Half Buried Hopes (Jupiter Tides #4)

Chapter 1

one

HANNAH

I woke up dreading the day.

A stone—thick, hard, and cold—had settled in the pit of my stomach the moment I woke. The sheets were soft and comfortable, the comforter plush and cozy. My surroundings were bare, but they were clean. I felt safe. I was safe.

My belly didn’t pang with hunger pains from missing meals the day before.

There was a hot shower waiting for me in the adjoining bathroom.

There was a little girl down the hall who made me smile, who lit up my world.

All of these things should’ve meant I awakened happy, especially given my past. Growing up, my sheets were thin, scratchy, cheap, and rarely clean.

I was always cold, hungry, and afraid. In my young adulthood, in a different house, I woke up next to a man who smelled of booze and who was unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst.

Yes, waking up in a small, comfortable, warm house in Jupiter, Maine, should’ve been a treat for me. I should’ve been dancing for joy that my job was literally hanging out with the most wonderful little girl in the world.

But there was a catch.

In my experience, there was always a catch.

This catch was mild, most would say, considering my past. Yet the stone in my stomach was ever-present, dread heavy in my bones at the prospect of facing the day.

Of facing him.

I hated my boss.

I didn’t make a habit of saying I hated anyone. Well, except the people who deserved to be hated.

Kim Jo Hung.

Hitler.

Scumbags like them.

Not the people I interacted with daily—the driver who cut me off, my sister-in-law who controlled my brother and subtly insulted my outfits and general personality whenever we were together—even my ex-husband.

To describe them, I would’ve used the term strongly dislike. Maybe even punctuate it with some creative profanity.

But hatred was not a feeling I let myself possess.

Anger corrodes the vessel in which it is held, and the same could be said about hatred.

I’d seen it turn my mother bitter, sick, and cruel.

I couldn’t say I didn’t get plenty angry at people, especially those on the previous list. But I never felt like I hated them.

Until Beau Shaw.

My boss.

The unbearable asshole.

Who, for whatever reason, decided he didn’t like me the second he saw me and made it his duty in life to be unpleasant whenever we were stuck in the same room. Considering my job was to be his daughter’s nanny and live in his home, we were stuck together pretty fricking often.

Usually, nannying was about looking after children while the parents were away, but Beau didn’t abide by conventional rules. He was often here, hovering, watching me.

At the beginning, I got it. Clara was only four and recovering from leukemia then a bone marrow transplant. She needed to be in intense quarantine; she was vulnerable. So I gave Beau and his assholery a lot of grace.

Of course, he wasn’t going to be all sunshine and rainbows when he’d just spent years of his life watching his little girl fight an unbearable illness. That kind of thing scarred you, disfigured you in ways that I couldn’t comprehend.

I reasoned that’s what made him an asshole.

Then Clara got better and better, words like remission and cured were used.

She would soon be able to go to the playground, interact with children, be a normal little girl, and still, Beau’s behavior continued.

He wasn’t overly pleasant with anyone but his daughter, and it seemed his true ire was reserved for me.

Granted, we spent a lot of time together these past months, given Clara’s need for strict quarantine for sixty days after her transplant.

Though Clara was responding to the treatment exceptionally well—she was stronger than anyone expected, a recovery that could be recorded in medical journals—I was going through hell having to be in such close quarters with such an unpleasant, albeit handsome, man.

Any time I entered a room, he glared at me like I was doing him a personal disservice by existing. He spoke to me as little as possible, keeping his words clipped, his eyes cold and harsh. Whenever I did something wrong—which apparently I did by breathing—he was quick to reprimand me. Shame me.

Again, the time right after the transplant was highly stressful and worrisome, so I’d given him a lot of leeway.

More than he deserved. But it had been long enough.

Clara had been cleared to go outside, interact with a small number of people, and she had a birthday party coming up—if weather allowed.

There were plenty of reasons to be hopeful.

If not happy then at least pleasant. But Beau was not.

I was eventually forced to acknowledge Beau for what he truly was. He wasn’t an asshole because his daughter was sick. He was just an asshole.

Quitting was the obvious option. Except despite his assholery, he paid well.

And offered benefits. Since my ex cleaned me out, I needed the money.

