Chapter 11
M y cheeks are ablaze, and my arm feels like it has been plunged into hellfire.
Beau gives me a bemused look following my outburst, before leaning over the sink, scooping some water to splash over his face, right here, using the stream of water still running over my arm. He’s so close to the place where he set me on the counter, the denim of his jeans scratches my knee, where his hip brushes up against me.
As I try to recover my composure after almost revealing just how enormous my crush is—on both him and his mustache—I’m forced to endure the up-close masterpiece of water droplets clinging to Beau’s damp skin as he uses a hand towel to get rid of the last remnants of shaving foam.
While I might be in a world of pain, at least he’s an incredibly gorgeous sight to soak up, strutting around half-naked, playing nursemaid. If only all pain relief came in the form of such a soothing balm.
“You—You’re not going to finish what you were doing—” I swallow thickly, words feeling lumpy on my tongue. His blue-gray eyes pierce mine from over the top of the towel he scrubs along his stupid, perfect cheekbones.
Goddamn him, I swear there’s a faint quirk dancing on the corner of his lips, but the man keeps me guessing as to what might be running through his mind.
“Nah. I’ll fix you some dinner.”
“Oh.” My eyes sweep the chaos I’ve unleashed all over his fancy new kitchen. “You really, really don’t have to, boss. Let me slap some salve on this burn, and then I’ll clear up this crap shoot.”
“Sage.” With one single word, his voice is more commanding than I think I’ve heard him be with me before. At the sound of my name, uttered in a gravely tone, all my previous attempts at ignoring the way my body seems to come alive in his presence dissolve as fast as spring snow. Yet again, I’m struck by the way Beau is the epitome of calm on the surface, yet there’s a vast undercurrent I can detect lurking within him. This man has the depth of an ocean trench, and charisma that simmers within his veins, if only he’d allow that side of him out to play every now and then.
It makes me wonder what might have been the reason for his hardened, cool exterior to become so firmly fixed in place.
“I’ve trashed your kitchen like a fox let loose in a henhouse, and now disrupted your night of preening and primping.” I shift my weight, preparing to hop down off the counter. “God, look at the state of your pretty new cabinets. I feel awful.” Looking on in horror, I see the true extent of my destruction. Oil, grease, little lumps of soggy onion. Roughly chopped cubes of vegetables litter the floor as far as the eye can see. It’s like garden gnomes went to war in here, and all that is left behind is culinary debris scattered across the battlefield.
“This is a working kitchen. Do you think I had it refitted to be a show home? No. It’s meant to get scuffed up, and now you’ve given it a true baptism.”
My grimace is accompanied by a throaty noise. “Let me just fling holy oil with a side of fried garlic around. What a delightful house guest.”
“Run that arm under more water.” He instructs and, oh so very efficiently, starts to tidy up. Unfortunately, the display of bunching and flexing abs gets hidden away when he emerges from the laundry with cleaning products and alas, has apparently sourced a t-shirt while in there. Though I’m still given the gift of his ass in wranglers, so a girl can at least have her mind taken off the white-hot, blazing track running from wrist to elbow.
“How’s the level of ouchy now?” He eventually straightens up and disposes of the used paper towels. Dirty cloths and cleaning products get tossed in the bucket he carried in.
Damn. I like this unguarded, at-ease side of Beau too much for my own good. No wonder he got snapped up by his wife. Imagine coming home to someone who will take care of you and not think twice about taking the reins when needed.
“Still up there… but I think those painkillers will be doing something soon.” Yeah, doing something for me, just like the sight of dark, scruffy curls, facial hair, and serene blue eyes.
“Do you think you can manage rubbing some of that on yourself?” He picks up a burn salve and then hovers in front of me. “Or, do you need help?”
My throat tightens, the way his voice just dipped into a slightly lower register feels far too much of a temptation. It calls to me, luring me into saying yes in an effort to know what his touch might be like against my bare skin. Allowing Beau Heartford to put his hands on me is absolutely, most definitely a terrible idea.
