of Nash’s less-successful exploits.

“So there’s Nash,” Bristol said as she tried to control her giggles, “standing in the canoe as it slowly sinks into the lake, holding Maurice above his head as the panicking goose flaps its wings and honks as if it’s being murdered, all because the delusional animal really does think it’s a guard dog that happens to be afraid of water.”

The room broke out in laughter. Judging by the mock pained expression on Nash’s face as his lips twitched with the effort to suppress a smile, though, he was okay with the teasing, and she hadn’t heard him even start to mansplain even though she could tell he was dying to explain to his siblings all of the hangover hell that was awaiting them the next morning.

“But,” he said as he dropped an arm across the back of the couch where they sat, “I won the bet.”

Bristol’s head dropped back and she let out a long-suffering groan. “You three and your pathological competitive streak.” She lifted her head back up, crossed her arms, and managed to glare at all three of the oldest Beckett cousins at the same time. “You really need to talk to someone about that.”

“I’m perfectly happy with winning all the time,” Dixon said as he added another log to the ginormous fireplace.

From his spot at the chessboard across from Morgan, who was kicking his ass, Nash’s brother Macon scoffed. “You didn’t win the Last Man Standing bet.”

Dixon glanced over at Fiona sitting on the faux bearskin rug, putting together a puzzle, and smiled. “I most definitely won.”

Fiona rolled her eyes but matched his sappy grin as she got up and made her way over to her fiancé, then gave him a kiss. “And so have the Ice Knights. I think us going to every home game has brought them luck.”

The oldest of the Beckett cousins grumbled under his breath something that sounded a lot like “go Rage,” but that didn’t dim the obvious love in his eyes when he looked at Fiona.

“You have something you want to add?” Bristol asked her cousin Griff.

The big guy with his tats and shaggy beard sitting next to his fiancée on the pillow-packed window seat just grunted.

“Let me translate,” Kinsey said, her Southern accent as thick as honey. “His life changed for the better the day he met me, and not only because of my family cornbread recipe. Plus, he never cared about the Last Man Standing bet from the moment he saw me and got knocked out.” She snuggled up against Griff. “Did I get that right?”

Griff said something low and rumbly that only Kinsey could catch, but whatever it was, it turned her grin from bright to blinding.

The younger trio of cousins started throwing white cheddar popcorn at the happy couples and making gagging noises, but there was no sly cruelty in it, no barely concealed sarcasm, no unspoken censure. Instead, there was love, a sense of family, and the accepted knowledge that each of these people would always be there for the others. It was almost more than Chelle could process.

Knowing her family was toxic was one thing. Being part of a family—even if only for another few days—built on love as opposed to absolute obedience was something so completely opposite from what she’d experienced. The shock of it clogged her throat with a mix of bittersweet emotion—happiness for Nash even as she mourned what she’d never had. She hoped he realized how lucky he was.

Twirling one of her more gray than black strands of her hair around his finger, he snuggled in closer to her. “You okay?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been better.”

God, she wished she was lying—but she wasn’t. Being here with Nash and his family in this big Victorian lake house with an attack goose on duty…everything felt right, the way it usually only did when she was writing about satyrs and nymphs and love conquering all.

Of course, that only happened in her books.

In real life, she was a woman on borrowed time in a marriage that had been defined by an immutable sell-by date, and there was no way to revise that ending to anything close to a happily ever after.