Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
I don’t know what came over me, but red-cheeked and lips throbbing, I feel the need to stand out here in the cold for a minute or a hundred after those twenty-nine birthday kisses.
Apparently, Beau has other plans.
“Come here,” he says, eyes never wavering from me.
I pause, my antennae tuned to the desire in his voice. The unmistakable fire in his eyes draws me toward the warmth even though I’m already burning up.
“I want to kiss you.” It sounds like a command, but that’s not how he means it. I know this with absolute certainty.
Like a racehorse at the opening of the gate, those words were all I needed to hear as I spring toward him with what feels like a wonderfully reckless smile on my face.
I enjoyed kissing him, but it was reserved, tame. I want the full Beau Hammer kissing experience. To be kissed by him.
I cannot hold back. Losing control, I go at him in a frenzy. The feeling must be mutual because our lips mash together. My hands search for solid ground—acres of toned muscle under my palms. My fingers thread through his hair, his beard. Now that I’ve been granted access, I’m on an exploratory adventure.
I can count the guys I’ve kissed on one hand, but it was never like this. The blush on my cheeks spreads across my body, heating me up, but that doesn’t stop me.
Nothing can. I’m going to steamroll this man with kisses. Practically panting, he’s caught up in the fervor, matching my feverous attempt to know him entirely through this kiss alone.
Then he stops abruptly. My palm is on his chest and if I didn’t know better, I’d think his pounding heart went still.
His breath whispers against my cheek when he says, “Remember? I said I wanted to kiss you .”
The entire situation turns tender as he brushes my neck with his nose, kissing along my collarbones before finding his way behind my ear, to my jaw, and to my temple.
Eyes open, his gaze holds mine for one long intense moment that brings me to the edge.
“You are so soft. So smooth.” He combs his fingers through my hair, drawing my lips to his and the kiss resumes. Now, it’s a slower pace, as he takes his time, admiring each stop along the way.
Breathing uneven, I’ve never felt this way—so desired, so appreciated. The kiss deepens, dragging me under, but I’m not drowning. With Beau, I can breathe underwater. I can float on top or dive under the waves, then bob to the surface with ease.
He smells like crisp northern air and wheat-dried-in-the-sun. He’s rock solid, a rock I didn’t know how badly I needed. There’s something unbelievably attractive about his strong muscles and immovable physique. He could wrap me in an envelope of protection.
Even though goal tender gear regularly covers him from head to toe, the package underneath is very nice to look at. Very much appreciated.
The gentle, tender, loving kiss continues like a riverboat cruise. A Sunday drive. It’s not lazy, but it is leisurely.
I love it.
His fingers smooth through my hair and mine loop around his neck, feeling his pulse under his skin. For a moment, I forgot that this is actually happening. It’s like reality just did a switcheroo on me. If I’m not mistaken, fake fiancés don’t do this for no good reason.
And the way his hands slide across my skin, his mouth searches mine, and the throb of his heart explodes against my chest, I wouldn’t be mad if Beau were my real fiancé. Just saying.
Am I objectifying him? Sort of. His stoic personality isn’t everyone’s cup of coffee with cereal milk. There’s a lot to him under the pads and guards, the armor he wears to protect himself physically and emotionally. As he lets me in, I’m only just discovering what it is.
Turns out talking isn’t the only worthwhile thing people can do with their mouths.
However, I’m afraid that when this bubble bursts, I’m going to get sent back into low-motivation mode. I never want to revisit the time in my life after I found out Jonathan had used me, and then tossed me out like a dishrag.
I tell myself that I’m merely playing my role in this marriage of convenience game. This is practice so we can pull off the You may kiss the bride moment on the altar. But that’s it. Then it’s over. I know this and tell myself to forget about it until it’s time to part ways.
My heart opens and I snap it shut. Knowing it’s fake, I can enjoy this now.
And do I ever.
The kiss develops its own rhythm, seeks its own tune. I can hear the chorus though. It sounds like my singing voice and the refrain goes like, I want to do this forever with this man ’til death do we part. It’s not too catchy, but it works for me. I want it to work for us. But we can’t build something real on a fake foundation.
Despite how unexpected and wonderful Beau’s mouth on mine feels, another voice inside raises uncertainties and insecurities, sending them swirling around in the back of my mind before rushing forward.
Reluctantly, I pull back.
Beau’s green eyes are dark.
“Should we be doing this?” I ask.
His gaze dips to my lips and up again. “We’re engaged.”
“You say that like you mean it.”
