Tentatively, I sipped the coffee. It was just as I liked it—cream, two sugars, and a hint of cinnamon.
Beau knew how I took my coffee. I stored that detail away because at that moment, I didn’t have the brainpower to dissect what it meant. If it meant anything beyond the fact that he was observant.
The silence in the kitchen no longer felt awkward, strained, or dangerous. My shoulders weren’t tense, my brain wasn’t scrambling to come up with safe topics of conversation.
Watching Beau’s large, chiseled body move around the kitchen was dangerous in my current state. I wasn’t sure if I was going to vomit, blurt out something inappropriate, or crawl across the kitchen island to throw myself at him. I couldn’t be trusted to look at him.
Instead, I studied my coffee as if it were the most interesting thing in the world while trying to calm both my libido and my stomach.
A plate was placed softly in front of me.
Bacon, crispy. Eggs, fried. Buttered toast.
My mouth watered at the smell of grease and fat.
I looked up at Beau, swallowing. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“It’ll make you feel better.” His azure eyes searched my face. “So yes, I did.”
We stayed like that, staring at each other. My breathing shallowed, and my heart stuttered.
“I need you feeling better for Clara.” Beau cleared his throat. “I’ll be here this morning, so you can take it easy. But this afternoon, I’ll be gone.” He nodded to the plate. “So eat.”
I swallowed uncomfortably, my throat feeling like it was lined with thorns. He wanted me feeling better so I coulddo my job. That was it. Nothing else.
And I was stupid for believing it could’ve been anything else. Stupid for hoping.
What else could I do?
I ate.
nine
HANNAH
Though there wasa faint throb between my eyes, I felt good. Physically, at least. The breakfast Beau made me, coupled with coffee and copious amounts of water, staved off the worst of my hangover symptoms.
My mood, though, was in the gutter. Everything felt dark and hopeless, a cloud of sadness hanging over me. I couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of it because my whole life was a mess. All I knew for certain was that I hadn’t felt quite so heavy or disheartened before the hangover.
Which was why Clara and I were making chocolate brownies. Baking tended to help ease sadness, especially chocolate.
Clara loved to bake, and when she was happy, I was happy. Or at least I became better at pretending I was.
The interactions earlier with Beau shadowed the day for me. His kindness was confusing. Infuriating. How I managed to be angry when Beau was being half decent was borderline unhinged. But that’s what I felt—borderline unhinged. Like the ground was constantly shifting beneath my feet. I was at the mercy of Beau’s moods. I did not like it.
The soft slam of the front door pulled me from my thoughts.
“Daddy’s home!” Clara declared from her spot on the counter as she mixed brownie batter.
She didn’t need to declare it since Beau’s presence was announced by the tightening of my throat, the hair standing up on my arms, and the small piece of excitement I felt in my nether regions for reasons unknown.
“Bug,” he greeted, warmth seeping from the single word.
He beamed at Clara, taking her off the counter and into his arms before swinging her around and pressing kisses all over her face.
Clara’s giggles chased away the worst of the dread I felt at his appearance. And unfortunately, the tingles in my nether regions increased while watching him interact with his daughter.
Was it terribly weird and bordering on illegal to find Beau being a father sexy?
