Yes, I was actually officially divorced from Waylon. Yes, there was a light at the end of that godforsaken tunnel. That should’ve made me happy. But happiness was a simple emotion that I’d been unable to achieve without the complexities of my past and present tainting it. I was still ashamed that Beau witnessed all of my failing, that he’d had to swoop in to save me. I was mad at myself for longing for such a physically and emotionallyunavailable man, for reading into every unique look, every nonabrasive word he uttered to me, only to find him reverting back to his bad behavior all over again.
I was pissed. Scared. Sad. Angry. And I was sick to death over finding ways to make myself agreeable.
Beau studied me, having listened to my snarky response without a change in his expression.
But then his brows furrowed slightly, and he opened his mouth as if to say something before closing it again and clearing his throat.
My hands gripped my knitting needles, not because I wanted to stab him with them or anything, but because my level of frustration was soaring. How would I continue this strange dance with him? How could I ever leave?
“Canyou work tonight?” The question came through gritted teeth.
I wanted to tell him no, that I had plans, that I was a busy, in-demand young woman. Except I wasn’t. And I couldn’t lie because I lived with him. Unless I really wanted to commit to the bit, get dressed up, hang out at the local bar … alone. Maybe get hit on by some drunk guy if I were lucky, get ignored by the world at large if I wasn’t. The mere thought had my throat tightening. I wasn’t the woman at the bar who got showered with attention.
Though I’d never actually hung out at a bar alone, I wasn’t going to start tonight.
“Yes.” I put down the needles. “Of course, I can work tonight.”
“Clara and I will have an inside dinner-time picnic,” I decided. “We’ll bundle up and look at the stars.”
She stargazed every night. Mostly with Beau, but on the nights he was working, I got to be there. Watching the stars, evenwith the crisp wind biting through my clothes, was one of my favorite things in the world.
Especially since the wind no longer whistled through my expensive new coat.
Beau nodded in response. “I’ll get dinner and dessert organized for you two before I leave.”
I shook my head. “I know I’m no chef, but I can throw together a dinner picnic and dessert. I’ll stick to your ingredient rules.” I’d memorized what Clara couldn’t have by then—food dyes, high fructose corn syrup, and seed oils. Only organic, grass-fed, pasture-raised.
Beau’s features didn’t change, his eyes remaining on me. “I’ll do it.”
Again, I normally would’ve conceded, especially considering Beau’s harsh tone. But I wasn’t feeling submissive.
I stood up, pulling my shirt down when I realized my knit sweater had ridden up to expose my midsection. It only flashed for a second, and it wasn’t an unseemly sliver of sin. Plenty of women my age showed that much or more on a regular basis, in public. But the way Beau’s eyes traveled to that small area made it feel decidedlyinappropriate.
My body tensed. Need coiled in my stomach, forbidden, wrong. Tawdry. Which made it more desirable. Which madehimall the more desirable. If such a thing were possible.
“You cook all day at the restaurant.” I cleared my own throat, trying to banish my feelings. “I’ll take care of dinner.” My voice had a husk to it that I didn’t entirely recognize, as though I’d meant to say, “I’ll take care ofyou.”
Because I wanted to. Take care of him. Yes, maybe in all the sexually explicit ways I imagined in the dark of night. But not just that. I wanted to feed him, rub his shoulders, be the person he could talk to and lower his walls with. I wanted to be theperson he could be vulnerable with. I wanted to keep my hand on his thigh for more than five seconds while we were driving.
Beau’s body straightened, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. A visible reaction. One that told me my tone affected him. Iaffected him. I’d been collecting moments like this, looks like this, to reinforce my theory that there was something between us. My collection of moments tipped that theory to almost certainty.
But then his features turned harsh, as was his default. “I’m not working tonight.”
“Where are you going, then?” I probed.
Beau didn’t have a social life to speak of. I’d never once witnessed him grab a drink with friends, beyond Elliot or his father coming over and forcing him to relax with exactly one beer. Maybe a whisky.
The only time he was willingly away from Clara was for the restaurant, and that took up a lot of his time.
I waited for him to tell me it was none of my business, be cruel or rude. I welcomed it. Suddenly, I wanted a fight with Beau.
Anything to make me feel like something other than a victim. And Beau deserved a hefty amount of the fire that I felt like breathing in his direction.
He considered me, surely reading my flared nostrils, my arms folded across my chest, and the rapid rise and fall of that chest.
I was daring him. To fight me.
“A date. I’m going on a date.”
