He smiles slightly. “Rose basically kicked me out once she knew the situation.” He adjusts in his seat, leaning more toward me. “Look, Gemma, I know you want space, and I want to give that to you. But I’ve got to let you know that if it were up to me, we’d be together.”
I swallow as his eyes stare into mine like he wants to be sure I understand.
“I get that you’re not ready to talk about things, and that myfeelings are ahead of yours, so I’ll just ask the question I know you’re comfortable answering.” His eyes watch me intently. “Do you still hate me?”
I hesitate for a few seconds, trying to decide how to respond. I slip off the barstool until I’m on my feet, then step toward him so I’m standing between his knees. His head tips back to look up at me, his eyes watching my every movement with suspense.
I thread my fingers through his perfectly soft, brown hair, letting my hand trail all the way down to his neck. He shuts his eyes, but I feel a little shiver course through him.
My heartbeat intensifies as he reacts to my touch, and I bring one hand to his cheek, staring at the dark lashes resting on his tanned skin. I take his other hand in mine and bring it to rest over my heartbeat, then dip my head, stopping just as my lips touch his.
“Hate you?” I say softly. “No. I don’t think that’s what this feeling is.”
I press my mouth to his, and he’s ready, like he’s been waiting for me to give him the green light. Both of his hands settle on my waist, his thumbs pressing into my stomach.
It’s not the first time I’ve kissed Beau, but it feels like it is. Maybe it’s because I’m not fighting it this time. Maybe it’s because of what I know about him now—how deep both his goodness and the cracks in his confidence run.
All I know is I’m a goner for him. My head and my heart are no longer fighting. They’re laser-focused on reassuring Beau of what I think of him, what I want with him.
Our kisses slow until our lips come apart, and he lets out a satisfied sigh, resting his forehead against mine.
“Beau?” I fiddle with the back collar of his shirt.
“Mmhmm,” he responds, his voice tired and content.
I hesitate for a second before speaking. “How will I tell Grams?”
There’sno scenario in which telling Grams that Beau Palmer and I are dating doesn’t cause an uproar. It’s just a matter of what shape that uproar takes. I’m hoping she yells or throws stuff at me, because if she cries? I shudder as I open the lid of the final box in the attic.
Beau is in the opposite corner, sweeping dust and heaven knows what into a dustbin while he hums—the perfect picture of a domesticated cop. He’s on lunch break, and he’s using it to help me.
I smile as he moves his hips with the chorus of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” and butterflies flutter against my ribcage. I can’t believe I’m dating him. Today on patrol, I didn’t even take any video. I just enjoyed myself. A lot.
I can’t wait long to talk to Grams, given the way word spreads on this heap of sand. It’s a heap of sand that’s admittedly grown on me a lot since I got here.
I pull open the box lid and pause at the sight of some of Mia’s and my old stuff—Barbies, stuffed animals, and the like. I pull out one of the Barbies, whose brown hair is a matted mess, complete with grains of sand. We used to take these dolls everywhere.
I look around at the almost-bare attic. It was so full when I arrived a month ago. It hardly looks like the same place. But it’s nothing compared to how this house will look once Mr. Wallace gets his hands on it.
It makes my stomach roil to think about.
“I don’t want to sell the house,” I say.
Beau stops, and his gaze flicks to me, hovering for a second. He lowers the broom and dustbin and comes over. He puts out his hands and pulls me to my feet. His fingers interlace with mine, sitting at shoulder height between us.
“Then don’t,” he says.
I shake my head. “It’s Grams’s house. Not mine.”
“Doesshewant to sell it?”
“I don’t think so. But she has to.”
“Why?”
“To afford your ritzy retirement center, mister,” I say, pushing our hands in his direction. I look around again. “I’m just being sentimental because it’s getting closer. I’ll be fine. Until Grams kills me when I tell her about us.”
“I like sentimental Gemma.” Beau presses his lips against my neck, and my eyelids flutter and close. “Want me to tell Grams?”