“I’ll manage.” Reaching out, I pluck the tube from his hold.
“Good.” He coughs into his fist. “Tell me what to do, what you were cooking, and I’ll make it for you.”
As I slather on the cool, soothing balm, I gape at him. “No. Seriously. Just… I dunno… hit me with a carrot and some dip or something to nibble on while I retreat into my cocoon of shame. I’ll be fine.”
“Nope, sorry, that’s outta the question. Proper food. Them’s the rules.”
He sets to work without hesitation, chopping onions and garlic, a replica of what I had prepared before, then points the tip of the knife between the coconut milk and untouched raw chicken I’d diced before my disastrous turn of events.
All the while, I’m rendered speechless. Alert. Abort. This is absolutely not my usual mode of operation.
“Alright, Miss Maloney.” He taps the point of the blade against the board. “Tell me what you need me to do, chef.”
* * *
“I swear to god, this is better than I would have ever been able to make. You’re a really good cook.” Resisting the urge to give this man big ol’ moon eyes takes intense effort as I clean my bowl and leave hardly a stray speck of sauce behind.
Beau Heartford just whipped up dinner, like it was absolutely nothing, and then chose to sit with me at the kitchen island so we could eat together. Admittedly, that part has been largely in silence, not because our first meal together is awkward, but because I’ve been inhaling each mouthful with a feverish appetite.
“Don’t mention it. Tastes like there are family secrets hidden in that recipe.” He pushes back in his chair and lazily runs fingers through his locks, tousling them into an even more unruly display of sexiness.
“My grandma taught my mom, who then taught me. The recipe was adapted from her home in India to London living when she settled there. Then, we gave it the American spin once we moved out here. But the core ingredients always stay the same.”
“Were you close with your grandmother?” Beau leans one arm on the back of the chair beside him. I’m caught a little unprepared for him to want to linger and chat like this, but it’s kind of nice after so many nights working on my laptop, with only my focus-playlist and headphones for company.
“Sadly, I never knew her. I’m not sure whether I would have given her gray hairs prematurely or whether she would have found my wild-child ways endearing. I think my parents have mixed opinions on the matter, depending on the day.”
“I’d say she would have been extremely proud of you.”
The way his eyes crease ever so slightly as he says those words leaves me a little breathless. It’s hard to focus on not getting swept up in this man, especially when it’s so convenient to forget certain facets of his life—namely his marital status—beyond this ranch exists.
“Maybe,” I murmur. Not wanting to dwell on things like families and broken homes and stories long left where they belong. In the past.
“Your folks moved out here when you were young?”
“Mom met my dad—he’s been my father since I was five—at the company they both worked for in the UK. They were both recruited by their firm to move out to Silicon Valley, so we upped and shifted to sun and heat. My mom fell in love with the lifestyle, so I guess that’s why we stayed. By the time I was in grade school, the twins came along. Sometimes, I think my parents don’t know whether to laugh or cry that they’ve got three entirely Americanized daughters, but here we are.”
“Not a lot of open plains to roam down there,” he says. “What lured you to the middle of nowhere?”
“That’s where my bestie Layla comes in. She’s been responsible for my love affair with this part of the country… and my riding education.”
“Had some lessons, have you?”
Is he making this flirty? It definitely feels like it. With the lateness of the hour, and the warmth of a delicious meal sitting in my belly, I can’t figure out if Beau is allowing a side of him to peek out once more, the one that feels extremely fucking tempting to dance with, or if I’m imagining things.
“A few. Nothing like what I’m sure a few cowboys, or cowgirls, might be able to show me this summer while I’m here.”
I swear to all things holy, Beau’s mind looks like it has just stalled on the spot. The track scratches behind his eyes, and he scrubs a palm over his mouth.
“For the record, I’m a big fan of both methods of riding lessons.” I prop one hand beneath my chin and watch on with amusement, waiting for his brain to come back online.
God, he’s adorable when flustered.
