Chapter 8 #3
There was a horrifying beat of silence when I wanted to sink into the ground and die before Fiona threw her head back laughing, as did a couple of the others. It wasn’t cruel laughter, though. I was well-versed in what that sounded like. This was softer. Warmer.
“Honey, I’ve seen the way you look at the asshole who shall not be named.” Fiona winked conspiratorially. “I know you’re not a lesbian. And I know she’s not a lesbian.” She motioned to Lori. “Because she’s in love with our police chief.”
Lori’s cheeks colored, her eyes narrowing at Fiona. “I’m not in love with him,” she protested, almost as loudly as when I’d said I wasn’t a lesbian. It comforted me since she was only two sips into her champagne.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Sure.”
“He’s not interested in me in the slightest,” Lori continued. Even though I’d just met the woman, I knew from her tone and the panic in her eyes that she definitely had feelings for the police chief.
“Right,” Fiona intoned. “We’re in an upside-down world, where, apparently, the girl getting her PhD is dense and blind.” She smirked at me knowingly. “You two will get along so well. A lot in common.” She waggled her brows in a way that was supposed to be meaningful.
Then she walked away. Leaving both Lori and me frowning at each other.
“What was that supposed to mean?” I asked her.
She shrugged, downing her drink. “I adore all of these women, but they are all loved up with men who shouldn’t strictly be real.
They think there are an infinite number of decent men walking around the world, waiting to sweep us off our feet.
” She rolled her eyes. “They’ll create a love story about almost anyone.
Case in point, Finn and me. Nothing is going on there. ”
She said it in a way that told me there was a lot more going on than nothing.
“And with you and Beau.” She gestured with her drink. “Nothing going on there, right?”
I smiled at her. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
I tried to enter the house quietly, even though the light in the living room alerted me to Beau being awake. It was the only reason the light would be on. Because he wouldn’t leave the light on for me. That would require consideration, fondness for a person, and basic manners.
Beau didn’t have any of those things. Not when it came to me, at least.
Nonetheless, I tried to be quiet as I entered the house, but it didn’t work with the keys not fitting into the lock properly.
It took me three tries to hear the satisfying click as it opened, my fingers almost numb as I turned the handle.
I tripped over the doorstep and dropped the keys with a clatter.
“Whoopsie,” I muttered, swinging down to pick them up, pulling the door with me with a slam before falling onto my hands and knees.
“Ouch,” I yelped as the keys jammed into my palm.
I looked around for something to grasp on to, to help pull me up since I didn’t entirely trust my balance.
It should’ve been embarrassing or shameful, since I’d seen my mother in states not dissimilar to this throughout my childhood and swore I’d never become her.
But such heavy thoughts were too big to latch on to in any real way.
Instead, I focused on what was important—finding me something solid to pull myself up.
Then my eyes found it.
The console table by the front door, anchored to the wall. Every piece of furniture in this house was anchored to the wall because Beau was an excellent father and did not take a chance on anything that could hurt his daughter.
I sighed at the thought that made my chest burn uncomfortably, at the dichotomy of admiring his devotion to Clara and abhorring how he treated me.
Finding my way to the console table, I used my hands to pull myself up to my feet, shaky at first—much like a baby who hadn’t quite learned how to walk yet.
“I did it.” I stood in triumph.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I turned slowly to see Beau standing in the archway between the living room and entryway.
He was bathed in light and shadows. Only a corner lamp and the TV were on, so I couldn’t see him in exquisite detail. His arms were crossed, and he was regarding me with an expression that said he’d just seen me stumble through the door then crawl on my hands and knees across the floor.
Shit.
That was not at all professional.
I cleared my own throat, straightening my spine. “Good evening, Beau.” I tried to sound serious, responsible, and most important, sober.
“You’re drunk.” Beau’s voice was even, cold but not entirely combative. It almost sounded … amused.
“I’m not drunk,” I argued, trying to pull off my jacket, only to realize it was somehow fused to my body. I struggled a little as my ankle rolled, and I almost toppled over.
I would’ve if it weren’t for his firm hands on my hips. When the scent of juniper and leather fragranced the air, my skin tingled at his smell, at his nearness.