Even though it’s still chilly out, Beau somehow insulates us. If only the warmth he generates could stave off the inevitable.
“I do,” he says.
“There you go throwing around those two words. Keep it up and you’ll never get rid of me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“We haven’t talked about that part yet. When should I plan for us to call it quits? I’d rather deal with my mother and sister—along with the aunt and cousin entourage when I’m back in New York and they’re here.”
“Margo, have you heard anything I’ve said?”
His eyes search mine as if he’ll find the answer there. Then he digs into his pocket and pulls out a little velvet box.
My breath catches. But it’s probably just his coin collection or a hockey ring. Do hockey players get those big chunky rings for winning playoffs or whatever? Actually, I think they get a big cup which is far more practical.
“I wasn’t going to give this to you yet.”
“My payment? I prefer whole bills. Tens and twenties.”
He closes his eyes for a long moment as if he’s having a conversation with someone.
I try to ignore the little box in his big hand and what it really, truly might mean because what if bad things actually happen in fours and this good thing gets taken away from me too?
He says, “I have it on good authority that you are the next step in my life.”
“Right because of your family stipulations or whatever.”
“Please stop talking, Honey Butter. I wasn’t going to do this now, but?—”
He opens the box and pulls out a rose gold vintage ring in a vine design with an oval cut diamond. It sparkles under the lamplight in the park and the moon above.
“This was my grandmother’s. She and my grandfather had a long and happy marriage. They were special people. Important in my life. Both gone too soon. Her personality filled the room. Though rare, it was a real treat when he laughed. I’ve been told I’m a lot like him. They would’ve loved you.”
I lean back slightly even though I know this is a moment to lean in, but I need to study Beau’s face. It’s as inexpressive as always, but his eyes are bright and hold on to mine.
“I’m confused. Are we just getting married for convenience or?—?”
“Or,” he answers.
“Or?” I ask.
“What other reason would we do it?”
“I don’t know, love?”
“You’re not like your mother,” he says.
I balk. “I should hope not.”
He asks, “So why would you get married for any reason other than love ... or the potential for it?”
I search his eyes, wishing he’d spell it out for me because he’s so close to saying what I’ve waited all my life to hear.
“People get married because they care deeply and want to spend the rest of their life with the person,” he says.
“And have a family.”
He nods. “To grow together.”
“Have adventures and make memories.”
“To always have a home to go to.”
I pump my fist. “Cheer them on when they play hockey.”
Then he adds, “Have someone to talk to about events and confetti and stuff.”
The corner of my lip lifts into a smile. “That too.”
“There are other reasons that we don’t even know about yet.”
“But is this real?”
“It feels real, Margo.”
He’s so close to saying it. “Please use your words, Beau.”
Taking a deep breath, he says, “I want this to be real.”
“Not a marriage of convenience?”
“It was a fake engagement, and I proposed a marriage of convenience, but I’d like the honor of making you my real wife.” He presents the ring.
These last months have gone by so fast, yet right now time doubles. It’s like when a storm moves off, lengthening the duration between cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning.
Beau holds the ring in his fingers between us. His steady presence, patience, and gaze burrow past my insecurities and into the secret chambers of my heart where I’m still whole. However, I’m afraid that if I expose that part I risk losing it too. It’s the final frontier. What’s still mine. I want to share those hidden places with someone, with him. I’m safe to let him in. But can I?
“The hard truth is we haven’t known each other very long. What if—? What don’t I know?” There’s more. I can sense it. I don’t want to pry it out of his hands—whatever he’s holding back, not the ring. It looks like the perfect bit.
“I told you about my superstitions and stuff.”
“You are so strong for overcoming that. Beau, you have mojo.”
“You have moxie.”
“My family thinks this is fake.” I don’t mean to belabor the matter, but is he just doing this because there’s a good chance Mrs. Gormely is watching and will report to my mother?
“Does that matter?”
“I’m worried there’s something you’re not telling me or this is all for show or?—”
“You’re overthinking it. I’m a simple man, Margo. What you see is what you get.”
“I like what I see, but?—”
He tucks the ring away. My stomach plummets.
Then I realize we’re already supposed to be engaged, so why would he stage a proposal? If this were fakey-fake, he could’ve just stuck with the napkin or given me a toy ring.
Still, I feel like he has a secret. Then again, so do I ... and it’s that I’m smitten. Maybe the feeling is mutual.
He starts walking toward the truck. “It’s late. Of course, there’s more to the story. I’ll tell you.”
“That sounds like an incomplete sentence.”