And the benefits. And the place to stay.

It seemed offering the live-in option physically pained him since he didn’t like the company of anyone but his daughter and definitely didn’t like me, but that was handy too.

I didn’t have the money to throw away on rent, especially in Jupiter, Maine.

It was small and quaint, with very few rental properties in my price range.

I doubted I’d pass a credit check anyway—another little gift from my ex. All the bills had been in my name, and he never paid them. I didn’t know this. Not until the end. Now, no one would approve me for a credit card, so I couldn’t actually build up credit to look trustworthy on paper.

Not for the first time, I cursed my ex—and myself for putting me in situations where I had to live with assholes whom I hated. Why continue to be employed by Beau and suffer his moods, his withering stares, and the way my thighs tightened when I thought about him with his shirt off?

I’d caught him coming out of the shower, running to the laundry room for a clean shirt—at least that’s what I deduced.

I had not been expecting to see a shirtless Beau.

Nor was I suspecting a shirtless Beau to be so cut.

His long torso was chiseled like a Greek god.

He’d always looked fit underneath his flannels—the ones he wore even on the unseasonably warm days—and I’d seen his biceps in a tee, but this was something else entirely.

Abs. Defined. A peppering of dark hair on his chest descending from his navel to the waistband of his jeans…

I’d jerked my gaze up, suddenly aware that I was almost staring at my employer’s crotch.

My body jolted as I caught Beau’s gaze. He did not look annoyed as he normally did. He looked … hungry. For me.

My mouth had parted, and my heart had thrummed. Then Clara ran into the hall, looking for us, and the moment—if that’s what you could call it—was over.

For a split second, he’d stared at me like he wanted me.

But he was a man. From what I understood, a man who didn’t have a girlfriend and hadn’t in a long while.

It was biology, nothing else. And even if he was attracted to me, it didn’t change the fact that he hated me.

You could still be attracted to people you hated.

Case in point: me to him.

I would’ve left. Should’ve left when all this became clear. That despite our mutual disdain for each other, there was some physical attraction that defied logic and sense.

Leaving was the most prudent and safe option.

But I didn’t.

Even if he hadn’t paid well, even if I didn’t get the benefits and good sheets, allowing me to exist in the picturesque town of Jupiter, I would’ve stayed. Because of Clara. The most precious little girl I’d had the honor of caring for.

The mere thought of saying goodbye to her made my chest hurt.

So I endured. And it became more bearable.

The better Clara got meant Beau becoming busier at the restaurant, resulting in me seeing him less.

I also got to interact more with his extended family and their friends as Clara got better.

Not Beau’s friends —he didn’t have friends because he was an asshole—but his sister-in-law's friends and family. Their children.

I’d never had a group of friends like that.

I’d never seen people care for each other the way they did, certainly not in my own family or even my in-laws.

As much as I wanted to in my adult life, I had never been able to forge those types of bonds.

Even the scant friends I had made in high school scattered when I got married.

My husband had wanted me to focus on being his wife and creating our family. Because I so desperately wanted a family, wanted to be loved, I hadn’t seen that as the giant red flag it was, succumbing to four years of hell with him.

I would never again let myself be blind to red flags in men.

And despite Beau Shaw being seriously hot, he was a walking red flag. One I was cordial to because he paid me, but one I sometimes secretly plotted misfortune on. Nothing terrible—just a flat tire, a bad hair day, a second-degree burn in the kitchen.

I had been contemplating all of this, staring at the white ceiling, lying in the small twin bed in my “room” at Beau Shaw’s house.

The room itself was sparse. When I’d arrived, it was nothing more than a storage room for some of Clara’s old toys with a twin-sized bed in the corner.

My belongings didn’t add much. My worn suitcase held Walmart clothes, shoes, and underwear, a few worn paperbacks, rudimentary toiletries, a photo of my brother and me, and that was about it.

It had depressed me, how my whole life fit into a cheap suitcase with nothing remotely interesting or valuable inside it.

That was going to change, I promised myself. I was going to change. I was going to stick it out until Clara went to kindergarten. I’d have enough money by then to get back to school myself and out of Beau Shaw’s orbit.

That’s a good thing, I told myself.