Chapter 14
fourteen
BEAU
TWO WEEKS LATER
I had begun to look forward to coming home.
And dreaded it in equal doses.
Because Hannah was there. Waiting up for me. She tried to act like she wasn’t. Like I’d just caught her going to bed whenever I got home.
She wasn’t scared of me, exactly. But she was wary, tentative. I’d done that. I’d made her that way, using harsh words she didn’t deserve, reprimanding her for things that didn’t matter, treating her with coldness that felt like I'd committed a sin.
But that was my only option. Either I was cold and cruel or…
or I claimed her. Made her mine. Because there was no way I could be friendly with Hannah Morgan, feign some platonic relationship.
If I stopped being cruel to her, it meant I’d broken all the promises I made to myself, and she was naked underneath me.
Obviously, that was a terrible fucking idea for a multitude of reasons, top of the list being that Hannah deserved someone a fuck of a lot better than me. And closer to her own age. Tied with that was Clara.
If I fucked it up with Hannah—which I most certainly would—then I’d run the risk of taking her away from my daughter.
No.
That wouldn’t do.
Even though it physically pained me to do it, I’d continued to be an asshole to Hannah. It was better that way, was what everyone expected of me.
Though after her accident, after feeling the bone-crunching fear that came with something happening to her, I’d been unable to stay too far away from her. Then seeing her on Halloween. In that dress. In that fucking dress.
I dreamed about it every fucking night. It haunted me. Her perfect body, her full lips painted red.
And not just that, I dreamed of the three of us walking into Nora and Rowan’s house in matching fucking costumes and how it felt… right.
Then there was the night of Calliope’s attack. I’d barely remembered driving home. Or opening the door. All I could see was Calliope’s lifeless body, the crack of her bones as I gave her CPR. I’d felt death clouding me, suffocating me, and that time, it wasn’t my daughter’s.
All my thoughts were dark, oily.
But then there was Hannah. A bright fucking light. Her small hands cupping my jaw, running through my hair. My head in her lap.
She gave me comfort without a second thought. Something I’d never sought from anyone. Never. Not even Naomi when I was married to her. She hadn’t liked seeing “weakness” in me. When I shed a single tear over my dead mother, she recoiled from me and became closed off.
Even my family didn’t know how to handle me during Clara’s diagnosis and treatment. Granted, I barked at them like a fucking bear if they tried to offer me any kind of comfort.
It wasn’t safe. Letting go, being upset. Drowning in my fucking sorrow. Not when I was a father.
But with Hannah, it hadn’t even been a choice. Melting into her lap to try to chase away the cold, the fucking darkness, had been my only option.
My first reaction to seeing her the morning after had been relief. Had been utter fucking joy. Then I’d glimpsed the mottling of purple on her creamy skin. I’d marked her. Because I’d held her so tight.
It couldn’t have been clearer. I’d hurt her, damaged her with my want.
With my inability to handle my own emotions.
So I’d done my very fucking best to push that night from my mind.
Not just because it was the night Calliope almost died, but because it was the night my body truly came alive for Hannah.
I’d done my best to distance myself, to not look at her too often. I’d been polite. Much more polite than I’d been in the past, but I didn’t let myself be alone with her if I could help it.
Except in the evenings. That I gave myself.
Her waiting in the living room, clutching whatever book she was reading at the time, staring at me from beneath her lashes, was one of the best parts of my evening. Topped only with going to Clara’s room to kiss her head, smelling her hair and feeling her chest rising and falling.
But it wasn’t Hannah waiting in my dimly lit living room tonight.
It was Calliope.
She was drinking a glass of what I assumed was whisky, tapping at her phone, dressed in ridiculous shoes.
“What the fuck?” I demanded.
“Hello to you too.” She leaned forward to place her phone on the coffee table.
I ground my teeth together, usually not unhappy to see Calliope. Not that I’d tell her that. She was the closest thing I had to a friend these days. My brother’s fiancée. Kind of pathetic.
Which I was. Pathetic.
I was pining over my fucking daughter’s nanny. Who was still in college.
“What are you doing here? Where’s Hannah?” The words came out harsher than I intended, especially since Calliope had just been released from the hospital. Not that she looked as if she’d been dancing with death only a couple of weeks ago.