“I’ll tell you soon,” he adds, his slow pace suggesting he’s crestfallen as he nears the truck.
I want to rush after him and explain that I’m not rejecting him, I’m just not sure where we stand, but the words catch and dissolve in the darkness.
In their place flows a river of doubt. What if Celeste is right? I mean, she is right. This whole thing started as a complete charade. But what if there’s something big I don’t know like he has a love child or an extra toe? That wouldn’t be a deal breaker. I love kids and maybe an extra toe helps with skating. Who knows. But I don’t want drama. There’s enough of that in my family, thank you very much.
However, I don’t want my sister or my mother or anyone else in my head, nagging me, niggling me.
When we get back to the condos, the building has a gym on the lower level and instead of going to sleep, I run on the treadmill until I outpace my thoughts.
With St. Patrick’s Day only five days away, Beau has given me no indication that the wedding is off, despite withholding the ring. Quite the opposite actually with questions about the venue and timing. I half expect him to slide the engagement ring under the door with a note that says something like Wear this in public .
On Tuesday, he texts me saying a driver is waiting outside to bring me to the Knights game against the Rhode Island Royals.
When I arrive, I message Juniper, telling her to look for me, waving at the cameras when they come my way.
Juniper: I’m so jealous. Please get me tickets next time they play the Kings.
Me: Only if you root for the Knights.
Juniper: I’m loyal to my team. You’re loyal to your guy.
Me: Beau? He’s not my guy.
Juniper: Then whose guy is he?
My fingers hover over the keypad. I hate the idea of him being anyone else’s guy.
Juniper: You do realize that you’re in love, right?
Me: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
Juniper: Sheesh. No need to yell.
Me: We’re fake together. You know the whole story.
Juniper: I know your whole story and it’s that you’re afraid that when something good finally comes your way, it’s too good to be true, so you run away from it.
Me: I’m sitting down, actually.
Juniper: I can see that. Wave!
Like the puck moving up and down the ice, what she said slides back and forth in my mind.
Juniper: Are you quiet because you’re thinking about how you’ve been acting like a headcase or is there a delay and I missed an important play?
Me: There was a penalty I think.
Juniper: Consider taking yourself out of the penalty box.
If we were face to face, I’d ask what she means, but deep down I know. All the insults and undermining from my mother, sister, and family made me shrink while at the same time pushing me to prove myself, fit their molds, and appeal to their ridiculous demands. I’ve lost people I thought cared about me. I didn’t want to drive them away too.
Me: You’re right.
Juniper: You’re welcome. I accept tips, preferably twenty percent or twenty-five if you’re feeling generous.
As the Royals make a rush toward the defensive zone, like a predator staring down his prey and the goal his snare, Beau dares the left wing to take the shot. He does and our goalie blocks it. The crowd goes wild and “Hammer Time” blasts over the PA system.
I cup my hands around my mouth and shout his name, my fiancé’s name, and I realize something. I thought that maybe I’d been running from the bullies in my life—hi, Mom! Celeste!—when in reality, I’d trapped myself in doubt and fear.
I certainly don’t have it all worked out yet and Juniper was only partly right, but the ground under me feels a lot firmer than it did even minutes ago. I no longer feel like I’m treading water, trying to keep afloat. For once, my instinct isn’t to run away either.
I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know where I’ve been and I’m not going back.
The end of the third period wraps up nicely with a three-one score in favor of the home team. Go Knights!
I’m not entirely sure what the protocol is, but since I got to sit in the VIP area with the wives and girlfriends who were at Beau’s birthday party, I try to pick up on what happens now. Do we hang around here? Go home? Find a room with fizzy drinks and cake frosting to celebrate?
Meg, Micah’s wife, waves. “Good game, huh? Sorry, I wasn’t more chatty. When I’m able to come sans kids, I go laser-focused.”
“When Macy and Mason come, we get the full Lemon showcase,” Whit says. She holds a little girl’s hand. “Have you met Blue?”
She points at my sweatshirt—with Beau’s name. “We need to get you the tendie jersey.” She proudly shows off Redd’s.
“The tendie?”
“Goalie,” Blue clarifies, proud to know the hockey slang.
“We match,” Whitney says.
“Even our dog Baloo has one with number fifty-four, but he can’t come to games.”
We chat for a few more minutes as some of the other women cycle in and out of the area.
Delaney says, “I’d never seen Beau as animated as I did at his birthday party. Hayden agreed.”
Cara joins us. “Dadaszek says he’s been playing tighter than he ever has and that’s saying something since he’s the best goalie the Knights have ever had.”
