Page 28 of The Art of Being Merry
“Totes. Mom’s totally serious. Take the leftovers.”
“How do you know ‘totes’?” My hands all soapy, I narrow my eyes in his direction.
“Like it’s a secret or something?”
He makes a good point. It’s strange coming from his mouth. And oddly sexy.
“I didn’t realize other people used it so commonly.”
“It’s not in my everyday vocabulary, but I like to throw it into conversation now and again. When it’s apropos.”
I raise my arm to smack him, but soapy water drips down, and I quickly place it back over the sink. “That is not a word you use. That’s a Willa word.”
Dax tilts his head, the smallest smile sliding onto his lips. “Hmm. That’s probably where I heard that one. She and Becks have a thing going of who can use the most absurd word.”
“I believe it. She used to think she was so smart from reading all her books and learning all the words. Gag me.” To accentuate my point, I make the sound.
“Do you not read?”
“Not like she does. Or did growing up. She reads less now that she’s busy writing her books with million-dollar words. Though her readers don’t quite appreciate them like she did, so joke’s on her.” I can’t believe I’m spilling so many secrets about Willa, things I’ve never told anyone before, things Keith wouldn’t listen to me complain about. Yet, Dax is hanging on my every word. “But I can design a winning light show. Take that, Willafred.”
“And you have ideas for how to beat Beck’s ugly sweater.” He motions his hand like he’s wielding a sword. “Take that, Beckett.”
I giggle at his shenanigans. “Younger siblings can be so annoying, am I right?”
“Preach it. Though how much time can you have on her?”
“Ten entire minutes. But that’s not the point.” I push a falling lock of hair off my forehead with the back of my hand, careful not to get soap in my eye. “I’m still first and get to claim the oldest title.”
“Well, that’s something. I’ve only got fifteen months on Becks, but Heidi and Autumn are always quick to point out they’re older. The third is kinda sucky.”
“Aww. Always feeling left out?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” His tone turns serious. He casually leans up against the counter, waiting for something to dry with the towel in his hands. “But back to the sweater. I want to hear your ideas.”
“Now? I’m a little busy.” I hold up my hands as proof.
“Okay, when? We’re on a time crunch.”
“Oh, are we? You didn’t mention there was a deadline.” He’s so not expecting my answer, nor Willa’s brand of sarcasm. Only because it stays under wraps unless she’s around or I’m comfortable with someone.
Huh. Weird.
Except if I stop to think about it, from the first time I met him at Willa’s cabin last year, I’ve felt nothing but comfortable. Almost like it’s his job to put me at ease.
“Keep up, Clementine.” I’m lost in my head, so his statement makes little sense until I think back to the last thing I said. It’s an odd response to my statement, but he’s a bit of an odd duck.
I finish up the last of the dishes, dry my hands on the hand towel he points out is for hand drying, and turn to face him. “We’ll figure it out. I have the ideas. You’ll just need to approve them, and I can take the rest from there.”
“Where are these ideas you keep talking about?” His gaze sears into me. It should be way more irritating than it is.
I tap my temple. “Right here. Front and center.”
“And how will you get them out of there for me to see? I’m not a mind reader.”
“Trust me when I tell you, you’d be lost the minute you tried to get anything out of here. I told you, it’s a madhouse.” His eyes narrow, as if he doesn’t believe me. Which doesn’t matter since he can neither prove nor disprove my claim. “But I’ll draw them on paper for your perusal.”
“Okay, so we’ll do the tree tomorrow, then this Tuesday night? Does that work?”
