Chapter 3
three
HANNAH
Clara and I had a wonderful day.
We always did. Even when we were inside while Clara was regaining her strength. Even more once the world beckoned her back.
Summer still tried to cling on, with warm days bathed in sunshine.
On those we went to the ocean, dipped our toes in the freezing cold water, laid out on beach towels, looking at clouds while deciding what they looked like.
We collected seashells then arranged them on the fireplace mantel, along with whatever other treasures Clara decided were special—a smooth piece of sea glass, a feather, an old, rusted penny.
I put all of those things in jars and on trays, arranged around the house.
Maybe it wasn’t my place. It wasn’t my house, after all.
But it was such a little girl thing to do, to collect mementos of moments in time that felt happy, to be creative, be in awe of the world.
I’d done the same. Except whatever treasures I found were scoffed at or thrown away, my childish innocence and wonder going with it.
Although it was only my job to be her nanny, I considered it my duty to be the protector of that innocence and wonder for as long as I could.
Beau did his best—as much as it pained me to admit it—but he was also a man.
He didn’t understand the subtleties of being a little girl, although I saw him try.
I’d waited for him to say something about the things around the house that had appeared since I’d started working there.
Like the hand-knit throw that Clara and I had bought at a farmers’ market from a young woman who made them all one of a kind.
It was bursts of colors—pinks, purples—delicate flowers, sprawling vines, ladybugs.
It did not go with the muted décor that Beau obviously chose for function rather than form.
He fingered the throw, picked up the shells. I watched him do both. So did Clara, resulting in her launching into the backstory of each item and his eyes crinkling at the edges, his mouth tipped up as he listened raptly to his daughter.
He didn’t say anything to me, no sharp words thrown, no reprimand.
The treasures stayed where they were. Clara and I cuddled up on the throw routinely.
And when Beau was home at night, and I made myself scarce because I didn’t know what to do with myself, I caught glimpses of him cuddled up under the throw with Clara.
Watching her small body tucked into his, his lips on her hair, stroking her back… It did things to my ovaries.
He was so big, so gruff, so fucking rude.
But to his daughter, he was her protector, her hero, her everything. He gave her smiles, unconditional love, and affection.
And somehow, he looked even more masculine cuddling his daughter underneath a fucking floral throw.
Yes, I spent a lot more time thinking about Beau Shaw than I should’ve.
I should’ve been making my plans for the future.
For going back to school. Budgeting what that would look like, whether I’d need another job.
Figuring out how to get myself divorced from a toxic narcissist who didn’t want me to move on. Things like that.
But I didn’t.
I thought of Beau Shaw, cuddled with his daughter. I thought of Beau Shaw, making me pancakes. I thought of Beau Shaw, his finger brushing mine and the electric shock that came from it.
And after a long and wonderful day with Clara, a belly full of nourishing food, exhaustion heavy in my limbs because that girl had boundless energy, house clean and quiet, I should’ve been in my room. In my bed.
Except I wasn’t.
I stayed in the kitchen.
I didn’t know why. Masochism, maybe? Because I was starved for adult contact and was willing to settle for a few seconds with an asshole?
Because my fucked-up brain craved a glimpse of Beau before I went to sleep?
Because the only male attention I’d ever received was tinted with cruelty, and I’d come to crave it?
My heart rate spiked as headlights lit up the living room. I’d straightened everything up, leaving my book on the coffee table to pick up once I’d made my mug of tea.
It was a dance I’d timed perfectly, since I’d been doing it more and more lately.
It wasn’t calculated, exactly. It was pathetic, probably.
I kept thinking if I gave Beau the chance, he’d be nice to me.
He’d like me. Or I’d like him. Because I didn’t.
But I dreamed of him. It was him I thought of when I quietly made myself orgasm at night, the act feeling naughty and tawdry in Beau’s house.
The door opened and closed. I heard his footsteps enter the living room. Heard them pause as he presumably saw me in the dim light of the kitchen. My head was down as I poured tea, so I looked up, hopefully with a bland and calm look on my face.
“Hi.” I toyed with the string of my tea bag. “I was just making tea then going to bed.”
State the obvious much? I always felt like an awkward teenager around him. Which I’d never really been. I’d had friends. Been sociable, bubbly even. I’d done a lot of work to mask my pain, my lack of self-confidence.
