Chapter 8 #4
I raised a brow. “You would’ve woken your sleeping five-year-old to come pick up your nanny after she had one too many champagnes?” I countered, disbelief threading through my only slightly slurred words.
“Clara wouldn’t have woken,” Beau said flatly. “And stop talking about yourself like that.”
I screwed up my nose in confusion. “Like what?”
“The nanny,” he repeated, spitting out the words. “As if that’s all you are.”
My heart stuttered. Stopped. Then it started pounding all over again. The room was still spinning. My brain was soft around the edges as I struggled to believe Beau had just said what he’d said.
I gazed up at Beau, and suddenly, he was cut in stark detail, his eyes glittering with something that wasn’t anger or fury.
“What else am I?” I whispered, barely able to breathe.
He was silent for a long time, and I swear, that he leaned forward as if he were going to … kiss me?
“You’re drunk,” he said, as if we both needed reminding. I was painfully aware that I was drunk. I’d probably hallucinated the whole interaction.
“Go to bed, Hannah.” He stepped back. “And next time you need a ride home, fucking call me.”
He turned around and walked in the direction of his room before I could say anything. What else was there to say anyway?
When I woke the next morning, my head pounded, my throat was parched, and my stomach roiled dangerously.
The ceiling was moving. Or my bed was spinning. I wasn’t sure which. All I knew was that I was never drinking again.
Why did people do this? Was the resulting escape from reality, temporarily blurring the edges of life, worth feeling like you were poisoned and wondering if you were a horrible person the next morning?
I put my palm to my forehead as I remembered the afternoon.
Laughter. Warmth. A feeling of belonging.
Each glass helped loosen the shackles of insecurity and unworthiness until they released.
I was able to relax. Be myself without wondering what people thought of me, if anyone really wanted me there.
I hadn’t worried about that at all. After my third glass, I’d even believed that I deserved to be at Avery’s cottage.
The food was great, the conversation better.
People asked me questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answers.
I faintly recalled that Lori and I had made plans for dinner next week.
And not the kind of plans made when both parties knew that they weren’t actually going to happen. Real plans. A budding friendship.
It felt like someone was stabbing my brain as I rolled over, thinking about when I got home. Beau. His nearness. Gentleness. His fury at me … getting in a rideshare?
The fury made vague amounts of sense since it seemed to be his baseline when he was around me.
But last night felt different.
No, last night I was different. Drunk.
Beau was his usual self. Mad at me. And I was trying to write a different, more romantic narrative that would never exist between us.
I needed to stop reading romance books. They weren’t my usual genre, but there had been a pulsating need inside me lately. A desire that I didn’t recognize nor know how to sate. Hence, devouring books in which I would envision Beau, of all people, as the hero.
I decided to return all the books I had and go back to biographies. Nursing textbooks. Anything to stop romanticizing being treated poorly.
First, I had to find a way to get out of bed without throwing up, blacking out, or dropping dead.
Medically, I knew I couldn’t die from a hangover. Unless I had alcohol poisoning, which I didn’t. I’d had more than a few glasses of champagne last night. A lot less than everyone else.
My tolerance was in the toilet compared to the other women, and I was glad I at least hadn’t had the insane notion to try to keep up with them.
I’d switched to water when the world started feeling very light and when it was hard to stand without swaying.
I’d eaten then excused myself without any dramatic or embarrassing incidents.
Analyzing it with a pounding headache, I was pretty sure I did well for my first true drinking experience.
I skirted over what happened with Beau. It was blurry and confusing and would do me no good at this juncture.
When I leaned over to check the time on my phone, I saw a large glass of water beside two pills in a miniature bowl. A Post-it was attached to the water.
Drink. Take the pills.
The scrawl was dramatic, messy. It reminded me of a doctor’s handwriting, barely legible.
I recognized his handwriting, which I’d learned to decipher out of necessity since he labeled all the food he left in the fridge with instructions on how to reheat and prepare it.
Though I knew that Beau wrote this, I couldn’t fathom him putting the glass and pills there.
Then I had a mortifying thought… Had he put me to bed?
I lifted the sheets to see that I was still in the same shirt from last night, no pants, just panties.
I wracked my throbbing brain for how I got to bed.
I distinctly remembered fighting with my jeans and tossing them across the room before collapsing into the bed without so much as brushing my teeth.
Okay, so I’d at least put myself to bed.
I ran my tongue over my teeth with a grimace. Dental health was very important to me, so I was horrified I didn’t floss or brush. That was my first goal.
