twenty
HANNAH
The TV wason in front of me, the only light illuminating the living room. I was staring right at it, but I didn’t see any of what was going on. I was too busy picturing Beau with a woman. Hisdate.
The images flashed through my mind. Him, back at her place, her clothes off, showcasing expensive French lingerie and a body toned from Pilates. Him fucking her, kissing her.
I was torturing myself with the graphic scene, consumed by fury, jealousy, and sadness. None of which I was entitled to since he was nothing more than my employer, and he was well within his rights to fuck whomever he wanted.
But I wanted him to fuckme.
I was attracted to Beau from the moment I saw him. My hatred was born out of hurt. When he turned into a cruel, cold, asshole. When he made it clear that he didn’t want me back. But even then, all of that made me want him more. Witnessing him be a wonderful father was endlessly sexy; the way he cared for his daughter was indescribably endearing and attractive.
And he wasn’t always cold and cruel with me.
I thought of the way he’d sprinted toward me after the car accident, his protective stance with Waylon, and him taking meto the police station and lawyer’s office. And then there were the hints of his hunger for me. Clara’s birthday party, Calliope and Elliot’s wedding, and all the little micro glimpses before that I’d told myself were all in my head. It was no longer deniable, though. I didn’t dream it up, imagine it, or misconstrue it. Beau wanted me.
Even though he was on a date with another woman.
I startled when headlights illuminated the living room. I gritted my teeth, not letting myself hope, since there had already been a couple of false alarms.
A quick peek through the curtains confirmed it was his truck in the driveway, his large form stepping out of it. I immediately stepped back, not wanting to look like a total stalker.
The wise decision would’ve been to turn off the TV and escape back into my room, pretend I hadn’t been waiting for him, acting like his personal life did not interest me or bother me.
I always made the smart, safe choice—a lifetime of watching a mother do the opposite, ruining her life, would do that to you. My decisions were always the opposite of hers. Well, if you didn’t include me marrying an older man who I thought would save me from it all.
For the second time in my life, I didn’t take the smart route. I stayed rooted in place, my heart crashing against my sternum.
It was only when the door clicked as he unlocked it that I registered what I looked like. I was in my camisole—no bra, short boxers, tube socks, my hair piled messily atop my head. Then I thought about the woman I’d dreamed up that Beau had gone on a date with. Glamorous. Put together. Likely older than me. Without debt. A stable job. A car that wasn’t one oil change away from falling apart. No estranged ex with substance issues.
Beau was coming home from a date with her and being faced with me, a nursing school dropout, trailer park kid with nothing but bad credit and a duffel bag of cheap clothes to her name.
The door opened, and it was too late to escape.
Beau froze when his eyes found me in the middle of the room, illuminated by the TV flickering behind me.
Neither of us said anything. For five seconds—Mississippi five times seconds—neither of us said anything, he just stared at me, hand still on the doorknob.
It was all I could do to stay in place, keep breathing. I didn’t seem to have the power to move or say anything.
Very slowly, Beau closed and locked the door before turning to face me. I couldn’t make out his expression because he was cloaked in shadows.
He took one step forward, the dancing light showcasing his harsh glare.
“Go to bed, Hannah,” he growled, irritation stark in his tone.
The rough timbre of his voice raised goose bumps along my flesh. The sensible part of me screamed to listen to him before I did something foolish.
“Did you have sex with her?” I somehow summoned the courage to ask.
So I wasn’t going to do something foolish, I was going tosaysomething foolish.
Beau recoiled as if I’d struck him. Granted, it was an out-of-left-field question that thoroughly exceeded all the parameters of appropriate conversation to have with the man who employed you to nanny his daughter.
“That’s none of your business.” Again, his tone was harsh, aggressive, but in the soft light of the room, both of us in the shadows, it didn’t scare me.
It excited me.
