Chapter 16 #2
I didn’t want to be the one responsible for tarnishing that outlook. For bursting the wonderful bubble of love she existed within.
“In her room, headphones on, listening to an audiobook,” Beau murmured, eyes intent on me.
I closed my own in relief, but still shame coated me like oil, aware that Beau had heard enough to direct Clara to her room. He’d heard Waylon call me his wife. He’d seen Waylon in all his glory, realizing that I was a woman who agreed to marry a man like that.
“I’m not crazy,” I blurted, overwhelmed by all the things there was to say right then. All the things I wanted to say.
He searched my face, probing it with a gentleness I hadn’t thought Beau capable of.
“I’ve learned two things. Never believe a man when he says a woman is crazy, and always believe a woman when she says a man is dangerous.”
“I didn’t say he was dangerous.” I tilted my head in confusion. The last thing Beau needed to know about Waylon was his past. But then again, he now knew where I lived.
The intense way Beau peered at me pinned me to the spot. “You didn’t need to.” Slowly and pointedly, he pulled the jacket—his jacket—from my shoulders, exposing my arms.
He looked furious, lips a flat line as he focused on the red, throbbing spot on my upper arm.
“He do that often, Hannah?” he asked quietly. “Did he mark you often? Bruise you?”
The menace threaded through those soft words sent chills down my spine. Beau was standing too still. I knew Beau would never hurt me in a million years, knew his fury was directed toward Waylon, but I couldn’t help but be filled with shame.
I opened my mouth to lie. Then to tell the truth. Which was worse? Which would hurt less?
A knock on the door had me jumping. I cursed myself for looking so skittish. So fragile. So in need of rescuing with no hero to be found.
“Don’t move.” Beau’s eyes slid to the door, his voice harsh and authoritative yet comforting.
“It’s got to be Lori.” It was difficult, but I was able to force my tone to sound even. “Waylon has to be gone by now. He’s not smart enough to completely leave me alone, but he’s also not brave enough to try anything now that he knows there’s someone stronger in residence.”
It was the truth, as much as I hated it. Waylon was a bully, and bullies liked weaker prey.
Beau was anything but weak.
I didn’t want to hide behind Beau—he wasn’t going to be around forever. Nor was I his to protect. I wanted to protect myself. Be stronger.
Beau’s eyes skated over my body, his brows knitting together in an angry frown, gaze lingering on my throbbing arm.
“We’re going to talk about this,” he said with finality. “You’re going to tell me everything. Tonight.”
He didn’t wait for me to reply, just turned to open the door.
Lori was on the other side, a smile on her face. Clara seemed to have a sixth sense because she came bounding down the hall, taking the snacks from Lori’s arms.
The room exploded in happiness and warmth.
But dread was ice, running through my veins.
My past and present had collided. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Usually, I was relaxed in Lori’s company. But I had been coiled tight since she arrived, my smile forced, my tone a touch too high.
Lori noticed because she was perceptive, and we had come to know each other well, spending as much time together as we did.
But she didn’t ask, because that was Lori.
She was waiting for me to say something.
Which I would. She already knew some of the backstory with Waylon, knew about some of the tension with Beau.
It would be a welcome release to speak plainly to her about both things.
But I couldn’t do that with Beau and Clara present.
Beau didn’t make his presence obvious; he was in his office most of the time.
But his door was open, often coming out as if he forgot something.
I’d watch him glance toward the windows, his eyes touching me with knitted brows before he went back.
Then he headed into the kitchen to make us chocolate lava cakes.
From scratch.
Without us even asking.
Because that was Beau.
Soon, Clara had to go to bed, Lori would drive home.
Beau offered to drive her since the weather had turned and it was dark.
And because he was a gruff alpha male who, despite being surprisingly feminist, still had that caveman need to protect women.
Especially Lori, being pregnant, petite, soft-spoken.
She definitely had that woman in need of saving vibe going for her.
Until you got to know her better, uncovered her quiet strength.
“I’ve been driving these roads since I was fifteen, Beau, you know that,” she told him. “Being pregnant doesn’t affect my driving skills.” Her voice was soft, but her words were sharp.
I bit back a smile.
Beau nodded, holding his hands up in surrender. “Text Hannah when you get home,” he ordered, before going back to the kitchen to do the dishes.
