against doing too much but she noticed he ignored her feedback and did what he wanted.
He was trying hard to keep Beck busy, too, taking him from her for big chunks of the day so she could work, and Erika appreciated it, but since she wasn’t making significant progress, she just felt bad that Billy was trying so hard to help her and she couldn’t even help herself.
Today was one of the worst days in a long time, too. Erika couldn’t even focus enough to write a sentence. A sentence! She’d draft one sentence, then delete it. Then rewrite it. Then delete it.
Erika felt like hurling her computer across the room. This wasn’t working. She wasn’t working. Was it bad to just want to enjoy herself?
Erika had never cared much for TV—she didn’t even own one at the moment—but in the past couple of weeks her favorite thing to do was watch the nightly news with Billy, and then every evening after Beck was put to bed, they’d watch a program, and talk. They talked about everything and even though they frequently had different viewpoints, Billy always listened to her thoughts, just as she listened to his. She even liked his TV programs which were different from anything she’d ever watched—Gold Rush and Building Off the Grid.
He liked DIY programs and learning how to build things and just last night she asked if he’d ever built anything and he’d nodded, gesturing to the space they were in. “This,” he’d said.
“This cabin?” she’d asked.
“I hired a builder, but I worked alongside him. Every moment when I wasn’t competing, I was here.”
“It must have saved you a lot of money.”
“It would have, if I’d stopped upgrading everything.” He smiled. “But I enjoyed being part of the build. It was really satisfying.”
“And the barn? Same builder?”
“No. I did that, with Tommy, after the house was completed. You’ll notice it’s pretty basic in comparison.”
But the barn wasn’t basic, and Billy’s skills weren’t basic, but he was so modest, never wanting compliments, uncomfortable being fussed over. Was it being the third son that had made him uncomfortable being praised, or was he not praised very often growing up?
He’d told her he’d been dyslexic, he’d said he’d struggled in school, he’d clearly resented being made to feel as if he wasn’t bright enough. Good enough. It stirred her sympathy because he was just the opposite—bright, hardworking, nonjudgmental of others.
A truly good person.
Last night, as they finished watching the TV show, she’d snuck glances at him, taking in the big shoulders, his broad chest, and that beautiful face of his. Just looking at him made her insides feel fluttery. So fluttery.
She was head over heels. Nothing good could come of this. But it was too late to turn back, too late to save herself. She was already in way too deep.
*
After dinner that evening, Billy watched Erika give Beck a bath in the kitchen sink. The sleeves on her red sweater were pushed up to her elbows, her long blonde hair high in a ponytail on the top of her head. She had bubbles on one forearm, and a small cluster of bubbles on her chin. She was happy, laughing, as Beck vigorously splashed bath water. The more she laughed, the harder Beck splashed, sending water and suds everywhere.
She looked like she could be Beck’s mom. They were both fair, they both had light eyes, they both laughed with the same joy.
Beck seemed to think she was his mom. He lit up every time she entered the room. And thanks to Erika’s attention, Beck was becoming a very contented baby. He gurgled and cooed, and made babbling noises as he waved his hands.
But then, how could anyone be unhappy around Erika? Lately, she was full of sunshine and light, confidence and optimism.
He felt protective of her. He loved it when she laughed, loved making her laugh, and he tried to make her laugh as much as he could.
He rose from his chair and stepped into the kitchen. “I’m thinking of going home for Mother’s Day. Do you want to go with us?”
She reached for a washcloth and wiped bubbles from her eyelashes. “Is that a good idea?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Just don’t want to give your family the wrong idea about us.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I just think if I show up with you, they’re going to think it’s odd that I’m still hanging around two months later.”
“They know you’re here. They know you’re the