“Come on.” He lifted her into his arms. “I’ll get you dressed and ready for your day before I leave.”
He walked out with Clara as she told him all about Gladys and her preferred outfit for the day.
He didn’t even look at me. Yet I felt the heaviness of his lack of attention, as if it meant something.
It meant he didn’t like me. It meant I was nothing to him. Nothing but someone to tolerate for the sake of his daughter.
I forced down the most amazing pancakes I’d eaten in my life then got ready to face the day, trying to push Beau Shaw from my mind.
As much as I could, which was close to impossible while living with him, and he invaded my nightmares.
And, on occasion, my sexual fantasies.
three
HANNAH
Claraand I had a wonderful day.
We always did. Even when we were inside while Clara was regaining her strength. Even more once the world beckoned her back.
Summer still tried to cling on, with warm days bathed in sunshine. On those we went to the ocean, dipped our toes in the freezing cold water, laid out on beach towels, looking at clouds while deciding what they looked like. We collected seashells then arranged them on the fireplace mantel, along with whatever other treasures Clara decided were special—a smooth piece of sea glass, a feather, an old, rusted penny. I put all of those things in jars and on trays, arranged around the house.
Maybe it wasn’t my place. It wasn’t my house, after all. But it was such a little girl thing to do, to collect mementos of moments in time that felt happy, to be creative, be in awe of the world. I’d done the same. Except whatever treasures I found were scoffed at or thrown away, my childish innocence and wonder going with it.
Although it was only my job to be her nanny, I considered it my duty to be the protector of that innocence and wonder for as long as I could. Beau did his best—as much as it pained meto admit it—but he was also a man. He didn’t understand the subtleties of being a little girl, although I saw him try.
I’d waited for him to say something about the things around the house that had appeared since I’d started working there. Like the hand-knit throw that Clara and I had bought at a farmers’ market from a young woman who made them all one of a kind. It was bursts of colors—pinks, purples—delicate flowers, sprawling vines, ladybugs. It did not go with the muted décor that Beau obviously chose for function rather than form.
He fingered the throw, picked up the shells. I watched him do both. So did Clara, resulting in her launching into the backstory of each item and his eyes crinkling at the edges, his mouth tipped up as he listened raptly to his daughter.
He didn’t say anything to me, no sharp words thrown, no reprimand.
The treasures stayed where they were. Clara and I cuddled up on the throw routinely. And when Beau was home at night, and I made myself scarce because I didn’t know what to do with myself, I caught glimpses of him cuddled up under the throw with Clara. Watching her small body tucked into his, his lips on her hair, stroking her back… It did things to my ovaries.
He was so big, so gruff, so fuckingrude.
But to his daughter, he was her protector, her hero, her everything. He gave her smiles, unconditional love, and affection.
And somehow, he looked even more masculine cuddling his daughter underneath a fucking floral throw.
Yes, I spent a lot more time thinking about Beau Shaw than I should’ve. I should’ve been making my plans for the future. For going back to school. Budgeting what that would look like, whether I’d need another job. Figuring out how to get myself divorced from a toxic narcissist who didn’t want me to move on. Things like that.
But I didn’t.
I thought of Beau Shaw, cuddled with his daughter. I thought of Beau Shaw, making me pancakes. I thought of Beau Shaw, his finger brushing mine and the electric shock that came from it.
And after a long and wonderful day with Clara, a belly full of nourishing food, exhaustion heavy in my limbs because that girl had boundless energy, house clean and quiet, I should’ve been in my room. In my bed.
Except I wasn’t.
I stayed in the kitchen.
I didn’t know why. Masochism, maybe? Because I was starved for adult contact and was willing to settle for a few seconds with an asshole? Because my fucked-up brain craved a glimpse of Beau before I went to sleep? Because the only male attention I’d ever received was tinted with cruelty, and I’d come to crave it?
My heart rate spiked as headlights lit up the living room. I’d straightened everything up, leaving my book on the coffee table to pick up once I’d made my mug of tea.
It was a dance I’d timed perfectly, since I’d been doing it more and more lately. It wasn’t calculated, exactly. It was pathetic, probably. I kept thinking if I gave Beau the chance, he’d be nice to me. He’d like me. Or I’d like him. Because I didn’t. But I dreamed of him. It was him I thought of when I quietly made myself orgasm at night, the act feeling naughty and tawdry in Beau’s house.
