Then my eyes found it.
The console table by the front door, anchored to the wall. Every piece of furniture in this house was anchored to the wall because Beau was an excellent father and did not take a chance on anything that could hurt his daughter.
I sighed at the thought that made my chest burn uncomfortably, at the dichotomy of admiring his devotion to Clara and abhorring how he treated me.
Finding my way to the console table, I used my hands to pull myself up to my feet, shaky at first—much like a baby who hadn’t quite learned how to walk yet.
“I did it.” I stood in triumph.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I turned slowly to see Beau standing in the archway between the living room and entryway.
He was bathed in light and shadows. Only a corner lamp and the TV were on, so I couldn’t see him in exquisite detail. His arms were crossed, and he was regarding me with an expression that said he’d just seen me stumble through the door then crawl on my hands and knees across the floor.
Shit.
That was not at all professional.
I cleared my own throat, straightening my spine. “Good evening, Beau.” I tried to sound serious, responsible, and most important, sober.
“You’re drunk.” Beau’s voice was even, cold but not entirely combative. It almost sounded … amused.
“I’m not drunk,” I argued, trying to pull off my jacket, only to realize it was somehow fused to my body. I struggled a little as my ankle rolled, and I almost toppled over.
I would’ve if it weren’t for his firm hands on my hips. When the scent of juniper and leather fragranced the air, my skin tingled at his smell, at his nearness.
“You caught me,” I whispered, turning to look up at him. His jaw was hard underneath his beard. The harsh glint in his eyes was still there, but behind it shimmered something else. Something I must’ve been imagining.
“I’m not going to let you fall, Hannah,” His grunted response lit up my nervous system. There seemed to be a double meaning behind those words.
Even when I was sober, deciphering Beau’s remarks made my head hurt. Drunk? Impossible.
“Why wouldn’t you?” I asked. “What do I matter to you?”
Was there bitter resentment in my tone? Desperation? Hope?
I wanted to sound biting, angry, and strong. But I feared I sounded tired and pathetic.
Beau’s mouth flattened further, and instead of answering, he lifted his hand to my shoulder, pulling the shoulder strap of my small purse to untangle it from my jacket.
I’d tried to take off my jacket while still wearing a cross-body purse, creating a straitjacket out of it. Beau’s large hands carefully extracted me.
I held my breath, at him being so close, so careful. So gentle. Every action directly at odds with everything I’d ever experienced from him.
I waited. Readied myself. For him to say something. For him to reprimand me. It was not professional to come back drunk. Granted, I wasn’t actively taking care of Clara, nor was I expected to for the rest of the night. It was my time off to do what I wanted, but it made things kind of murky when we lived together.Everythingabout this job became murkier by living together.
I should’ve been on my best behavior. And I had been. For months. Tiptoeing around him, minding my words, my manners. Yet that hadn’t done anything but raise my cortisol levels and mess with my sleep.
I was entitled to let loose. I was of age. No laws were broken.
So why did I feel like I was about to be punished? Why did the idea of Beau Shaw punishing me …exciteme?
The silence between us pulsed like a living thing. He didn’t step back; he was still standing close to me, my head tipped up to regard him, waiting.
“Did you have fun?” he asked, voice low.
I blinked up at him. No harsh words. No punishments—which was a good thing. I think the punishments I had in mind were against the law for an employer to do to an employee.
