Chapter 7 #2
I cleared my throat. “I’m, um, Clara’s Halloween costume.
” As I said it, it only just occurred to me that I was likely overstepping my bounds by making her a Halloween costume.
That was something parents did. Beau hadn’t so much as mentioned the idea of Halloween, though it didn’t surprise me.
Beau was not a celebrate any holiday kind of guy.
He was more like the Grinch. With a six-pack.
I shifted uncomfortably at the slight curl to Beau’s lip.
“I mean, I should have asked you first. She wants to go as Wednesday Addams, I’ll go as Morticia. It’s hard to find good costumes, and the available ones are all made from synthetic fabric, and I know you’re all natural in everything.” I was babbling, nerves taking over me.
Beau was a man of dualities. He did not look like someone who would fret about organic food, filtered water, non-toxic cleaners—which he made himself—and clothing made from natural fibers.
He was militant about it, so I’d tried my best to keep up with all the things Clara was not to be exposed to.
In his head, his daughter’s health and survival depended on it, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.
“You should be choosing her costume,” I continued, wanting to crawl away and die at yet another misstep with Beau. I never found my footing with this man. “I should’ve talked to you about that before—”
“It’s fine,” Beau interrupted sharply.
He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I hadn’t even thought about it. Last year…”
His eyes went far away as his shoulders slackened with defeat.
He looked smaller, lost in what I could only imagine was a terrible memory since last Halloween Clara had been in the hospital.
She’d told me all about it. Except that her memory was of nurses dressed up, trick-or-treating down the halls, and the projector her grandfather had brought in to watch scary movies on.
For her, it was a magical memory.
For Beau, it appeared to have torn him apart.
I actually stepped farther into the room, drawn by the need to comfort him, to show him someone saw his pain. I wanted to heal him. After all, that’s what drew me to nursing, wanting to help broken people. And Beau was little more than jagged edges of a man pointed outward so no one ever got close.
I wanted to be the one who got close.
But before I could even take another step, his shoulders tensed, his face tightened, and the hard stare he’d been giving me returned.
“It’s not something I make a big deal out of,” Beau growled. “Hallmark bullshit capitalizing on a sacred holiday.” He sucked his teeth.
My jaw loosened in surprise at Beau calling Halloween a “sacred holiday,” and not for the first time, I wondered about his interests. Was he into weird, wonderful things? Did he believe in ghosts and monsters?
Surely not. Beau was too firmly rooted in reality. You had to be if you wanted to walk around that grumpy and cynical all the time. However, he indulged every one of his daughter’s otherworldly hobbies, questions, and beliefs.
I turned to leave, taking his short tirade as a way of telling me that I would not be making Clara a costume.
“You can make it,” he muttered. “The costume. Clara likes dressing up. Send me the bill for the supplies.”
I nodded, as always surprised by Beau’s decisions but promising myself not to read too much into it.
For the third time, I turned to escape—although the part of me that felt alive in this room didn’t entirely want to leave.
I used to watch porn. Not feminist of me, especially since most of the stuff found online was produced using vulnerable women and perpetuated harmful ideas about sex and women’s pleasure. Not to mention, most of the sites were run by sleazy men.
Not very ethical consumption. But I had needs.
When I was married to Waylon, I didn’t understand them at first. I thought there was something wrong with me for not enjoying the minute and thirty seconds of him pumping on top of me, coming, rolling over, then kissing me on the side of the head, snoring five minutes later.
No foreplay.
No oral sex. Not for me, at least. Waylon had requested I perform it during my “bleeding week” on account of not being able to go a week without sex and him being thoroughly disgusted at the idea of fucking me while I was on my period.
Why did I marry him again?
Oh yes, because I’d been in high school, damaged, shy, desperate for someone to see me, to want me, to give me a home.
And Waylon had preyed on me.
I pushed those thoughts from my mind, focusing more on the porn I’d secretly consumed, along with romance books. Anything to feed the … need inside of me that wasn’t being anywhere near satisfied by my husband, who wanted an orgasm for himself and nothing else.
My tastes had varied, but there was one video I kept coming back to.
A babysitter came into the father’s office to tell him she was all done, closing the door, then seducing him.
It was forbidden, hot, especially how the father had resisted at first, but his want for the—thankfully of age—babysitter had overtaken him, and he’d bent her over his desk and fucked her with abandon.
Not before he splayed her out and dove headfirst between her legs.
Her pleasure first. Most important. I didn’t think those things existed beyond porn, because wasn’t porn just a fantasy?
About as real as a show with dragons and heroes who slayed them?
We liked to fantasize about such things, but they weren’t possible.
No dragons, no men prioritizing women’s pleasure.
Yet I was standing there in the middle of Beau’s office, staring at his desk, suddenly envisioning closing the door and seducing him.
I imagined his beard scratching my inner thighs. Beau losing control with me.
“Hannah.”
My name was harsh, cutting through the thin veil of my fantasy like a serrated knife.
Beau was staring at me, chest rising and falling rapidly, hands gripping his knees. A vein stood out in his neck.
I’d been standing at the door when I’d lapsed into my fantasy. At my name, I’d stepped two paces inside. As if some wanton, sex-starved maniac had taken over my body and prepared it to do what my inner voice was commanding: seduce Beau.
And it almost looked as if Beau knew what I was intending to do. Knew what I was thinking.
He looked angry. But there was also that same need I saw snippets of, glimpses of hunger crowding his face.
And the way he’d said my name. Was it a warning? Was it—
“I’ll go as Gomez.”
I just stood there. Frozen.
“The costumes.” He sat ramrod straight in his chair. “You’re going to be Morticia, Clara Wednesday. I’ll be Gomez.”
His voice was still tight, strained, fists still clenched at his knees. But I was pretty sure he wasn’t joking.
“You’ll dress up? On Halloween?”
He nodded once, curtly. “You don’t need to make my costume. I have a black suit.”
My mind raced. Beau. In a black suit. Beau as Gomez Addams.
“You can’t shave your beard,” I blurted, my mind jumping back to my inner thighs and my need for his beard to mark them.
Beau’s eyes widened slightly.
Heat warmed my ears. “I mean, Clara is so fond of your beard. She’d be devastated if you shaved it, even in the name of Gomez Addams.”
I licked my suddenly dry lips.
Beau was still sitting stiffly, but I could’ve sworn I saw a glint of amusement in his steely eyes.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to upset Clara,” he said pointedly.
I wrung my hands. “It’ll mean a lot to her,” I replied quietly. “You making the effort with the costume. And if you’re uncomfortable with me being involved, I can—”
“You’ll be part of the family … costume,” he stated firmly.
I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t part of the family, that I was just the nanny.
“If that’s all, I have to get back to work.” Beau shifted to face his computer, picking up a stack of papers. “I’ll get a sewing machine for you.”
“Oh, I can—”
“I’ll do it.”
Beau’s tone brooked no argument. And I didn’t think I could handle being in this room for a moment longer unless I launched myself at him or said something stupid or spontaneously combusted.
I nodded then stumbled out of his office.
BEAU
I had to get control of myself.
I’d nearly pushed out of my chair, pressed her against the door, and fucked her senseless. Her expression made me wonder if that’s what she wanted from me.
The way she looked at me, the way her eyes had hooded, her breathing becoming shallow. Her lips had parted.
She looked like she was begging to be fucked. To be claimed. By me.
I’d been ready to tear her fucking clothes off, to surge into her with my god damn daughter in the same house.
What was wrong with me?
I tried to force my eyes back on the spreadsheets, telling myself to focus on the business, loan payments, and medical bills. All pressing, important.
But all I could think about was Hannah.