Lori and I said our goodbyes. She promised to text me when she got home, because that was what good girlfriends did. And then it was time. It was just the two of us.
My heart was galloping, making it difficult to breathe properly. Panic was crawling up my throat.
Though I desperately wanted to flee, I stayed in the living room, tidying up. Beau repeatedly told me that wasn’t part of my job, but I needed to busy my hands.
The extremely cowardly part of me wanted to run to my room, close the door, and hide under the covers.
Beau wouldn’t breach my space. Then I’d be able to spend the night coming up with some kind of game plan, some kind of story to explain Waylon without me looking like a total gullible, weak asshole.
But I already knew there wasn’t a way of telling my story while making me look like some kind of heroine. I was an active participant in the unraveling process of my life as it pertained to Waylon.
And, worse, I was scared. Scared to be alone in my room with my thoughts. Scared to tell Beau the truth. I was so damn sick of being scared.
“Hannah.” I jumped when Beau growled from behind me. I’d been folding and refolding the throw on the sofa, lost in thought.
I looked up to him standing in front of me, holding a steaming mug. His gaze was harsh, but the corners of his eyes were soft.
“Take this.” He offered the mug.
I took it, feeling relieved to have something to do with my hands.
“Now sit.” He nodded to the couch.
Again, I obeyed. The firm tone of his voice was something to hold on to. Even through the hammering of my heart.
My lips parted in surprise when he sat too. On the same couch. Granted, it was on the other end, but he could’ve sat in the armchair, creating more distance.
He didn’t.
I shouldn’t have read into that. Shouldn’t have read into anything with Beau.
“Tell me.” Beau’s tone was soft, inviting. He was treating me with exquisite care—I could feel it in his tone, the way he looked at me, the positioning of his body. Though his eyes kept dropping down to the spot on my arm that was still faintly pulsing.
I blinked at him, my hands warm around the mug of hot cocoa. I slowly took a sip, killing time, and because my body felt frozen to the couch.
The cocoa was rich, the perfect blend of bitter and sweet. A touch of cinnamon. Trust Beau not to just use something boxed and easy. He’d taken care when preparing this.
Not because of me, I told myself. Because that was Beau.
I’d been thinking about this conversation all night. Planning what I would tell him. Technically, I didn’t have to tell him anything. It was my private life. I didn’t owe him anything. He employed me to take care of his daughter, nothing more, nothing less.
Except my personal life had brought Waylon to his door. And I couldn’t be sure how long Waylon would be in town. If he’d follow me while I was watching Clara. If he’d scare her, endanger her.
I didn’t think Waylon would ever hurt a child, but I wasn’t going to risk that theory. Not with Clara.
I’d clumsily put together what I’d say to Beau in my mind. But right then, sinking into the couch with a mug of hot cocoa, watching Beau sit at the other end, eyes on me, I blurted out everything.
Well, obviously not everything. I didn’t need to set the stage with my terrible childhood—though that did serve to help explain why I’d married Waylon in the first place, why I’d let him treat me so poorly.
But Beau didn’t need to know that, he didn’t need to know me. He didn’t need to think the best of me. He didn’t need to pity me. I didn’t trust Beau enough to expose all those soft, vulnerable parts of myself.
Aside from Cole, no one knew about my upbringing. Lori knew pieces. I held that close to my chest, as if I were trying to staunch a wound.
I only let that out if I could trust the person in front of me to see the blood and not run away or look at me differently.
I didn’t trust Beau, not entirely. Even if I liked him too much. If I gave him all these parts of me, it would hurt more when I left. When it became apparent exactly what this relationship wasn’t.
“We got married young,” I dove in. “Before my prefrontal cortex was fully formed. Not something I’d recommend.” I smiled weakly.
Beau’s mouth was a flat, grim line. He obviously didn’t find it funny.
“I was in nursing school, working, trying to get my degree,” I continued. “He kept losing jobs, drinking our money away. It was … not a good situation.” That was putting it lightly.
I opened my mouth to skirt over the rest, skip to the end. But Beau wouldn’t let me.
“What do you mean?” he asked, quietly, softly. He was all but shaking with rage, but he was forcing himself to speak gently. For me. Because somehow, he could see beyond my fake smile, maybe heard the shake in my voice.
“Did he hit you?”
Even spoken in the most benevolent of tones, the words were jarring, confronting.