Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Is there anything better than waking up to the scent of coffee and bacon? I sniff the air, trying to remember what I did to deserve this stroke of good fortune—rather than enduring the usual odor of my neighbor boiling cabbage at eight a.m. in my old building.
Then I recall that I no longer live next to Mrs. Schmeltzer because I was kicked out. Admittedly, I had it coming. Not because I’m irresponsible and don’t pay rent, am loud, or a bad tenant. The timeline from when my paychecks were deposited and when the funds became available was razor thin. Louis Lozano cashed my rent checks the second they were in his greedy little hand even though I asked him to wait a few hours at least, but he never did.
It may have been one of those situations where I was borrowing money from Peter to pay Paul. Something like that. But it’s no longer a problem because I no longer have a place to live, which is an even bigger problem. Celeste is going to love this failure. My mother will not. Between the two of them, I’ll be a filet of failure sandwich.
I peer out of the bedroom door, assessing the situation. Three long strides to the bathroom. I can make it without being spotted. My stomach rumbles and I have Beau to thank because it turns out he’s standing in the kitchen wearing an apron.
He starts to turn as I make a mad dash to the bathroom. Hopefully, he didn’t see my fresh-out-of-bed look. It’s not cute.
But he is. If you’ve never experienced a man of a certain stature wearing an apron, it falls into the same category as him wearing a hockey uniform, a tuxedo, or a flannel. I discretely fan my face. It’s not that I’m into playing dress-up, but the prospect of playing house with my husband-to-be is starting to seem mighty alluring.
After making myself look slightly less like roadkill after the grueling drive west, I try to casually, oh so casually, appear in the kitchen.
Arrangements of roses and little blue flowers—not sure the name, but they were in Maxine’s bridal bouquet—cover multiple surfaces. The window blinds are open, letting in morning light. Coffee brews.
Maybe I was in a motor vehicle accident, didn’t make it to Cobbiton, and this is heaven. Could be that Beau swooped down on angel wings and an apron.
I pinch myself. I’m guessing pinches don’t hurt in heaven. Since he has the entry code to this condo, he must’ve started breakfast early while I was peacefully slumbering in a bed made of clouds.
“Good morning,” I say, announcing myself and trying to play it cool.
“Morning.” He slides a few strips of bacon on a plate, loads it up with scrambled eggs, and adds toast. “Butter, honey, or honey butter.” He glances at me with a gleam in his eye.
“Is this a test to see which I’ll pick? Like there are three doors and one leads to our happily ever after. The other will result in you picking on me for life about my toast topping choice?”
It’ll take too long to do eenie-meeny-miny-moe in my head so I go fancy with the honey butter. The label says Busy Bee Bakery which is right in town.
The corner of his lip twitches.
I lean against the counter. “Is this a trial run for our marriage of convenience?”
Beau’s expression drops. “I didn’t think of that.”
I sweep my hand around the room. “Could’ve fooled me. But thank you. I’d like to caution you about getting too involved with me, even if it’s fake. My life is in shambles. Sure could’ve used my good luck beau in New York.”
He bristles.
Part of me wants him to respond, instead, I do. “It is that bad. Thank you for not lying.”
“I’d never,” he says plainly.
My head drops into my hands as I officially meet the time limit of being able to hold my chin high. Ninety seconds.
Way to go Margo .
“I cannot believe I’m back in Cobbiton. But thank you for helping me out. Had you not, I’d probably be battling with an alley cat over an old fish bone for breakfast.”
He makes a snorting sound through his nose.
I take a bite of toast. “Wow. This honey butter is good.”
My shriveled heart and stomach return to the land of the living. Then I notice that Beau pours a little carton of white liquid into his coffee.
“I thought you drank it black—?” I cut myself off when I read the label. “Cereal milk?”
He grunts. I’ve quickly realized that Beau isn’t so much grumpy as he is quiet, contemplative. He only says things if he means them. No filler comments or unnecessary words. That might come off as grumpy, broody, or cold, but it’s a relief to know that he means what he says. I don’t have to read between the lines or pick apart meanings like I ordinarily do with certain people in my life. Cough, Mom and Celeste , cough.
“You put cereal milk in your coffee?” I blink a few times, never having heard of this substance.
The label reads Cereal Milk , a tasty take on the milk you love to slurp from the bottom of your cereal bowl .