The corners of Calliope’s mouth tipped up as if she knew something I didn’t. My mind hurtled through possibilities of where she could be. Since she’d become friends with Lori, she spent a night off or two at her place, going out for dinner. Other than that, Hannah didn’t go many places.
I’d enjoyed knowing that Hannah was making friends here, noting that she smiled more, seemed more confident. I’d noticed all that, even if I’d tortured myself thinking about the men looking at the two young women and likely hitting on them.
Had Hannah gotten someone’s attention? Was she out on a fucking date?
Surely not. Not when it was her night to watch Clara. She’d never do that to her.
So then why was my blood boiling, and why was Calliope grinning like the cat who ate the fucking canary? She was already too damn nosy about Hannah and my treatment of her. She wouldn’t stop riding me. Because she was a good woman, and I was an asshole.
“She’s at the hotel on the cove,” Calliope explained through the clamor in my ears.
My body stilled. “What?” I uttered slowly. Hannah. Not here. Not under my roof. I’d cursed her sleeping here, walking around in outfits that molded to her body, her fucking panties in my dryer, her smell imprinting into the walls.
It had been torturous.
But I couldn’t imagine my house without Hannah in it. Without her books lying around, no fresh flowers or fucking hair scrunchies she seemed to have a million of and were always lying around because she couldn’t decide whether she wanted her hair up or down.
I couldn’t decide which I liked better, though I ached to hold it in my palm, tug on it while taking her from behind.
“What is Hannah doing at a goddamn hotel?” I demanded.
“She got the flu,” Calliope explained, scrutinizing me, probably noting my reaction. That woman noticed too much, but I didn’t have it in me to school my expression.
“She didn’t want to risk passing it to Clara.
She called me, I got her the best room in the place, and I’ll check on her in the morning.
” She screwed up her nose. “Well, not me because I don’t want the flu either, but Elliot will.
Bring her soup or whatever.” She waved her hand as if the concept of caring for someone was beyond her comprehension.
My brain hummed as I tried to process this information. Hannah. Sick. Alone in a hotel room. Thinking of Clara first because that’s what Hannah always did. “Why in the fuck didn’t she call me?”
“She did,” Calliope replied, taking another sip. “You didn’t answer.”
I rubbed the back of my head. Fuck. She had called me.
I’d seen the notification after the rush of dinner service had ended.
But there were no other texts. It was unusual, to be sure, but we’d agreed that if something ever happened to Clara and she couldn’t reach me, she’d call the restaurant’s main line.
We had a protocol. I’d dismissed the call, thinking it was her wanting to ask something about Clara that wasn’t urgent. She had, on occasion, called to ask if she could take Clara somewhere, to double-check ingredients in a treat she was about to buy her.
Something had pinged in my brain, seeing the missed call. My muscles had tensed, and I’d had the craziest urge to run home to her.
Which is why I didn’t call back. Didn’t check in. I was trying to punish myself, punish myself for wanting her.
I was such a piece of shit.
“And you just let her go to the hotel by her fucking self?” I barked at Calliope, fury and worry clawing at my throat.
Calliope arched a brow, not the least bit bothered by my misplaced anger. “She’s old enough to vote, drink, and fight for her country, so I figured she could handle checking into a hotel.”
I ignored her dry tone and thought of my options. Clara was here. Healthy, safe. All risks of her having an adverse reaction to something like the flu were essentially gone. Technically. But my brain didn’t know that. Not in the far recesses, where my fear still lurked, occasionally paralyzing me.
Clara hadn’t had so much as a sniffle since she recovered from the transplant, and words like remission had been used—tentatively, of course, since it was much too early.
Her birthday party had been my first huge stressor, panic flooding my every cell at her being exposed to that many children, even though she was masked, even though her doctors okayed it.
The Halloween party was the second event where she was truly at risk, around a large number of children with only a mask. I’d been a wreck. Not helped by the fucking rush of hormones I’d experienced every time I looked at Hannah in that goddamn dress.
I’d assumed that Clara would be nervous being at the party, that she’d feel exposed, self-conscious.
But my girl was none of those things. My girl was brave and strong and resilient and ready to conquer the world.
But she was not bulletproof. Even now. Even with clearances from doctors, even with the remarkable rebuilding of her immune system. She was still at risk.
Hannah did the right thing. But it left me not knowing what choice to make.
Calliope was watching me carefully.