Beau was late. Later than he usually was. Not that he kept strict hours, they varied. Sometimes he left before the kitchen closed, but that was rare. He usually stayed until the kitchen and the bar were closed. It was torture, never knowing when he’d be home. Not knowing when I could breathe again. Because even though Beau’s nearness made my hormones go haywire, I never felt completely safe until he was home.
It was after midnight. The rain had gotten heavier, thunder so loud it rattled the panes of the windows.
My jaw hurt from how tight I was holding in my worry. Panic.
What if he’d gotten into a crash? Perhaps his car was in a ditch somewhere, and there was no one to miss him until tomorrow morning? Except me. And I didn’t. Miss him. Didn’t miss his quiet, bursting, menacing presence. Nope.
But worry formed a knot in my stomach as I read over the same line of my book at least ten times. Who did I call if he didn’t come home? His father? Elliot? But maybe he wasn’t coming home on purpose. He could be with a woman.
The very thought had bile singeing the back of my throat.
What if I panicked about him being dead and made a big scene by calling his family when he was just getting laid?
But Beau would’ve told me if he was going to be gone the entire night. Surely.
I paced back and forth, worrying and fuming in equal measures. How dare he make me worry like this. How dare I care so much about the man.
I exhaled in relief when his lights illuminated the driveway. Not dead in a ditch. Just late. He was allowed to be late. Maybe there was a fire in the kitchen. Whatever the reason, it was not for me to know. I didn’t ask questions. Not about him. That wasn’t in my job description.
It was time for me to scuttle off before we had another awkward interaction, loaded with all the lines we’d crossed then retreated behind in the past few months. But the knot in my stomach hadn’t unwound. My body was still tense, a feeling of wrongness creeping up my spine.
There was no reason for the feeling. Yet I stayed. On the couch. For no other reason than I wanted to lay eyes on Beau, to make sure he was okay.
For Clara’s benefit. That was it.
The door opened and closed, the rain pounding as loud as my heart. Boots thumped on the floor, then Beau took up what looked like the entire doorframe.
My heart dropped the moment I saw him. Something was wrong. I knew Beau. Had memorized every expression on his face, had come to understand how a simple furrow between his brows meant worry. How when his eyes went far away they were thinking of Clara in a hospital bed. I even knew the all-encompassing hunger that shrouded his gaze when he lost control and looked at me.
But his face was painted with an expression I’d never seen on it. Grief. Fear. A mix of them both, maybe. I couldn’t quite understand it, but it terrified me.
I leapt off the couch, rushing over to him.
He watched me, but with a vacant stare in his eyes. No menace. No irritation. No, he was looking at me like I was … an anchor.
“Beau,” I whispered. “You’re soaking wet.”
He was still wearing his coat. Water was beading from his hair, his beard, dropping delicately onto the floor. His boots were ringed with a small puddle. Even that small detail signaled that something was very wrong. Beau never wore his boots inside. No one did. It was a rule about germs. He was militant about it.
Without realizing what I was doing, I brushed the wet hair from Beau’s face. He was ice-cold. When he flinched at my touch, I was about to jerk my hand away, preparing for some kind of sharp insult or reprimand.
But, in a blur, he lifted his arm, circling my wrist in a tight grasp. My skin tingled. He pressed my hand to his jaw, into the rough, wet hair of his beard. He even leaned into it.
His hand was freezing, his eyes still gaping chasms of grief, pain.
We stayed there. Him dripping, breathing heavily, his eyes terribly empty, plastered on me. And he wasn’t just seeing me. It felt as if he were latching onto me so he didn’t … drift away.
“Beau,” I whispered, my hand still on his cheek. “What happened?”
It was bad. Whatever happened was bad. For him to let me touch him. For him toneedme to touch him, if the strength of his grip was anything to go by.
My wrist was beginning to sting, bordering on painful. There would be a bruise there tomorrow.
But I didn’t try to move my hand.
Beau didn’t answer me straight away. He kept breathing, holding on to me. “Calliope,” he finally rasped.
My heartbeat stuttered, and my throat closed. I didn’t know Calliope well, but I liked her. She was the reason I had been welcomed into the group of women here in Jupiter. Elliot was in love with her, their father adored her. She was Clara’s favoriteaunt—even if she was her only aunt as Beau repeatedly pointed out. Clara was besotted with her.