“They also make cereal milk ice cream? Why did I not know about this? Why does it surprise me that you drink it?”
He shrugs and says, “Pierre introduced me to it. One day I ran out of regular milk for my coffee, figured I’d try a splash. It works.”
Pierre Arsenault is from Quebec and a defenseman on the Knights. Maybe it’s a French Canadian thing.
“What else don’t I know about you?” I lean an elbow on the bistro table and rest my chin in my hand.
“Plenty.”
“Any secrets I should be aware of?”
He snaps off a piece of bacon. “I decline to answer.”
I narrow my eyes, accepting the challenge. “You sleep in socks.”
“I don’t think that qualifies as a secret.”
“So you do sleep in socks.” Not a big fan of that activity. I set down my fork, Not sure why, but it seems weird for a guy.
“I do not, but that’s not a big dramatic secret to keep.”
“Fair point. Okay, um, you reply to cell phone messages and go on social media while using the bathroom.”
“Everyone does that.”
“You admit it?” I wrinkle my nose even though I’m guilty.
He shakes his head slowly. “I try not to use my phone, as you’re probably aware, and don’t have those kinds of accounts.”
Never mind a dropped call, his distance was like dropping out of my life. This was the third thing on my list of bad things happening in threes, and here we are. “Oh, right. Hmm. You’re surprisingly mysterious. There’s something about you that you’re not revealing.”
“There are a lot of things.”
“Do you have bodies buried in the backyard?”
“I don’t have a backyard.”
“But if you did, my family will dig them up. You realize that, right?”
He hedges. “What about you?”
I’m not ready to move on. Truth is, I don’t have much that I keep to myself other than that I kind of like my fake fiancé and his gruff, Viking Highlander hybrid way. “You’re a pirate who has a secret cave filled with gold and gems.”
His lips ripple. “No and no. How about you? Let’s see. Are you the one who fills the fountain in the middle of town with bubbles every year, Honey Butter?”
“No, but I have my theories about who—” My thoughts skid to a stop. Did he just give me a nickname or is he asking me something about the honey butter on the table? I’ve already put it on my toast. “Honey Butter?” I ask.
“Yes, Honey Butter.”
He looks me square in the eyes. Beau has a menacing look to him, but I see past it to a softness he shields from the world. It’s in the depths of his gaze that lingers on me for a long breath which leaves me needing to catch mine.
Heated through, I’d better eat my breakfast before it gets cold.
Halfway done with the most deliciously fluffy scrambled eggs I’ve ever eaten, I say, “I should get evicted more often.”
“Is that a habit you really want to start?”
“Not really, but this is. Thanks again for everything.” I sweep my hand around the room.
Once the coffee shifts me from a sluggish first gear into third, I elaborate on the piece of bad news I mentioned in the text last night. “So that wedding I’d planned in New York for a couple who wanted to get married on St. Patrick’s Day was a total bust.”
Beau doesn’t stop me like everyone else to whom I’ve told this story, eager for gossip about the couple. Instead, he says, “They bailed on you?”
I nod. “They split up because they couldn’t agree on tartan tablecloths or a simple spring green.”
“Spring green, obviously.” He wipes his hand on a napkin.
“That’s what I said.” I’m about to ask why that’s obvious when my phone rings. “Oh no. It’s my mother.” It rings again. A shot of nerves makes me regret the extra piece of bacon.
Beau glares at my phone and for half a second I think it might explode on the spot.
“I have to answer.” I pick it up on the last ring.
Wren says, “Rumor has it you’re in town.”
“News travels fast. I should never doubt the powers of Mrs. Gormely,” I mutter, referring to Cobbiton’s resident busybody.
“You were spotted at the All Ears Diner & Fuel Station last night with your so-called fiancé. Not exactly what I’d call romantic.”
Even though the phone isn’t on speaker, her voice is loud enough that I have no doubt Beau can hear her. Meanwhile, he continues to eat his breakfast as if a slow-motion train wreck isn’t about to happen in this nice kitchen.
“Made a pitstop after the long drive.”
My sister chimes in. “Why didn’t Beau drive with you from New York?”
“Oh, um, he had hockey stuff.”
“Likely story. If you were actually engaged, you would’ve arranged for him to travel with you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving here from New York by myself.”
“Why are you here?” my sister pipes in an accusing tone.