Christ, I really, really need to stop thinking about him as anything other than my boss. Or maybe a friend? But that’s all. This is dangerous, us sitting here surrounded by dim lighting, while I’m intentionally bringing us into territory that might potentially cross a line if I’m not careful. Because if there is one thing I’m not going to do, it’s openly play temptress with a married man.
I fear, however, that I might be entirely too slow to locate my moral compass where this cowboy is concerned.
Sage. For god’s sake. Get your crap together. Ask him about his wife. You really would be the biggest piece of shit if you didn’t at least make a feeble attempt to steer the conversation back onto a safe course. One where the focus remains on his marriage—the fact that he’s locked down—and you’re respecting that.
So, I swallow down the inherent distaste of that idea, and dive headfirst into waters I really wish didn’t exist, and I have precisely zero interest in navigating.
“Will Mandy be home from her tour soon?” I ask lightly. My eyes dart to his jaw, then back down to my empty bowl, and I chew on my bottom lip. Am I smiling… politely? The way my face loves nothing more than to betray me at every turn is a constant challenge, always showcasing my true feelings plastered there like a billboard.
“Unlikely,” Beau mutters, as he heaves himself off his stool. At first I think it’s with the intention of escaping the conversation, the room, my very presence, but then he returns with two beers. One is offered my way, but I shake my head.
“I’ll take something a little stronger if you have it,” I add.
He disappears into a cupboard, before sticking out a long arm to poke around the corner, wiggling a bottle of whiskey. I make a small noise of agreement.
It’s all I can muster. The reason I am, yet again, devoid of words, is that his arm beneath the sleeve of that soft cotton t-shirt comes complete with a corded map of muscles. A display that goddamn, my eyes can’t help but trace the length of. Heat glows high on my cheekbones as I immediately notice the equally prominent veins on the back of his firm hand, wrapped around the bottle in a way I’d really enjoy having done to me… only around my throat instead.
My thighs squeeze, and I’m tempted to whack my burn against the wooden surface just to get my rampant horniness back under control.
Beau pours me two fingers, then slides the glass over.
“I guess that’ll help with the pain a little, too.” His brows knit together while contemplating my arm. “I’m sorry you got hurt so easily. I feel guilty as all hell.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault, although this kitchen might require a PhD prior to usage.”
He sighs heavily, stabbing thick fingers into his hair. “If that starts getting worse tomorrow, make sure to tell me. I’ll take you straight to see a doctor, alright?”
“Ok… Thanks.” A hasty gulp of my whiskey is my only recourse in the face of a fluttering pussy. Who would have known I’m a slut for a cowboy with that protective tone to his voice. Surely, I can find myself a replica, a Beau-doppelganger, hiding out somewhere amongst these mountains.
“Back to Mandy…” Setting my glass down, I simply will myself to persist with this conversation, ignoring every protest and complaint swirling through my blood. “She’s not going to be back for a while?”
Beau studies his beer with a sudden dullness behind his eyes before puffing out his cheeks. “We’re on track for a divorce.”
There’s a carnival, a multi-color fiesta complete with fireworks, trumpets, and confetti rioting where my stomach should be. However, I cling to my composure on the outside. Only just.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” No, I’m not. Fuck yes, bitch, this man isn’t quite as off-limits as I believed him to be. Thank you, Universe. Hail every Goddess, and let me say my prayers at the altar of whatever anti-cupid’s arrow grants couples their separations.
“It’s been a long time coming. I guess, I just haven’t really told many people… don’t trust others very easily, ya know.” His throat works as a sip of beer goes down. “In my world outside of Crimson Ridge, it was too easy for rumors and bullshit to spread like wildfire.”
My heart is hammering inside my chest.
“Consider me a high-security vault.” With one hand, I mime turning a key over my lips.
“Thanks.” A muscle in the side of his jaw pulses.
“Full permission to tell me if I’m being nosey as fuck…”
“You wanna know why? What happened?”
