The first month, I’d taken to hiding in my room until Clara woke and it was safe. But I’d forced myself to get up more recently, irritation giving me strength. I deserved to be able to get up to get a coffee, be in another adult’s presence without dissolving into a bundle of nerves. I’d been reading books about reclaiming my power. Getting up and forcing myself to be around Beau was one of the things I needed to do.
I sucked in what I hoped would be a fortifying breath. He definitely knew I was standing here. I didn’t lumber around, but I’d seen his shoulders tense as I entered, his hand freezing for a moment. How he knew I was there without turning around was a mystery. Asshole powers?
“Good morning.” I forced myself to sound cheerful and warm. That was how you dealt with angry men. Over-the-top niceness, pleasantness. Give them nothing to home in on.
He hunched over the coffee machine just a little at my words, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically as he took a visible breath.
My stomach churned as I wrung my hands. What was so offensive about wishing someone good morning?
I’d made a point to soften my voice, not be too loud, not too grating. Even. Agreeable.
Clearly, that didn’t matter much when it came to Beau Shaw. Everything I did enraged him.
“Morning,” he finally barked, turning slowly.
I stood rooted in place as his eyes darted over my body before quickly flitting away. Though the look was fleeting, I felt fire in its wake. He pushed from the coffee machine, stomping to the fridge then all but hurling it open, obscuring my view of him.
I looked down.
I was wearing a light pink sleep set. Maybe I should’ve gotten fully dressed before leaving my room. But I was wearing a tank and jersey pants. I’d put on a bra and cardigan. I wasn’t brave enough to walk around my employer’s home braless.
My hair was piled messily on top of my head. I wasn’t wearing makeup. I had brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and slathered on some cheap moisturizer.
I didn’t look amazing, but I knew I looked halfway decent, no morning breath, my hair not a bird’s nest. No skin on display.
What about me was offensive to Beau Shaw was anyone’s guess. And I was done guessing. I was done giving him my time and energy. Get through the rest of the year, save money, savor every moment with Clara, then leave. That was the mission. And not let Beau get to me.
I pulled back my shoulders, then started my journey to the coffee machine. Just as Beau closed the fridge door with an armful of ingredients.
He hadn’t seen me, or he’d been trying hard not to look at me. I hadn’t seen him because I was trying to pretend he didn’t exist and had been zeroed in on caffeine.
We collided.
Everything in his arms fell to the floor as he steadied me, his hands on my hips to stop me from flying backward.
My heart rate instantly spiked in response to the collision, the grip of his large, strong hands. My skin burned underneath the thin fabric of my pants. When I inhaled, I discovered Beau smelled like soap and coffee. Simple. Masculine. Infinitely appealing. His hands seemed so big, splayed across my hips, warm, exuding just the right amount of pressure, denoting the strength inside him.
We’d never been this close before, never touched. And though he made me feel more unsteady than any other man had in my life, standing there, feeling his warmth, his hands on my hips, I’d never felt more anchored to the earth.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted, realizing that we were standing in a mess.
Beau’s hands squeezed my hips in a delicious pulse that I felt in between my legs before he stepped back from me like I was contagious.
His head went down to the disarray at my bare feet.
My pink-tipped toes were now covered in milk and egg yolk.
“Fuck,” he hissed, sounding enraged.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, crouching down to my knees at the same time he did, grasping to pile eggshells back into the carton.
Our hands brushed.
Another spark ignited between my legs.
I looked at him from beneath my lashes, our eyes locking.
My breathing quickened, seeing the ferocity in his gaze, the flared nostrils. He was angry, yes. But that wasn’t what made my lungs burn. It was there again. That hunger I told myself I’d imagined at Calliope and Elliot’s wedding.