Waylon had seen that. It had attracted him to me at first but was a skin I was supposed to shed as his wife. Once the ring was on my finger, I was supposed to look to him for validation, self-worth. He tore off little pieces of me I thought were fused to bone.
It had taken a long time to regrow into the shape of the woman I’d once been.
And Beau stripped it all back, exposing who I was underneath it all. Small. Uncertain. I hated it. Him showing me I was still a broken little girl beneath it all, one who just wanted to be liked by the older, authoritative man.
Yes, since my father left when I was five, I’d had daddy issues with a capital D. That wasn’t pertinent, I told myself. I wasn’t that predictable.
Beau didn’t say hi. He just stayed in the living room, rooted in place, staring at me.
I felt his ire at my daring to be in this shared space when he was home.
Apparently, there was an unwritten rule that we do our best not to be around each other when Clara was asleep.
The debacle in this very kitchen this morning was great evidence as to why.
“How was the restaurant?” I asked. I was playing with fire here, both loving and hating the thrill from being alone with Beau, feeling the tension in the air.
“Busy.” Beau’s response was clipped.
“That’s good.” I cupped my too-hot mug. “Busy. That’s good.”
Beau didn’t reply. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he looked glued in place, as if my presence prevented him from moving around in his own house.
My palms burned, yet I kept them there because I needed the pain as a distraction from Beau.
His eyes went to the breakfast bar.
“What are those?” he asked flatly.
I stared at him then back to the flowers, unsure if I should state the obvious since I was certain he’d actually seen flowers before. Yes, he wasn’t a man to stop and smell them, but he knew they existed.
Obviously, I took too long to answer because his brows knitted as he leveled an irritated look my way. “You get flowers from your boyfriend, you put them somewhere else. Preferably not in my fucking house.”
I pursed my lips, bracing against the quiet fury in his tone. Which wasn’t uncommon. But this had an unhinged edge to it, one that made my skin prickle and my stomach lurch. I wanted to shrink away, to run, avert my gaze. All well-worn neural pathways.
I’m not doing that anymore, I told myself.
I’m stronger than that.
I jutted my chin up, maintaining eye contact. “They’re not from my boyfriend.” I decided not to correct him by saying that I didn’t have a boyfriend, merely an estranged husband who wouldn’t sign the divorce papers.
“I bought them.” I internally squirmed at how tight my voice sounded.
“With Clara. She said they were pretty. And she deserves flowers. Scientific studies show that fresh-cut flowers improve the happiness of those in a home by 25 percent.” I motioned to the flowers.
“So those should raise yours to … about 25 percent of that of a regular human.”
My cheeks flushed at the impulsive last sentence. I hadn’t meant to say it. Be confrontational. Poke the bear when Beau didn’t need to be poked in order to roar. My existence alone did that.
I waited. Bracing for a scowl. A mean comment. Or for him to flat out ignore me. He did that often too. Like he couldn’t be bothered with responding to me. Like I wasn’t worth the effort.
Instead, I got a twitch of his lips.
Not a smile. Nowhere near, just a twitch. He was amused.
There was a person, complete with emotions and maybe even a sense of humor, somewhere in there.
Underneath that excellent beard, the perpetual scowl, the hardened gaze.
I’d known there was the man who smiled at his daughter, of course.
But I’d never imagined one existed who might find me a bit amusing.
We stayed there, staring at each other for a handful of seconds. I didn’t breathe the entire time.
“You should go to bed, Hannah.” He eventually broke the silence.
To my surprise, his voice wasn’t cold or mean. No, it was low, throaty, and it sent my skin on fire.
I swallowed thickly. “I need to, um…” I rounded the counter, walking toward him. As I neared, his entire body stilled. Preparing. As if he were expecting me to … what? Rush him? Climb him like a tree?
Oh, I wanted to. This thing between us, this tension was mostly cold and mean. But then there were moments when it was an inferno, when I wanted to hate fuck him into infinity.
But I wasn’t that brazen. Not that confident. Because most likely, this was all in my head. I was probably being overly romantic, imagining that a man like Beau would want me. That all of his meanness was a front to cover something else, that need I thought I saw from time to time.
The more realistic explanation was that he simply didn’t like me. Not everyone was going to like me, that I knew. I wasn’t special.