The way he’d looked at me, like he wanted me.
Like he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
My entire body erupted in flames, and I found it hard to take a deep breath.
“Get up,” he growled, eyes shuttering as he focused on the floor. “Get yourself cleaned up before Clara wakes up. And put on a fucking bra.”
My skin cooled as if icy water had been poured on me. Proverbially, it had. At Beau’s cruel tone and equally cruel gaze.
I jumped up, hands going to my chest, where my nipples were indeed pressing through my non-padded bra and my thin camisole.
Mortified, cheeks flaming, tears creeping from my eyes, I practically ran from the room.
I imagined it. Beau Shaw did not want me.
And I did not want him. I could not want a man capable of speaking to me with such coldness. I’d never want a man whose words were the reason for my tears. Never again.
I just had to survive these next several months.
I’d been through much worse.
I could survive Beau Shaw.
By the time I’d put on a bra that had sufficient padding—which made my already ample breasts look larger—splashed more water on my face, brushed my hair, and put on jeans and a tee shirt, I was brave enough to face Beau again.
I was only brave enough because I heard Clara was up. My angelic buffer. I truly enjoyed her company. I missed her once she’d gone to bed and during the brief occasions when she was able to visit with her family.
That was how quickly I’d become attached—likely too attached—to Clara Shaw. We spent all our time together. Especially while quarantined after her bone marrow transplant. Beau was there, hovering and ever present, especially at thebeginning. But with most of his focus on Clara, and his respect for my medical training—enough to trust me with caring for her and eventually leaving for longer periods, once it was clear she was responding well and getting better—he’d almost been bearable.
We—as I promised in my interview—watched documentaries, learned about spiders, had tea parties, and wrote stories. I knitted her a multicolored blanket for her bed, which she demanded I reproduce for the living room too. We listened to music, painted on canvas, and basked in the sunshine, staring at the clouds. Being with Clara was not a hardship.
The transplant helped her heal, while my time with Clara Shaw healed me from bruises and wounds I thought I’d carry with me forever.
She was interesting, inherently cheerful, and loved an adventure. She loved me. She said it one day a few weeks after I’d moved in. Offhandedly. Natural. I was putting her to bed—it was the first time Beau had let me because he’d had an emergency at the restaurant. I’d loved lying with her, feeling her little body curled into mine as I read her stories.
“Good night, Hannah, love you.” That simple. That genuine.
I’d frozen in place before I’d tucked her hair behind her ear and said, “I love you too, Clara.” Because what else did you say to a four, almost five-year-old recovering from leukemia who said that to you?
And it wasn’t an indulgence. I did. Love her. I had never had the gift of loving something so purely, of knowing someone who gave me so much yet demanded nothing in return. Whose love didn’t have conditions. Whose love didn’t feel like a noose around my neck. It was a tricky situation I’d found myself in, loving the child, hating the father.
Every day, Beau made me want to quit. Every day, Clara made me want to stay forever, to be more than just a passing presence in her life, a half-remembered person in her memories.
“Hannah!” Her mouth was full, fork and knife in her hands, sitting at the breakfast bar. Beau was at the stove, presumably cooking pancakes, having salvaged enough of the mess to make them.
The mess itself was nowhere to be found; the kitchen was spotless. Like the rest of the house. Despite the obvious clutter and disorder that a four-year-old could make—similar to an atomic bomb hitting your living room—the house was always spotless. No dirt. No dust. Another thing that made me tiptoe around, feeling as if Beau was watching me if I dared spill. I was tidy and clean. Maybe notnaturally.Living in filth most of my life made me kind of manic about keeping my space clean.
One of the few ways Beau and I were similar.
One of the only ways.
Since I managed to summon manners, smiles and general human decency.
“Did you know it’seight daysuntil my birthday?” Clara asked once she’d taken a large swallow, holding up nine fingers.
I gingerly walked to the coffee pot, giving Beau a large berth and keeping my eye on Hannah.
I held my breath against his lingering scent, mixed with pancakes and maple syrup.