My head thumped when I moved in bed.
No, my first goal was painkillers and water. Which Beau had brought in for me. While I was passed out.
I tried my best to shove that thought from my aching brain.
Except that was all I thought about as I drank the water, swallowed the pills, and slowly made my way to the bathroom.
It was all I thought about as I brushed my teeth, staring at the smudged mascara and mess of hair.
All I thought about as I washed my face and got dressed.
I couldn’t make sense of it, all of Beau’s contradictory behavior. Or why it mattered so much to me. I was angry at myself for not being strong enough to write him off as an asshole and say fuck what he thinks.
It was because the magnetism between us was undeniable. The first day I met him, I felt it. A tingle over my skin, a jump in my heartbeat when he looked at me.
I’d thought it was all one-sided, the attraction.
I’d told myself the hungry looks I’d caught from Beau were in my head.
Or because he was horny, and I was the closest warm female body.
Fleeting hungry looks were one thing, but him catching me last night?
Him bringing me water and painkillers while I slept? What could I call that?
I tentatively crept into the kitchen, lured only by the smell of bacon and my growling stomach threatening to rebel unless I fed it grease and carbs imminently.
I was treated to a familiar sight—Beau’s broad, muscled back working at the stove. I briefly entertained a universe where I woke up to that every morning. For the rest of my life. Beau cooking, Clara sleeping. Us being a family.
“Sit.” Beau barked out the command without looking back.
My completely inappropriate fantasies disappeared.
“How do you do that?” I asked, my voice scratchy. “Do you have, like, grumpy secret powers or something?”
I hadn’t intended to ask that question; I was thinking it. Heat raced to my cheeks. Maybe I was still drunk.
Beau turned to regard me over his shoulder, flashing me an impassive expression and a quirked brow. Not overly hostile, but not quite amused either.
“Can see your reflection.” He tapped the microwave directly above the stove.
I looked from him to the microwave, the warmth in my cheeks traveling down my neck.
Of course, he couldn’t sense me. That didn’t happen in real life.
With my proverbial tail between my legs, I skulked to the breakfast bar, even though my body was craving caffeine.
There was a steaming mug in front of me before I even got my ass in the chair. I looked from the mug to Beau.
“Thank you.” I sounded timid. Which I was, barely able to meet his eyes.
He lingered, gaze locking with mine. “You’re welcome.” No grunt, no scowl. He wasn’t exactly treating me with a beaming smile or radiating warmth, yet I felt the change, from my fingertips to my toes.
I told myself it was because of the coffee mug I was cupping. Nothing else.
I forced myself not to physically react at the way Beau held my gaze. “You drank the water?”
I nodded, unable to form words.
“All of it?” he probed, voice still rough. It grated over my skin, but not in an entirely unpleasant way.
I nodded again.
He seemed to be satisfied with that, turning his back to me to attend to the bacon that was making my mouth water, although I was still unsure whether my stomach was able to actually digest any kind of food.
Tentatively, I sipped the coffee. It was just as I liked it—cream, two sugars, and a hint of cinnamon.
Beau knew how I took my coffee. I stored that detail away because at that moment, I didn’t have the brainpower to dissect what it meant. If it meant anything beyond the fact that he was observant.
The silence in the kitchen no longer felt awkward, strained, or dangerous. My shoulders weren’t tense, my brain wasn’t scrambling to come up with safe topics of conversation.
Watching Beau’s large, chiseled body move around the kitchen was dangerous in my current state. I wasn’t sure if I was going to vomit, blurt out something inappropriate, or crawl across the kitchen island to throw myself at him. I couldn’t be trusted to look at him.
Instead, I studied my coffee as if it were the most interesting thing in the world while trying to calm both my libido and my stomach.
A plate was placed softly in front of me.
Bacon, crispy. Eggs, fried. Buttered toast.
My mouth watered at the smell of grease and fat.
I looked up at Beau, swallowing. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“It’ll make you feel better.” His azure eyes searched my face. “So yes, I did.”
We stayed like that, staring at each other. My breathing shallowed, and my heart stuttered.
“I need you feeling better for Clara.” Beau cleared his throat. “I’ll be here this morning, so you can take it easy. But this afternoon, I’ll be gone.” He nodded to the plate. “So eat.”
I swallowed uncomfortably, my throat feeling like it was lined with thorns. He wanted me feeling better so I could do my job. That was it. Nothing else.
And I was stupid for believing it could’ve been anything else. Stupid for hoping.
What else could I do?
I ate.