“I know.” Beau’s reply came in a half whisper. “Which is what makes it mean the fuckin’ world.”
The silence thrummed between us. My heart was in my throat, my palms starting to sweat.
I could scarcely comprehend that this was reality, that this version of Beau existed for anyone other than Clara.
“It’s hard for me.” He drove a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow. I spent a long time preparing for my daughter to be forever four.” He sucked in a ragged breath so full of pain that it took my breath away.
This was nothing like my grumpy, borderline—okay, not borderline at all—cruel employer.
This was a person. A father. A tortured one. So full of love for his daughter that the pain at the thought of losing her had whittled him down to a shell of a person, only capable of wrangling humanity, smiles, and love for the little girl who had been dancing with death the past two years.
“I thought I would bury her before this day,” he rasped. “In my mind, all my hopes, my dreams, my imaginings for what she would be were half buried too.”
At that point, I smelled the faint scent of whisky on his breath. Just a hint. Likely no more than a glass since his eyes were clear, not a slur to his voice.
I had some experience with gauging how drunk and therefore how unpredictable a man was just by the scent of whisky on his breath.
Furthermore, Beau was a responsible father, a responsible person. I knew he wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize Clara’s life, certainly not something like drinking and driving.
“I fucked up,” he stated plainly. “None of those things are excuses for failing my daughter. For dropping the ball.” He bore his gaze into me with an intensity that had me forgetting how to breathe.
“You caught it. All of it.” He looked around the room again. His entire body seemed to sag, he looked defeated. Devastated.
“And I fucked up,” he repeated.
I wasn’t sure what made me do what I did next. Well, that’s a lie. Basic human empathy. I was born with it. It had bitten me in the ass more times than I could count. And it would likely bite me in the ass this time too. But I couldn’t program it out of me. I didn’t want to.
That softness was what urged me forward, to put my arms around Beau, tentatively, as if I were trying to hug a tiger. Which I kind of was. I wasn’t sure whether he was going to bite or not.
But I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t think anyone had considered hugging Beau through all of this. I doubted he showed his father or his brother this side of him. The side he probably hid from even himself. He had to be strong. Unyielding. Unmoved by emotion. He had to be steady as a mountain.
There was only so much a human could take. Even a large, seemingly capable asshole like Beau.
He needed a hug.
No one else was there to give him one.
So I did.
And to my immense surprise, he didn’t push me away, didn’t lash out. He stiffened for three seconds—I counted—then he did the unthinkable… he hugged me back.
He was warm. His body was hard, yet the nook of his chest felt like a cocoon. I was enveloped by his scent, imprinting it onto my memory. Those strong arms around me, the feeling of safety.
It had been a long time since someone other than Clara had hugged me too. And I hadn’t realized how much I needed it. How much I needed Beau Shaw’s arms around me.
Neither of us spoke. He held me tight, his chin on my head. I could’ve sworn I heard a sharp inhale as if he were smelling my hair.
I was immensely glad I’d showered.
When his hands moved, I prepared myself to be lurched back into whatever dynamic he dictated— awkwardness, menace, cold silence.
But he didn’t push me away; he pulled back only enough so our faces were inches apart, his hands on my hips, our bodies still brushing.
The intimate stance was overwhelming. This was no longer a comforting hug. If it ever had been. There was a definite energy between us.
Asexualenergy.
I could not deny the hunger in Beau’s eyes. The need. That ghost of a look at the wedding was present, alive, wild. Every cell in my body responded, my skin tingling with arousal, excitement.
