He ends the kiss with a warm slide of his tongue and nip at my lips. I’m wandering through the forest of green in his eyes when he asks me something we should have asked each other a long time ago.
“What’s your name, love?”
“Celeste.”
He smirks like he knows something I don’t.
“Fitting. I like it.”
I want to ask him what he means, but I feel his latex-covered head pressing against my entrance.
“I’m Beau,” he groans as he enters me. Beau’s eyes blaze a brilliant shade of green. “And it’s so fucking nice to meet you.”
Celeste
The smellof food cooking awakens me from a sleep that was far too content after the day I’ve had. Disoriented, I sit up and look around until my brain catches up.
Beau.
The clock beside his bed tells me I’ve been out for a couple of hours. The once bright sky is now dim and gray—the wind whistles through everything in its way. The water crashes against the shore. The storm isn’t here yet, but it’s coming. I saunter into the bathroom. I’m a little sore from all the sex. Wishing I could move a little faster, I want to perform my grooming routine again before we catch the worst of it and lose power and or water.
I turn on the shower. I pluck the new toothbrush I had found still packaged and waiting for me this morning from the porcelain sky blue toothbrush holder. A weird warmth washes over me when I notice his toothbrush is resting in the hole across from mine. I’m both comforted by the sight and reminded of the hell I’d lived when my toothbrush resided near another.
Turning off my thoughts, I brush my teeth while the water warms to the desired temperature. When I’m done, I rinse, wipe the counter, and climb in under the spray. Beau’s shower would have a lovely view of the beach and tide if a storm weren’t ripping toward the shore. I try to ignore the beauty of his home. This isn’t my life. I must not romanticize this thing between us. He’s still grieving, and my life is fucked up beyond measure. I cannot invite another person into my shit show. It is necessary for me to get through these next few days and get far away from Beau; he doesn’t need to be pulled into my dysfunctional life.
I squeeze the soap onto the cloth and let the scent I now associate with Beau soothe my senses. Damn. I’m doing it again. I erect walls to dam my feelings while I finish my shower. I notice clothes waiting for me on the bed when I return. I quickly dress in the shirt and shorts then make my way down the stairs. I ignore the stunning view of the thoroughly decorated house; instead, I focus on the smell of food. That’s something I can have.
I wander past the foyer, through the great room, and into the kitchen where Beau is surrounded by food. The island, table, and counter are covered with all types. He is grilling meat, has a station for making sandwiches, coolers filled with ice, and seafood boiling in pots. I am so confused by the sight; I unconsciously moved closer to him.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
He greets me with a kiss on my cheek as if we’ve done this a thousand times. I blush and move to the question in my head.
“What are you doing?”
He smiles at me but continues to flip the steaks he’s grilling.
“Making lunch—well, breakfast for you, and I’m hurricane prepping.”
“Tell me more about this ‘hurricane prepping,’” I implore as I steal a grape.
“Well...” He points at the sandwich station. “I have almond butter, hazelnut spread, and peanut butter to make sandwiches that can last a long time with little refrigeration. I’m making a shrimp cocktail and crab salad for things to eat cold if we have refrigeration but lose the ability to heat up things…” Beau motions to the steak he’s moving off his indoor grill. “The steak, eggs, and French toast are for us to eat now. Brunch.”
“Brunch, huh?” I smirk before continuing. “Do you also have mimosas, Bloody Marys, or Bellini’s?”
“I could make a mimosa.” He winks at me. “But there is a sangria in the fridge if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Definitely.” I need a drink. “Where did all this food come from?”
Beau’s eyes heat, and I take a step back; I’m tired. He laughs. I’ve decided I love his laugh. “Relax. I was just going to say it got here when you heard the doorbell earlier—grocery delivery.”
He turns and fills a plate with more food than I usually eat. “That’s a lot,” I tell him although my stomach growls.
“I’ve known you for almost twelve hours and have yet to see you eat something. Plus, I doubt you had anything to eat before you emerged from the ocean.”
That sounds weird, but I guess that’s how it looked to someone sitting on the beach. I just stare at him.
Beau turns down the burners and adds chopped veggies. “How about we both eat, then you can tell me your story while we finish prepping?”