“Dadaszek?” I ask, wondering if I misheard.
“That’s what she calls her dad, the coach.”
I ask, “Coach Badaszek is your father?”
Cara nods. “Hence the Dad aszek. He only calls people by their last names, which was odd for my sisters and me, so we followed suit and Dadaszek it is.”
I chuckle.
“Is Beau as quiet at home as he is here?” Whit asks.
“Uh, I’m not sure since I’m not ordinarily here.”
“Well, one thing is for sure, we’ve never seen him this happy,” Meg says.
“Facts.” Harlow nods.
“Um, how can you tell he’s happy? I haven’t quite figured out the puzzle wrapped in a riddle that is Beau Hammer,” I bite my lip, wondering if they have any more insight.
“I saw his teeth for the first time in three years,” Meg says.
“She must mean he smiled, or at least smirked. Maybe spoke,” Delaney says.
We all laugh.
Gradually, everyone filters to the hall and then toward the locker room area where the guys exit in singles and pairs. Like after softball games when I was a kid, I feel like I should slap everyone five but resist the urge in case that’s weird.
Eventually, Beau appears, freshly showered. His gaze is dark at first and then he seems to brighten when he spots me.
I launch into him with my usual enthusiasm about the game which segues into the wedding because this was the last match before St. Patrick’s Day.
“I’ve been scrambling because some of the vendors had to reroute their deliveries, which in Manhattan is a logistical nightmare. I found a church off Wall Street to host our event with such short notice. The reception will be at the Garden House across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral as planned. I had to jump through flaming hoops and do everything short of donating a kidney to reserve the place for the Leprechauns, so I’m thankful we can use it after all.”
He simply replies with grunts and other guttural sounds.
I continue, “This wedding is so specific. St. Patrick’s Day followed by a honeymoon in Ireland.”
He shifts his bag over his shoulder as he holds the door open to the parking garage for me.
I glance up and say, “Or we could just elope. Do our own thing.”
Beau’s voice echoes when he says, “We’re saying our vows before God in a church.”
“Because this is last minute, I’m not sure we’ll even hit the guest list totals. Can everyone in your family possibly make arrangements in time? Mine will only so they can watch me crash and burn.”
He seals me in the passenger seat and comes around to the driver’s side. “There will be no crashing or burning. We’re getting married.”
“This is not how I expected it to go. We don’t have to,” I’m not sure where all my objections come from, but it’s like I want him to tell me it’s over now so I won’t suffer later.
He does the opposite. “We’re committed.”
“Do you mean I should be committed to one of those creepy hospitals with bars over the windows and special vests for the inmates, er, patients?”
“It’s in motion.”
So is the truck, and he doesn’t say another word until we park outside the condo. Head tipped back against the seat, Beau lets out a long, exhausted breath as if words cannot express how tired he is.
“It was a big game.”
When we get inside the building, Beau says, “I need to recline. Lie down. Generally.”
“Okay, then. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“No, I want you to come with me.”
My eyes bulge. “To recline?”
He tips his head to the side as if to point out that I’m filling all the silence between us with chatter when I could just be okay with quiet. Taking my hand, he leads us inside.
After kicking off his boots, he flops onto the couch.
“Would you like anything? Water, tea, an electrolyte drink?”
He simply says, “I want you.”
“Oh,” I say, frozen by the fridge.
He glances up from the couch, catching my gaze with something like man-on-fire affection.
“I want you to sit with me. To stop fretting. To be okay.”
“I’m great. Fine. Definitely a-okay.”
“You haven’t stopped talking for over thirty minutes.”
I plant my hand on my hip. “Is that a problem? Are you saying I talk too much?”
“No. I’m trying to tell you?—”
“Is English not your first language?”
“I came out of the womb singing.”
That was not what I expected him to say. I make my way to the couch and drop down on the other end. He reaches for my feet, puts them on his lap, and proceeds to give me a foot massage.
I’ve never had one of these. Crown me the Cobbiton Corn Queen, have I been missing out.
“Foot rubs, where have you been all my life?” I moan.
Since returning to Cobbiton, I haven’t worn high heels once. My feet are thanking me and I am thanking Beau for this glorious foot massage. But then I realize he’s the one that just stood in ice skates for hours.
“You should be the one getting the foot rub.”
He doesn’t stop. While he’s doing this for me, I watch him decompress in real time. Are acts of service to others Beau’s love language? I explain the concept to him and find the quiz on my phone, but for every question, instead of choosing one of the designated letters that corresponds with an answer, he says, “You.”
