It shook me more than I cared to admit.
But I kept it together. For Beau.
“Okay.” I clapped my hands. “You sit.” I pointed to the breakfast bar. “We’ll wait for Clara to wake up, because right now, she’s sleeping peacefully with no knowledge that anything bad has happened to her favorite aunt, and I think it’ll be nice to continue that a little longer.” I stepped to where the pots were kept, kneeling to grab one.
“I’ll cook breakfast,” I declared.
Beau hadn’t moved. Or spoken. He was just staring at me.
Likely he didn’t trust me in his kitchen.
“I’m no Beau Shaw,” I admitted with a weak, forced smile. “Or Nigella or Martha. But I can whip up some really excellent scrambled eggs. Usually with bacon, but I’ll make do with…” I checked in the fridge, bringing out a package. “Organic chicken and mushroom sausages.” I made a face even though I’d had these before, and they weren’t bad.
I placed the sausages and eggs on the counter.
Beau was still watching me, probably about to blow a vein in his forehead because the eggs and sausage weren’t completely perpendicular to each other or at a right angle.
His gaze was heavy. Hot, warming the back of my neck. My smile stretched, though it was painful to keep the false expression on my face.
“I know it’s hard for you to see me in the kitchen without wanting to crack the whip, but?—”
Embarrassment scorched my cheeks.
Crack the whipwas meant to be a joke about him being the boss in the restaurant kitchen, but it fell flat.
Or it ventured heavily into sexual innuendo territory where it shouldn’t have gone. Most especially not on such a somber morning.
Beau’s jaw twitched. Nothing else about him moved.
I swallowed the shame strangling my trachea then cleared my throat.Soldier on, I told myself. “Sit.” I pointed to the barstool.
The moment Beau’s eyes went to my extended arm, he surged forward, grasping my forearm in a featherlight grip and turning it over in his hands.
I stopped breathing.
His fingertips ran over the purplish bruise on my wrist. It wasn’t bad or even overly noticeable, but there was definitely a mark in the shape of a large finger.
It didn’t hurt. And he had not intended for it to hurt. I knew what it was to be touched with the intention of pain, and Beau had been nowhere near that. In fact, I wanted to wear the bruise as a badge of honor. It was the first time my skin had been marked by someone who needed something pure from me. Comfort.
I wanted to vocalize all of that, but that would mean spilling a lot of personal information that Beau didn’t need to be privy to.
Beau’s expression was tortured as he stared at the bruise. He looked as if he were wracked with guilt. The last thing he needed on top of everything else.
I opened my mouth to tell him it wasn’t a big deal, that he didn’t have to look so wretched over it.
“Daddy?”
Beau and I sprang apart.
Clara was rubbing her eyes, clad in black cat PJs, squinting at the two of us.
“I had a bad dream,” she muttered.
Beau was across the kitchen, his daughter in his arms in a heartbeat. My arm tingled as Beau murmured to Clara, taking her to the breakfast bar.
Once Clara was in a better mood, he delicately explained Calliope’s situation. I made eggs. We went to the hospital. The chaos of the following few days ensured that Beau and I didn’t revisit that night. He was extra harsh with me. My pride, my heart, and my skin were all bruised. Only the latter healed.
fourteen