“You caught me,” I whispered, turning to look up at him. His jaw was hard underneath his beard. The harsh glint in his eyes was still there, but behind it shimmered something else. Something I must’ve been imagining.
“I’m not going to let you fall, Hannah,” His grunted response lit up my nervous system. There seemed to be a double meaning behind those words.
Even when I was sober, deciphering Beau’s remarks made my head hurt. Drunk? Impossible.
“Why wouldn’t you?” I asked. “What do I matter to you?”
Was there bitter resentment in my tone? Desperation? Hope?
I wanted to sound biting, angry, and strong. But I feared I sounded tired and pathetic.
Beau’s mouth flattened further, and instead of answering, he lifted his hand to my shoulder, pulling the shoulder strap of my small purse to untangle it from my jacket.
I’d tried to take off my jacket while still wearing a cross-body purse, creating a straitjacket out of it. Beau’s large hands carefully extracted me.
I held my breath, at him being so close, so careful. So gentle. Every action directly at odds with everything I’d ever experienced from him.
I waited. Readied myself. For him to say something.
For him to reprimand me. It was not professional to come back drunk.
Granted, I wasn’t actively taking care of Clara, nor was I expected to for the rest of the night.
It was my time off to do what I wanted, but it made things kind of murky when we lived together.
Everything about this job became murkier by living together.
I should’ve been on my best behavior. And I had been. For months. Tiptoeing around him, minding my words, my manners. Yet that hadn’t done anything but raise my cortisol levels and mess with my sleep.
I was entitled to let loose. I was of age. No laws were broken.
So why did I feel like I was about to be punished? Why did the idea of Beau Shaw punishing me … excite me?
The silence between us pulsed like a living thing. He didn’t step back; he was still standing close to me, my head tipped up to regard him, waiting.
“Did you have fun?” he asked, voice low.
I blinked up at him. No harsh words. No punishments—which was a good thing. I think the punishments I had in mind were against the law for an employer to do to an employee.
I licked my lips. “Fun?”
He nodded, his eyes fixed on my lips with an expression I couldn’t place.
I thought about the night again, the music, laughter, glimpses into the other women’s lives, into sisterhoods carved and maintained. Families. Things that were sacred.
I thought about how easily Lori and I got along, how we’d already exchanged numbers and made plans to hang out.
“Yes,” I answered quietly. “I had a lot of fun.”
“Good.” As he gave me a once-over as if he was checking my body for something, I didn’t miss the heat in his gaze. You couldn’t miss it, even while wearing champagne goggles that made everything else so blurry. I could see Beau clearer than ever.
“How did you get home?”
Yet again, I was stunned at the question. That he was willingly staying in my presence—right up close to me—and making conversation.
“I, uh, I ordered a rideshare.” I rubbed the back of my neck. My head was starting to throb, and there was a little voice whispering to me about breaching the small distance between Beau and me just to see what he’d do if I kissed him.
Beau.
The man I hated. I’d never wanted to kiss him before. Never even thought about it. Maybe once. Or twice. I was only human. Objectively, Beau Shaw was hot. If you overlooked how much of an asshole he was.
He went still. “Rideshare?”
I bit my lip. I knew he was older than me and not very social or technically minded, but surely even he knew about the revolution in ridesharing and the apps that perpetuated it.
Then again, Jupiter was small. They still had an available taxi service.
Granted, it only had one driver who was eighty years old and couldn’t drive in the dark.
Maybe Beau truly didn’t know what a rideshare was.
“Um, it’s this app that you—”
“I know what the fuck it is.” He interrupted me with a familiar fury in his tone.
His anger crawled along my skin, making my hair stand on end. I was more used to negative emotions from Beau, but this was confusing. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded.
We were still standing uncomfortably close. Before, it was unnerving, torturous, intoxicating with him speaking in a low rumble with heat in his eyes.
Now it was suffocating, infuriating, yet somehow still arousing as all hell.
I stared at him. “Why would I call you?”
“So I could get you home,” he bit out.
Him? Get me home? This was becoming more confusing by the second.
“Clara’s sleeping. You couldn’t come get me and leave her,” I pointed out pragmatically.
Beau looked toward the hallway, as if he just remembered his daughter even though it was impossible for him to forget her. She was his whole world.
“I would’ve arranged something,” he gritted out. “Taken her with me.”