Chapter 9
nine
HANNAH
Though there was a faint throb between my eyes, I felt good. Physically, at least. The breakfast Beau made me, coupled with coffee and copious amounts of water, staved off the worst of my hangover symptoms.
My mood, though, was in the gutter. Everything felt dark and hopeless, a cloud of sadness hanging over me. I couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of it because my whole life was a mess. All I knew for certain was that I hadn’t felt quite so heavy or disheartened before the hangover.
Which was why Clara and I were making chocolate brownies. Baking tended to help ease sadness, especially chocolate.
Clara loved to bake, and when she was happy, I was happy. Or at least I became better at pretending I was.
The interactions earlier with Beau shadowed the day for me.
His kindness was confusing. Infuriating.
How I managed to be angry when Beau was being half decent was borderline unhinged.
But that’s what I felt—borderline unhinged.
Like the ground was constantly shifting beneath my feet.
I was at the mercy of Beau’s moods. I did not like it.
The soft slam of the front door pulled me from my thoughts.
“Daddy’s home!” Clara declared from her spot on the counter as she mixed brownie batter.
She didn’t need to declare it since Beau’s presence was announced by the tightening of my throat, the hair standing up on my arms, and the small piece of excitement I felt in my nether regions for reasons unknown.
“Bug,” he greeted, warmth seeping from the single word.
He beamed at Clara, taking her off the counter and into his arms before swinging her around and pressing kisses all over her face.
Clara’s giggles chased away the worst of the dread I felt at his appearance. And unfortunately, the tingles in my nether regions increased while watching him interact with his daughter.
Was it terribly weird and bordering on illegal to find Beau being a father sexy?
“You smell like chocolate,” he remarked, placing Clara back on the counter.
“We’re making brownies.” She resumed mixing the last of the ingredients together as I prepared the pan.
Beau’s lips pressed together. “I can see that.”
“Every single ingredient is on your approved list,” I told him quickly, ready for his wrath.
“Not a processed item to be found, and I used coconut sugar, even if it goes against basic laws of nature.” I was babbling because I was nervous.
Either I was a shy, mute mess around Beau or … this. I didn’t know which was worse.
Beau contemplated me. More accurately, he stared at the corner of my mouth.
I must’ve had chocolate on my face. Embarrassing. “Even with the lack of bad—therefore, good—ingredients, it’s still a requirement of baking to lick the spoon so I—”
I was talking while raising my hand up to wipe my mouth when Beau took my breath away. Or perhaps I crossed into some coconut sugar-induced hallucination.
He leaned forward, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where a smear of brownie batter must’ve been glaring at him.
The contact was unexpected and intimate.
He did it because he was a father, and it was a reflex to wipe chocolate mouths.
That was what I told myself until he lifted his thumb to his mouth, sucking off the chocolate while maintaining eye contact with me.
The moment happened in slow motion, a hushed rumble in my ears as I tried to fathom what just happened.
Clara continued speaking, as if her father didn’t just rip a hole in the time-space continuum.
“Our plan for the day is brownies then movies on the couch!” Clara proclaimed with glee.
“That sounds like the perfect plan, Bug,” Beau murmured, tearing his eyes from me to push hair from his daughter’s face.
The gesture itself was casual, normal for Beau. On the surface, he seemed relaxed.
Maybe what he just did was no big deal to him.
I was sure I was having some kind of stroke.
“Can you watch movies and eat brownies with us?” Clara asked, happily oblivious.
When Beau’s eyes darted to me, I felt as if I’d been shocked by the force of his gaze.
On the surface, he was as he always was.
But his eyes were shadowed with desire that I definitely wasn’t imagining.
“I have to get some work done, but I’ll definitely have a brownie and catch as much of the movie as I can. ”
Robotically, I poured the brownie mix into the pan, unable to fathom anything that just happened. The rapid change in our uncomfortable, insufferable yet predictable dynamic.
Though had it really been that rapid? Over the course of the past few weeks, there had been small changes in Beau’s actions toward me. Less outright hostility. More lingering looks that made me need to rub my thighs together.
But it wasn’t just the looks. It was him getting angry over a rideshare, him asking me if I had fun when I went out, him giving me water, pills, and making me breakfast. Maybe if I calculated all those small moments, it could add to a halfway decent person.
