Which made it more difficult to hate Beau. Well, not really since it was the only nice thing he did for me and he likely only did it so it didn’t incite questions from Clara. He was never even remotely rude to me around her; he didn’t set that example.He didn’t model that it was normal for men to be assholes to women. In front of his daughter, he was painfully polite.
Though the bar for Beau and all men was set in hell, being so coldly polite in front of a child was not something to celebrate.
“Thank you,” I said in a small voice, looking down at the pancakes while taking them to perch with Clara on the breakfast bar.
Beau didn’t respond to my thanks. He rarely did. And if he did, it was a grunt or a nod. I told myself not to let it make me angry. But it still hurt. I didn’t have the energy to feel anger; I didn’t let myself after seeing what happened to women who let men make them enraged and bitter. Let men wear them down. That wouldn’t be me.
If I kept feeling the pain, I wouldn’t become jaded, hardened. One day, there would be a man who deserved my softness and treasured it. No way would I let Beau stain any future relationships for me.
It was the secret I nurtured—that although I was an independent woman who strived to never need anyone to save me, I dreamed of romance, of true love. A happy ending.
“Where’s your pancakes, Daddy?” Clara asked as I sat down, showing exactly why her father made the effort to feed me. Because Clara noticed everything, and he didn’t want her thinking her father was an asshole.
Which he was.
But he wasn’t modeling that to her so she’d subconsciously search for an asshole in a partner. I liked that.
Even if I hated him.
Which I did.
Hate him.
Even if his pancakes were orgasmic. Even if he had impressive biceps. And smelled good. And had a riveting, intense gaze that did things to my insides.
“I already ate.” Beau spoke from the sink where he was doing the last of the dishes. Something he didn’t let me do either.“I pay you to look after Clara, not clean.”He’d snapped when he came home to Clara quietly coloring while I vacuumed.
He’d been mad about mecleaning.
I could do nothing right.
But I could never sit still either. Visions of my mother, then Waylon glued to the sofa, the television blaring some sitcom, made it so I couldn’t sit and watch for even five minutes without feeling vaguely sick.
All of my friends had thought I was mildly insane because I didn’t have knowledge of the latest show or movie or social media trend. They’d teased me about it.
Not that I had any friends to tease me anymore. Waylon made sure I cut them all off after we got married. Slowly, subtly he did it. I almost didn’t notice until I had no one to call the night it was raining, broken glass embedded in my skin and my marriage in tatters.
No one had tried to contact me since I’d left him, since the move to Maine. Well, Cole—my childhood best friend—had. But I was too full of shame over the way I’d treated him to reply. He hadn’t stopped trying. Still texted once a week. And my brother sporadically checked in when his wife wasn’t around.
Two people. That’s all I had. And I didn’t even really have them. Cole was living his life in New York, still sending me random texts but less frequently. My brother was married to a woman who wanted to distance him from his upbringing and me as much as possible.
But I wasn’t going to have a pity party. I had a lovely, vibrant, healthy little person beside me. Money in the bank. I’d be back to finish nursing school soon, then I’d have a steady, healthy income. I could make friends. I could create a life.
Even if the thought of doing that and not seeing Clara every day made my stomach pitch.
“What are you doing today, Bug?” Beau asked, cleaning his hands before wiping down the already spotless counter.
Another thing he always did. Asked Clara questions I knew he wanted to askme. Because apparently, he couldn’t so much as address me directly unless he needed to.
I prepared to do the same thing I always did: answer his questions through his daughter. We were like some divorced couple, forcing civility for the sake of the child. Except I didn’t even have the knowledge of what Beau looked like naked or how the sex was.
Which was good.
I shouldn’t have been thinking about my boss naked. Because I hated him. Because his four-year-old daughter was sitting right beside me.
I looked at Clara, swallowing my pancake. “First, we’ve got to feed the fairies…”
Clara’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thefairies!” she squealed.
