“So you studied behavioral genetics,” Lilah says, leaning forward. She’s not testing him anymore. She’s interested. “Like what, specifically?”
“Reproductive behavior in bovids. How genetics influence mate selection, fertility markers, and breeding success.” He glances at me. Just a flicker. His golden eyes holding a heat only I can read. “Instinct versus learned behavior.”
I take a large sip of water and look at the ceiling.
“That’s actually really cool,” Lilah says. “My bio professor would love you. Can I call you Daddy Bull Guy?”
“No,” we both say at the same time, making her laugh.
“It’s already on my phone.”
Beau looks at me. I shrug. His full lips curve …barely, but I see it. I know that almost-smile. I know what that mouth looks like wrapped around my nipple, pressed between my thighs, grinning against my neck after he makes me come. And now it’s almost-smiling at my daughter’s joke over pot roast.
The contrast is doing things to me. Filthy, inappropriate, shouldn’t-be-happening-at-the-dinner-table things. Because there’s something about watching this enormous, dominant, possessive man be gentle and patient with my kid that makesme want to drag him to my bedroom and fuck him until the headboard cracks.
I refill my glass. Lilah’s still talking.
“So. You like my mom?”
The table goes still. I open my mouth, but Beau’s already looking at Lilah. Direct. Calm. His eyes, steady.
“I’m in love with your mom.”
Lilah blinks. I choke on my water. He says it the way he says everything …like a fact. Like gravity. The sky is up. Water’s wet. He loves me.
My daughter stares at him. Then at me. Then back at him.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Respect. That was direct.” She points her fork at him. “But if you hurt her, I’m making your life hell. I know people.”
“You don’t know people,” I manage.
“I know people adjacent. I could know people.”
Beau laughs. A real laugh. Short, surprised, showing his teeth. It creases the corners of his eyes and changes his whole face. For a second he doesn’t look like the brooding cowboy who pins me to walls and talks about breeding me. He just looks like a sweet, amused, slightly overwhelmed guy sitting at his girlfriend’s dinner table being threatened by her twenty-year-old daughter.
And I love him so much in that moment I can barely breathe.
After dinner, Lilah FaceTimes Miles. “He needs to see the bull man,” she says, already dialing.
Miles picks up on the fourth ring. He has headphones on and is sitting in his messy dorm room. The disinterested face of an eighteen-year-old boy who was mid-game.
“What.”
“Mom’s boyfriend is here.”
She flips the camera before I can stop her. Beau raises a hand. “Hey, Miles.”
My son squints at the screen. Takes in the chest, the jaw, the general enormity. “You’re the bull guy?”
“I’m Beau.”
“Cool.” Pause. “You wrestle bulls and stuff?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s sick.” Another pause. Shorter this time. “You being nice to my mom?”
My chest clenches. Because that’s my Miles. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t show much. But that question…asked flat, casual, like he couldn’t care less…that’s my baby boy checking on me from miles away.
