Chapter 15
fifteen
HANNAH
THREE WEEKS LATER
The cold ushered in a true welcome to Maine winter, but it also ushered out the sickness that came with the change in seasons.
By some miracle, Clara merely had had a slightly raised temperature and a sniffle.
Beau had raced to be with her the second Elliot called. I’d been left standing in the middle of the hotel room, wracked with guilt. I’d called him countless times the rest of that day. Every call went straight to voicemail until I got a short text that she was fine.
Nothing else.
I rotted in the opulent surroundings of the suite, picking at the breakfast Beau had ordered me—almost everything on the menu—then tried to distract myself.
But all I’d managed to do was think of worst-case scenarios—Clara in a hospital bed. Clara struggling to breathe. Clara’s vitality and health stolen by a cold given to her by me.
The moment the doctor cleared me to go back home, I watched Clara like a hawk. She’d rolled her eyes every time her father or I felt her head, checking her temperature. Aside from the eye rolls, she was good-natured about it because that was Clara. And because she was used to being a patient.
I noticed that that dulled her sparkle, just a little. Beau noted it too, which was why he was home more. We baked a lot and had numerous dance parties, doing whatever we could to brighten Clara’s day.
Both of our efforts went into ensuring that Clara stayed happy and healthy.
Beau almost entirely retreated back to the man he’d been when we first met—haunted, detached. Cold. I practically ceased to exist for him.
Gone was the man who had rubbed my feet, cared for me, and held me in my sleep.
Gone was the man who had drawn me a bath and assaulted a man in front of a police officer for me. Gone was the man who had laid his head in my lap.
The sting from that loss wounded my insides, even if I was beginning to understand it. Beau was blaming himself. I wasn’t entirely sure of the reasons he gave, but he lived his life to protect Clara, and the night at the hotel with me had been his failing somehow.
Maybe he blamed himself for leaving Clara alone—albeit with family who adored her. Or worse, perhaps he blamed me for being sick in the first place, giving it to Clara.
I blamed myself plenty, even though there was nor would there ever be any kind of proof that I caught it first. Germs knew no master, no morals; they just were.
Beau could not accept that. He was, obviously, well-versed in punishing himself for things he had no control over. Maybe he was punishing me for taking him away from his daughter in the first place.
The guilt I felt was heavy, horrible, and exhausting. Anger was much more productive, but I couldn’t muster the courage to feel it. Not when I’d witnessed Beau be so caring, so gentle. Not when I’d experienced what it was to be cared for by him.
I was falling for him. I hated that I was since he was damaged and hurt. I hated that he didn’t know how to deal with that hurt, resulting in him shutting down and hurting me.
But I couldn’t control my heart. And the only way to cure myself of the plague that was my feelings for Beau was to quit. But there was no way I would leave Clara.
So I stayed. Waited for life to go back to a semblance of normal. Which it did, with only a few reminders that Beau might actually care for me. Crumbs that I feasted on.
The first was one morning when I went out for a run. I’d come to crave the high of them, the burn in my lungs as I inhaled the frosty air, the way I could lose myself in the music I blasted. Beau scowled at me every morning as I shrugged my jacket on, lacing my shoes.
He didn’t like me running, apparently. But that was a him problem.
Except that particular morning when I opened the door, I came straight back into where Beau was preparing Clara’s breakfast.
And mine too. There was always a plate of something nourishing, warm and delicious when I came back from my runs.
“We have to call the police,” I told him, struggling to catch my breath.
He turned, spatula in hand, face no longer expressionless, detached. His eyes ran over my body, cataloguing each part of it as if he were expecting a gunshot wound. When he didn’t find one, his electric gaze found me. “What happened?”
I was suddenly breathless for a whole other reason, but I managed to force myself to focus on the problem at hand. “Someone stole my car.”
Saying it out loud made it even crazier. Beau’s truck was parked right beside it, definitely worth more than my old Corolla. I couldn't fathom why a thief would even bother with it.
The back of my neck prickled with another explanation.
Waylon. He wasn’t content with ruining my credit and taking up all my free time with me trying to get out from under his debt, but he had to take my car too.
