She leaned forward. “You’ve got to have one. Look at you.” She waved her long, pink-tipped fingers at me.
I blushed when all the glamorous, gorgeous women did just that, eyeing with appraising but not judgmental gazes.
I thought about what they saw. Half-hearted curls tumbling down my back. Freckles, a too-small nose and a face that was too full, regardless of whether I lost weight or not. Lips that looked swollen or like I’d gotten lip filler. Hazel eyes. I never felt pretty, and no one had ever told me I was. I knew I wasn’t exactly ugly, but I was nothing spectacular.
“I don’t have one,” I said quietly, eyes darting over to Beau for a half second. “A boyfriend. I’m trying to extract myself from a … complicated relationship.”
A few of the women moved forward when I said this, as if they sensed there was more to the story.
Now why did I go and say that? I didn’t need to hint at any kind of chaos. Be boring. Polite. That should’ve been my goal.
“Complicated? What does that mean?” Fiona asked.
“Complicated means bad,” Tiffany muttered softly.
Pressure built in my chest. I should not have opened my mouth. These women did not need to be embroiled in my past. And I was far too embarrassed at what I’d let happen to say a thing about it. These were strong, confident women; no way I could make them understand how I’d been so weak and stupid.
“Do you need me to make some calls?” Not waiting for my response, Calliope reached into her purse for a phone. “Tell me his name and date of birth. I’ll have him wishing he was dead in two hours.”
NowCalliopewas involved? She didn’t sound like she was joking. My cheeks flushed as my heart rate spiked with panic. Calliope was not someone to let things go, and I didn’t consider myself skilled enough at evasion or lying to extract myself from the conversation.
“It’s time for cake!” I practically yelled, standing up and tipping the rest of the champagne down my throat. I almost choked, coughing as I all but ran from the conversation.
Not subtle. Not elegant, and definitely not a way to shut Calliope down. But it was the best I could do at that moment.
I walked toward Beau, dodging children and the men chasing them. He was cleaning the grill while Kip animatedly spoke to him. Beau’s face was downturned, focused on the grill as he was likely in the middle of his worst nightmare—socializing. Beau was not a social creature. As had been established.
It made me smile, just a little, seeing his discomfort. He kind of deserved it, didn’t he?
The men parted for me, greeting me with smiles and warm words. I smiled back, murmuring shy responses. Beau had his back to me and hadn’t seemed to notice me, so I touched his arm to get his attention.
He turned, eyes flaring and eyebrows narrowing on where I’d touched him. I kept my hand on the bare muscled skin of his arm, swallowing thickly while forcing myself not to look away.
“I’m thinking it’s time for the cake,” I told him, my voice thin and raspy. “I’m going to go put the candles on, then you can bring it out.”
My hand was still on his bicep. I should’ve removed it. It was only there to get his attention. I had his attention. But I couldn’t move it. It was as if it were glued to his arm. I was half horrified by my body’s betrayal, half … something else that resembled my feelings from last night. When I looked at Kip, he was grinning, his dancing, playful blue eyes darting from my hand to Beau’s eyes. Necking his beer, he walked off.
Leaving us alone.
Finally, I managed to remove my hand from his arm. I was surprised it didn’t leave a red mark considering how much my palm was burning from the contact.
Beau hadn’t spoken. I swallowed glass, too afraid to look at him, my head buzzing from the champagne I’d just chugged. “Um, yeah. It’s time for the cake. I’ll just go put the candles on, then you can bring it out.”
Then, eyes downcast, I practically sprinted into the house.
Why did I touch him? I had a voice—though I didn’t use it much when Beau was around. I could’ve called his name. He would’ve heard me, turned, likely responding because we were in polite company, and he probably didn’t want to come off as a complete asshole.
It was the alcohol. I wasn’t used to drinking, and I hadn’t eaten because I’d been too busy organizing, making sure everything was perfect. My hand shook as I lit the candles, the sounds of happy children and soft music drifting in through the open windows.
My throat constricted when there was a clang from the back door, a thump of boots. Why was he wearing boots when it was seventy degrees outside? Why did he look so good in the aforementioned boots? Why did I touch him? Why didn’t I quit?
More pressingly, why didn’t I shove the candles on the cake then dart out of the kitchen before he arrived?
Who knew?
Blaming it on the champagne felt apt.
The energy in the kitchen changed when his boots crossed the threshold, my body on fire as I pushed the last candle into Clara’s cake. I took longer than I should’ve, placing the candles.