Maybe I needed to stop analyzing things so intensely.
“Banana?”
I peered up.
Both Beau and Clara were looking at me. I’d lapsed into a glazed-over silence and was holding a now empty bowl, hovering over the brownie pan.
“Sorry, I was on another planet.” I smiled even though the weight of Beau’s presence had my knees shaking.
“Which one?” Clara asked seriously.
I pretended to think for a moment. “Neptune.”
She nodded. “Good choice.”
I winked at her. “I think so.”
I didn’t look at Beau. I couldn’t.
Clara and I were cuddled on the sofa. Brownies were cooling—her eyes repeatedly darted to the timer on my phone which was counting down how long we had until they were cool enough to eat.
My hangover was gone.
Beau was in his office.
I felt safe. Secure. The weight of this little child against me, the smell of brownies in a home that wasn’t mine, was enough to trick me into a false sense of security.
Then there was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I told Clara. “You keep watch on the timer.”
I figured the person at the door would be Elliot, Calliope, or Clara’s grandfather. Or any of the Jupiter crew who had stopped by here and there since the birthday party.
Someone for Clara or Beau.
I did not expect a six-foot man with perfectly styled blond hair and a tan too glowy to be real. He was wearing a tailored pair of slacks and a fisherman’s sweater that molded to his broad shoulders.
I squinted. The attractive, well-dressed man was remarkably familiar. “Cole?”
“Yes, bitch. Take me in. In the flesh.” He did a twirl, showcasing more of what had to be an expensive outfit.
He was muscular, much glossier than the last time I saw him, but still Cole.
Even when he barely had enough to eat, even when he didn’t have money for clothes, he always managed to look glamorous.
Now he looked like he had more than enough to eat—and by the look of his biceps, I guessed it was protein-based.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, confused, shocked, and pleased to see my childhood friend.
I’d been surrounded by strangers for so long. People who were perfectly nice, but they were strangers. They were people I felt the need to hide my past from. I didn’t need to hide from Cole. He’d seen all of it.
It was a relief to be standing in front of someone who saw me for what I was.
His perfectly groomed brows crumpled. “You haven’t been returning my calls, and I needed a trip to the ocean. And a wellness check.” His eyes ran over me.
I shifted under his gaze. I was wearing gray sweats and a faded tee, my hair piled on top of my head. Usually, I wasn’t this casual when I was working, but I’d been unable to put thought into an outfit. Luckily, Beau hadn’t commented on my overly casual attire.
Of course, that’s when my glitzy, perpetually stylish friend turned up unannounced. Except he didn’t comment on my outfit, as he was accustomed to doing whenever we were together. He’d always shake his head at my lack of interest in fashion, adjusting things here and there to make me look better.
“You still have both your hands,” he said bizarrely.
I winced, looking down at my palms. “What?”
“Your hands,” he repeated. “You still have them. So you can’t say you lost them in an unfortunate smelting accident, an acceptable reason as to why you couldn’t call me.”
The back of my neck heated in shame. “Cole—”
He tapped his index finger against his chin.
“Though they have a voice activation thing now, so even without hands, you could’ve powered on your phone.
And you still have your voice, which means there is no tangible excuse for you to ditch me after finally leaving your loser husband and skipping town.
” He narrowed his eyes. “I forgave you for that because I know Waylon is an asshole who would’ve made your life hell, and you needed distance.
I accepted your bullshit texts and excuses.
But then a year passes, and my best friend has essentially ghosted me like I was a blind date who used a ten-year-old picture in their profile pic. ”
His voice was low, lyrical, calm as it always had been, but I knew Cole well enough to hear the anger in his tone. To feel the hurt underneath the anger.
I deserved it. All of the anger and hurt.
I deserved to feel guilty and ashamed for cutting my friend out, although I was surprised.
To see him here. He lived in New York. Had a whole new life, new friends.
I knew this because I’d stalked his social media.
I did that to make myself feel better for ignoring him.
The big life he was living surely meant that he forgot his unfashionable, damaged childhood friend.
“Then I get a drunk text. I’m assuming it was drunk, given the amount of spelling mistakes and how forthright it was,” he continued. “A crash course in everything that’s been going on with you, otherwise known as a cry for help.”