Anger seized my muscles both in anger and terror at the mere prospect that he might know where I was, that he’d been skulking around in the driveway sometime in the night.
Then I panicked, thinking I’d have to tell the police officer about Waylon, that he was a suspect.
Beau would be present for that conversation because he was Beau, strong-willed, and alpha.
Though I supposed I could assert my independence and demand to speak to the police alone.
Even then, Jupiter was too small to think that my secret could be kept under wraps for long.
Apparently, Beau was unaware of my internal panic attack. All of his previous alpha bad ass energy had disappeared, his expression calming.
“No one stole your car. It’ll be back this afternoon. You need to go anywhere, you can use my truck.”
He turned his back as if that were the end of the conversation. It most certainly was not.
“Where is my car?” I demanded, still panting.
He paused, sighed audibly, then turned around.
His gaze was measured then. Even. A slight furrow to his brows was all that hinted of any irritation. “It’s getting four new tires.”
I stared at him for a beat, processing that it was getting four new tires because Beau had decided I needed them. That was well and truly overstepping boundaries he’d so surely slammed back in place. “The tires were fine,” I shot back.
His brows narrowed further, no longer displaying just a hint of irritation. “Not with the weather getting worse. They’re pretty good at keeping the streets cleared here, but there’s still ice and snow on occasion. You needed the new tires.”
“I did not,” I argued, putting my hands on my hips.
Beau’s gaze hardened. “You did.”
I pursed my lips, happy that some cleansing anger was washing through me. Until panic hit again. I could not afford four new tires. My car was always up to date and taken care of, especially now that I drove Clara. But the only way to afford four tires was to dip into my school and my lawyer funds.
Not even considering possibly having to pay the credit card bills in my name.
Which meant I’d be even more behind on tuition or my divorce.
I clenched my teeth, feeling as if I were drowning with no way to surface, unable to catch my breath. Beau was there, in front of me. Would he extend a hand to help me? He’d literally pulled Calliope out of the water and saved her from drowning.
But I didn’t want Beau to see me as someone to be saved. To be pitied.
“I’ll pay you back.” I meant it, but I had no idea how I would.
Beau shook his head. “I don’t expect you to.”
Though the gesture should’ve been kind, it didn’t feel so with Beau’s general demeanor. “I will pay you back,” I repeated. “I’m not a charity case.”
Beau’s expression changed then, softened.
He opened his mouth as if he were going to say something then closed it again.
His Adam’s apple traveled the length of his corded throat before he spoke again.
“You drive my daughter in that car. I don’t take chances with her safety, and it is part of the job. ”
Then he turned his back on me. I couldn’t argue with that, and he knew it. But I wanted to. Argue with him about that. About anything.
Instead, I stared at his back and shoved my earphones in before stomping outside to hopefully run off even a fraction of the emotions poisoning my bloodstream.
The next thing happened on the first snowfall of the season.
The house was already decorated for Christmas, with a tree Beau had chopped down himself.
My fantasies of him gracing the covers of steamy books had come to life—axe and all.
Clara had insisted I come with them to the woods by Elliot’s house to get the tree.
I’d tried to refuse, mindful of it being a family endeavor and, therefore, outside the realm of my job description, but Clara was all but impossible to say no to.
So that’s how we’d ended up in Beau’s truck, driving through the woods, heat blasting, Clara chattering about the perfect tree.
That’s why I’d been standing in the woods, Clara pressed up to my legs as we watched Beau cut down a Christmas tree then haul it to the truck like a fucking lumberjack.
My eyes had been glued to his shoulders contracting, the angle of his cheekbones, the fluid way he moved his body. It felt like a primal thing, watching him cut down a tree. My body had responded in kind.
Despite the biting chill in the air, I’d felt hot, flushed.
But I’d had to get a hold of myself, given Clara’s proximity and Beau’s apparent lack of interest in my existence. He’d been as polite to me as you would be to the person serving your drinks.
So on the day the first snow fell, the living room smelled of pine, multicolored lights illuminated the walls, and handmade decorations hung from the tree. The space felt cozy, special. Magical.
Made all the more so as the snow fell quietly outside.
Clara was excited, her nose pressed up against the window when it started, watching the flakes fall.