“The letter U isn’t an option.”
“I mean you .”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
That would be me.
Beau’s love language is me? Beau’s love language is me.
But as if entering a sudden death face-off in a hockey game, the voices of doubt that sound exactly like my mother’s and Celeste’s, along with fear of rejection get louder in my mind. I thought I’d crowded them out back at the arena.
“Are we really getting married?” I ask.
“Only if you want to.”
“I don’t have the qualifications to be your real or fake wife.”
“That’s not true. Stop saying things like that.”
I counter, “Start saying what you mean.” I need more nouns and verbs from this man.
“I know your mother and your family hurt you. Who else?”
I reflexively draw my feet away at the flames in his eyes. They’re not directed at me, but just as dangerous. “Are you going to hurt them?”
“Maybe.”
“I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”
“Neither can I,” he grinds out. “The thought of anyone treating you with anything short of respect, kindness, and honor makes my blood boil.”
“I can see that.”
He’s the kind of guy who looks like he has a big red button that says Do not push .
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.
“I’ve just never had someone in my corner. You’ve met my mother and sister. I’ve told you about my brother. Dad is kind of like a life-size cardboard cutout that doesn’t get soggy if he’s outside playing golf and it starts to rain.”
Beau’s green eyes take hold of mine and he gets to his feet. He grips my hand and leads us to a full-length mirror in his bedroom. “What do you see?”
I meet his gaze and he gently adjusts my head so I’m focused on myself. My eyes dart away, anywhere but at my reflection.
“What happened, Honey Butter?”
I close my eyes, remembering the worst year of my life. The one that resulted in me getting tossed into deep water depression. “I went to college in Lincoln. Met a guy named Jonathan. It was the first time someone expressed such keen interest in me. I had a few other boyfriends, but not like this. It was always Celeste who got attention. He was nice at first but then his comments would come with subtle barbs, passive aggression embedded in what sounded like helpful, supportive comments.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“I sure know how to pick ‘em.”
In a sharp tone, Beau says, “You don’t choose your family.”
“Yet I’ve remained faithful to mine.”
“You’re a better person than me. Than them, Margo.”
“After six months of dating, he started to become scarcer. Made excuses when we were supposed to meet. Things like that. No real surprise. Then one afternoon, he said he was moving to Hawaii. Told me I could stay or not. The emphasis was on not.”
“You were in school, right?”
“Yes, but I found out through a series of texts, in a group thread shared with his ex, that he was only with me to make her jealous. He confirmed this fact. I felt so used.”
Beau shudders as if he too knows this feeling. Then he bundles me into a hug and tears drop down my cheeks.
“Is he still in Hawaii? I can show him the broadside of my hockey stick.”
I pull back and a chuckle escapes. “No. That was a lie too. He was just trying to get rid of me and knew I wouldn’t follow. But I’ve seen you with that thing. You’d wipe him off the side of the island even if he was there. Sheer off the earth.”
Beau’s lips ripple as if he likes the idea of being the one to protect me.
“I lost so much of my life after that. I went into a serious low-motivation mode. Depression probably.”
“How’d you get out of it?”
“Took decisive action. Like when planning events, I started to schedule my life in blocks of time one hour at a time. Went running in the morning. Joined a Bible study on Tuesday afternoons. Cooked a recipe from a different country every other night. Started leaning into my interests. Moved to New York. Set up Margo A Go-Go. Meanwhile, my mother kept pressuring me about marriage. I was barely twenty-one. The Wards don’t marry for love. Just wealth potential. To my mother money means security. With the Jonathan failure under my belt, I set out to make my own fortune. Of course, she disapproved.”
Beau’s eyes sharpen. “It’s one thing to knock around a puck, but do you realize how strong you are?”
Still avoiding the mirror, I shrug.
“No one will ever treat you like that again. I promise,” he says.
Somehow, for the first time in my life, I know that’s true. Everything I’d been thinking about at the hockey game comes pouring out as I lean against him in front of the mirror with my eyes closed.
Like a tangle of string, he helps me unravel each strand by simply listening. I want to run away, but he holds me steady.
Tears fall and for a moment I’m afraid I’ll drown, but he helps me remain afloat.
When the sniffles slow, he says, “Margo, please open your eyes. I want you to see what I see.”
I’m afraid, but trust he’ll protect me. My gaze flicks to myself, reflected in the mirror. I can’t do it. Can’t look myself in the eyes. I turn back to Beau. A smile plays on his lips. In his eyes all I see is love.