“Change of scenery.”
“You lost your apartment, didn’t you?” my mother guesses rightly.
“The lease was almost up, anyway. New York is expensive.” I’d really like to run away from this conversation. The water is getting choppy. I didn’t prepare for a triathlon today. Good thing I started with a wholesome breakfast.
We go back and forth like this until Celeste says, “I still don’t believe it. There’s no way a guy like Beau would marry someone like you.”
His coffee mug bangs on the table with a little too much force. Either that or he’s upset that the cereal milk carton is empty.
Catching my eyes for one long beat, he takes the phone from my hand. During home games, the Knights ring a gong to announce his arrival on the ice. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with his being so humble. I almost hear it now, somewhere in the distance.
His jaw flexes and his nostrils flare. “You don’t think someone like me would marry Margo? You are wildly mistaken. I am going to adore, serve, and love her for the rest of our lives. I’d like to see you try to stop me.”
Beau Hammer has entered the chat.
The line is quiet. My eyes match the mugs on the table, wide and glassy. I know he doesn’t mean it, but it feels good for him to come to my defense against their continued attempts to cut me down and undermine me.
At last, my mother rallies. “Have you set the date?”
“St. Patrick’s Day,” Beau says and stabs the red end call button.
He turns to me, captures my gaze, and passes me my phone. I drop it like a hot potato.
I don’t need to take a breath, I need to catch my breath. There’s a difference.
After that, the energy inside of me needs diffusing so I start to clean up. Beau helps and we quietly work together.
After folding the dishtowel, I lean on the counter. Tone flat, I say, “So that was super fun.”
“I detect sarcasm.”
“You detect correctly.” But a smile appears anyway. “For a man of few words, you sure know how to use the right ones. Thank you.” I almost can’t thank him enough.
“Want to go for a run?”
“Actually, yes.”
March means it’s still winter in Nebraska whether the groundhog saw its shadow or not. But the day is mild and the sun shines as we take the community loop that starts on 4 th Street, goes past the train depot, out toward the corn fields, and back around with a hazy view of the Omaha skyline in the distance.
We’re quiet the whole way. Because Beau is an athlete and his legs are practically twice the length of mine, I imagine he could complete the circuit in half the time. Kidding. His legs aren’t that long, but he could go faster if he wanted to. However, he keeps my pace.
When we reach the condo, we pause by the entrance. He stretches his hamstrings and quads.
I follow suit. “I’m so bad. I always skip this part.”
“Warm downs are worth it. But so are you, Honey Butter.”
My legs are a little shaky, but I nearly fall backward over the bike rack. I tried not to think about my mother and Celeste, their complete disrespect, and calling out my lies. As usual, I failed. Apparently, it’s been on his mind too.
Beau steadies me with a firm hand. For someone so stoic and cold, he really knows how to rattle and warm up a gal.
Honey Butter. I like it.
We go upstairs and he walks me to the SkyBnB’s door. Does he want to come in? Make sure I recycle his cereal milk carton? Discuss the wedding we will not be having on St. Patrick’s Day?
Shifting from foot to foot, I say, “I’ll admit, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed by your generosity: giving me a place to stay, breakfast, playing on team Margo, and the whole fiancé thing.”
“I have to go work out, but we’ll discuss it later.”
“But we just went for a run.”
“That was my warm up. I have hockey stuff, as you called it.” The hallway is dim, but I think he winks as he turns and trots away.
I lean against the wall for a long moment, still unable to catch my breath.
Later doesn’t come for a few days because Beau wasn’t joking that he has hockey stuff. They travel to Colorado for a game. I’m not sure how the guys with families do it. But I also wonder if some parts of the season are busier than others ... and if Beau is a bit of a hockey-a-holic. Yes, it’s his job, but perhaps it’s also a coping mechanism. But for what? His family’s stipulations—whatever those are.
However, this time, we do text every morning and before I go to sleep. Each time, he signs off with Good night, Honey Butter.
Warm fuzzies accompany me as I drift off, my head filled with happy, floating hearts.
Juniper and I buddy watch the game and talk on speaker phone about my personal crises (yes, plural) during commercials.
“He said you’re getting married on St. Patrick’s Day?” she asks.
I lift my shoulder with a shrug. “That’s what he told my mother and sister. Then he said we’d talk about it.”
