Chapter 5 #3
“I don’t want things to be different for you.” She smiled, reaching over to squeeze my hand in a casual display of affection. “I was being selfish. You definitely should be following your dreams.”
“What about a boyfriend?” Tiffany asked. It was the first time I’d met Tina’s wife. Tina I’d seen at the bakery, and although she was covered in tattoos and scowled at the coffee machine a lot, she was unflinchingly kind and funny with Clara.
Tiffany was her polar opposite, with her hair curled and teased within an inch of its life.
She was wearing head-to-toe pink, her makeup flawless, looking like she was going to a beauty contest instead of a five-year-old's birthday party.
I loved it. I wondered what it would be like to be so confident, to stand out.
She leaned forward. “You’ve got to have one. Look at you.” She waved her long, pink-tipped fingers at me.
I blushed when all the glamorous, gorgeous women did just that, eyeing with appraising but not judgmental gazes.
I thought about what they saw. Half-hearted curls tumbling down my back.
Freckles, a too-small nose and a face that was too full, regardless of whether I lost weight or not.
Lips that looked swollen or like I’d gotten lip filler.
Hazel eyes. I never felt pretty, and no one had ever told me I was.
I knew I wasn’t exactly ugly, but I was nothing spectacular.
“I don’t have one,” I said quietly, eyes darting over to Beau for a half second. “A boyfriend. I’m trying to extract myself from a … complicated relationship.”
A few of the women moved forward when I said this, as if they sensed there was more to the story.
Now why did I go and say that? I didn’t need to hint at any kind of chaos. Be boring. Polite. That should’ve been my goal.
“Complicated? What does that mean?” Fiona asked.
“Complicated means bad,” Tiffany muttered softly.
Pressure built in my chest. I should not have opened my mouth. These women did not need to be embroiled in my past. And I was far too embarrassed at what I’d let happen to say a thing about it. These were strong, confident women; no way I could make them understand how I’d been so weak and stupid.
“Do you need me to make some calls?” Not waiting for my response, Calliope reached into her purse for a phone. “Tell me his name and date of birth. I’ll have him wishing he was dead in two hours.”
Now Calliope was involved? She didn’t sound like she was joking. My cheeks flushed as my heart rate spiked with panic. Calliope was not someone to let things go, and I didn’t consider myself skilled enough at evasion or lying to extract myself from the conversation.
“It’s time for cake!” I practically yelled, standing up and tipping the rest of the champagne down my throat. I almost choked, coughing as I all but ran from the conversation.
Not subtle. Not elegant, and definitely not a way to shut Calliope down. But it was the best I could do at that moment.
I walked toward Beau, dodging children and the men chasing them. He was cleaning the grill while Kip animatedly spoke to him. Beau’s face was downturned, focused on the grill as he was likely in the middle of his worst nightmare—socializing. Beau was not a social creature. As had been established.
It made me smile, just a little, seeing his discomfort. He kind of deserved it, didn’t he?
The men parted for me, greeting me with smiles and warm words. I smiled back, murmuring shy responses. Beau had his back to me and hadn’t seemed to notice me, so I touched his arm to get his attention.
He turned, eyes flaring and eyebrows narrowing on where I’d touched him. I kept my hand on the bare muscled skin of his arm, swallowing thickly while forcing myself not to look away.
“I’m thinking it’s time for the cake,” I told him, my voice thin and raspy. “I’m going to go put the candles on, then you can bring it out.”
My hand was still on his bicep. I should’ve removed it.
It was only there to get his attention. I had his attention.
But I couldn’t move it. It was as if it were glued to his arm.
I was half horrified by my body’s betrayal, half …
something else that resembled my feelings from last night.
When I looked at Kip, he was grinning, his dancing, playful blue eyes darting from my hand to Beau’s eyes. Necking his beer, he walked off.
Leaving us alone.
Finally, I managed to remove my hand from his arm. I was surprised it didn’t leave a red mark considering how much my palm was burning from the contact.
Beau hadn’t spoken. I swallowed glass, too afraid to look at him, my head buzzing from the champagne I’d just chugged. “Um, yeah. It’s time for the cake. I’ll just go put the candles on, then you can bring it out.”
Then, eyes downcast, I practically sprinted into the house.
Why did I touch him? I had a voice—though I didn’t use it much when Beau was around. I could’ve called his name. He would’ve heard me, turned, likely responding because we were in polite company, and he probably didn’t want to come off as a complete asshole.
It was the alcohol. I wasn’t used to drinking, and I hadn’t eaten because I’d been too busy organizing, making sure everything was perfect. My hand shook as I lit the candles, the sounds of happy children and soft music drifting in through the open windows.
My throat constricted when there was a clang from the back door, a thump of boots. Why was he wearing boots when it was seventy degrees outside? Why did he look so good in the aforementioned boots? Why did I touch him? Why didn’t I quit?
More pressingly, why didn’t I shove the candles on the cake then dart out of the kitchen before he arrived?
Who knew?
Blaming it on the champagne felt apt.
The energy in the kitchen changed when his boots crossed the threshold, my body on fire as I pushed the last candle into Clara’s cake. I took longer than I should’ve, placing the candles.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled under his silent gaze. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. So I had to. Slowly, with a pounding heart, I turned.
And there stood Beau.
He was keeping a measured distance between us, so far away from me that it was actually strange. People didn’t stand that far apart unless one of them had a contagious disease or an unfortunate body odor.
There was no way to smell my pits discreetly, but I didn’t think I smelled bad, and my only disease was a lack of common sense. I doubted that was contagious, especially not around Beau. He was the epitome of common sense, but not manners.
His eyes slowly traveled my body, and I felt the impact of them as if they were his hands.
My knees were quivering when he made eye contact, my chest rapidly rising and falling, waiting for what he might say. Because there had to be something to accompany that look, one that was not a glare or a scowl but the hungry gaze of a man who wanted a woman. A man who wanted me.
Then his eyes shuttered, his mouth forming a thin line. A chill crept over my skin that wasn’t caused by the crisp wind blowing through the open windows.
“Tell me how much,” Beau demanded gruffly.
I stared at him, confused, my head still swimming in champagne and hormones.
“How much?” I repeated.
“How much for the supplies.” He gestured to the cake. “The presents. Everything you did for the party that you paid for out of your own pocket. I’ll write you a check.”
I shifted on my feet, my throat suddenly dry. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he interrupted harshly. “You did all of this, and it has made Clara happy, which I greatly appreciate, but it is not your place to pay for it all. I’ll pay you back.”
The words were firm, the implication behind them was firm too.
I was his employee. It was not my place to bake cakes, plan birthday parties, touch him, want him.
I inhaled deeply, trying to fight back tears.
Logically, I knew all of that was true. I didn’t belong here with happy, affluent people.
I was the help. The presence Beau tolerated but didn’t welcome.
A warm body he desired because I was near, that was it.
When he moved closer to me, I stepped back on instinct. He grasped the lighter from the counter, lighting the candles, not looking at me.
“Calculate it.” He spoke without looking up. “Text me the number, I’ll deposit it tonight.”
A dismissal, clear as day, then he turned his back.
My throat burned, and my vision blurred with tears as I stood there, silently.
Beau kept his back to me.
I swallowed my pain and wiped my eyes, wishing I could run into my room and hide from the world. But I wouldn’t give that to Beau. Nor would I take that from Clara. I wanted her to see me; she considered me her friend, and she was mine. Maybe even my best friend.
Maybe Clara was all I had in the world.
And she wasn’t even mine.
But I’d take her while I could.
So I steeled myself, mentally flipped him the bird, then walked back to the party.