“And?”
“That hasn’t happened.”
“You said he’s quiet. Maybe you have to bring it up. But wait, if you do follow through, that means you’ll get married here in New York using all the services you’d hired for the Leprechauns.”
I appreciate that she uses that nickname for them, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. “Beau was so firm with my mother. I can only imagine the scandal on her features.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“You still haven’t met Wren Cabot.”
“And from what I’ve heard, I don’t understand how she produced you, basically her opposite.”
“Thanks for saying that. But she has her mini-me, Celeste.”
The game comes back on. Two minutes in, I launch to my feet, shouting at the refs on TV when they make a no-goal call after it clearly crosses the red line.
“They’re going to throw corn cobs. Knights fans don’t mess around,” Juniper says.
“Corn cobs?”
“Some teams throw rats. Others fruit. Nebraska, corn.” She shrugs. “Also, knights are associated with swords, and tossing those would get everyone put in the penalty box. Corn is long and slender, kind of like a sword but a safer choice. I think they even sell those foam swords that have a kernel print on them. You’re from Hockey Town. Why don’t you know this?”
“I am woefully under-prepared for the world of hockey.”
“Welcome, I’ve been waiting for you,” she says in a smooth tone like I’m being inducted into a secret society.
We both laugh.
By the third period, questions begin to populate my mind.
If Beau and I do get married, will we set a divorce date?
In the meantime, where will we live?
Will we just go about our respective lives on our own time and be Mr. and Mrs. Hammer in public?
Will I find out if he secretly does sleep in socks?
What happens when a goaltender, in all that gear, has to use the bathroom?
Maybe I don’t want to know the answer to that last one. But it also begs another question. If I were wearing a wedding gown with a big hoop skirt like a princess (that’s always been my dream), how would I use the ladies’ room? Maybe I’ll have to rethink my dress situation.
The Knights win, which probably causes me to wake the neighbors when I shout with glee and do a happy dance in the living room.
Juniper and I do our own post-game debrief, discussing some of the highlights, including the left winger’s sneaky pass to the center. I’m starting to understand more about the sport. But let’s be real, most of the time, I’m watching the guy in front of the goal, knowing what he looks like underneath all that equipment. How he moves on the dancefloor and the ice.
How my hand fits around mine like a glove. The flash of his eyes when he looks at me a beat longer than anyone else. How it felt when he pinched my butt.
When Juniper and I get off the phone, I expect to be wired but after my goodnight text with Beau, and my daily dose of Honey Butter , I fall asleep. I dream that I’m gliding across the ice from the puck’s point of view. As soon as I near the net, I’m certain to sail through when a heavy stick drops, blocking the goal.
A whispered voice filters into the dream. “Honey Butter.”
I blink a few times as the outline of a large figure takes shape, looming over the bed. Fear courses through me. I scramble and open my mouth to scream when the light blinks on.
“It’s me,” says a man with a splendidly deep voice.
Me would be Beau.
“What are you doing here? What time is it?”
“Almost sunrise,” he answers simply as if this is totally normal.
Then he extends his hand, drawing me to my feet. He nudges his head toward the door.
When we get to the roof of the building, I’m glad I sleep in socks. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.
The air is brisk, but predawn fresh. A thin line forms along the distant horizon toward the east. Beau positions himself behind me, his front to my back. One arm drapes over my shoulders. The other lengthens along my side and he takes my hand. It’s a reverse kind of hug, warm, and like a nest I never want to leave. I tip my head back against his chest. He smells like crisp northern air and wheat-dried-in-the-sun.
Between that and how thoughtful he is in a quiet way, I’ve never been so happy to wake up early.
The stars above slowly disappear as we watch the sunrise in silence.
Unlike me, Beau isn’t a talker, but I’ve learned more about him these last couple of months than I’ve ever done with guys I’ve dated for similar periods of time.
He’s thoughtful and kind. Not grumpy so much as generous with his attention when it matters. He’s perceptive and powerful. Long and strong. Beau can reach the high shelves. Touch the deepest depths of others that I typically keep hidden—the protected places in my heart.
When we’ve gotten our dose of sunshine, I peel myself out of Beau’s embrace. I start to say, “This was?—”
Then I notice something I’ve never before seen.
The man is smiling.
Beau wears a full-blown reaches-his-eyes grin.