I shrug and sip my drink. Enjoying how pleasurable the burn down the back of my throat feels, in comparison to the steady, dull thud of pain in my arm. “Only if you wanna say, otherwise, forget I asked.”
“Beneath her facade, the country starlet, everything was airbrushed and faked to shit. Turns out I married an idea, and the person I hitched my wagon to wasn’t who I thought she was. The jealousy and insecurity alone, never mind the other drama, well, it meant things were rotten from the outset.”
“Did you give her any reason to be?”
“What?” He splutters.
“To be jealous?” I run my tongue over my bottom lip. “Everyone is so quick to blame women for being insecure or bitchy or whatever… but often it’s the man who is flirting with other women in their DMs, or liking other girl’s photos on social media. But of course, if you happen to have a vagina, you get labeled as being the problem.”
He drags his fingers through his hair again. “Hell, no way. Of course not.”
“Sure about that? Weren’t busy being the rodeo star Beau Heartford enjoying attention from all the buckle bunnies sliding into your inbox at two a.m.?” One of my eyebrows lifts as I sip my whiskey.
The man across from me develops a fire in his eyes. Something smolders there, hot and powerful, in a way that captures me from across the expanse of table between us.
“Sage, I can tell you now… I don’t even look at my phone half the time. Don’t even touch the damn thing if I can help it, let alone reply to shit. Tessa has handled my social media pretty much since day one in my pro career, long before Mandy arrived on the scene. If anything, it was always the other way around. I was spending my nights lying in bed watching videos on stupid fucking stuff like aperture settings... and, well…”
“Little Miss Country Music wasn’t?” I venture.
“ Little Miss Country Music wasn’t even in my bed. She was halfway around the country, or the world. Trust me, there were plenty of offers on the daily for her to be in someone else’s sheets. Whether she took them up on that offer or not…” Beau lifts a shoulder, eyes fixed on his beer. “I was aware of enough, that ultimately gave me the reason to stop caring entirely, before long.”
I swirl my whiskey, musing for a long pause over the words wanting to bubble up. The ones that I shouldn’t say, but can’t seem to shove back down.
“Life must have been lonely.”
The air crackles as if charged with a high-voltage current. “The pro tour was like being part of a family.” His voice is roughened, so tempting I can’t think straight.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t still feel alone, even while being in a crowded arena.”
Beau swigs back his beer, fixing me with those blue eyes the color of a fall sky.
“Do you get lonely being here, tucked away on this ranch?” God, I should stop. However, he’s not rushing to leave this conversation, nor is he answering. He watches me closely over the lip of his beer bottle, and my skin shimmers, hums, damn well transforms into a million pin-pricked sparks beneath the spotlight of his gaze.
“I find ways to manage.” When he finally speaks, it’s such a low, gruff admission… holy fuck, I have to beat back the intrusion of images in my mind’s eye of what it might look like when Beau takes matters into his own hands.
“I’ll clean up.” The croak in my voice makes it come out almost as a whisper. There are so many things I want to say, want to speak life into, yet for the sake of my professional career, I bite them all off and swallow them hastily.
Getting to my feet, I gather up both our bowls and just as I finish sliding the dishwasher closed, Beau fills my periphery. His irrepressible heat and masculine scent coils around me and drifts into my lungs.
“Let me look at your arm.” Those words are gruff. Laced with something far more dangerous and tempting than simply being alone in this kitchen together late at night. They’re filled with a genuineness I’m ill-equipped to handle.
I’m so used to being independent. To being the girl who needs no man, or woman, to make me feel anything. I don’t need anyone to help me, or hold me, and I certainly don’t need them to make me feel good .
Yet, I’m counting my frantic, fluttering heartbeats as he lingers ever so close. He deposits his beer and phone onto the counter and proceeds to reach for my arm.
That’s when it happens. That’s when Beau Heartford insists on fucking with my already questionable self-control when it comes to this particular cowboy. His roughened fingertips clasp my wrist, and those ocean eyes flicker between my own and the site of my burn—yet I could almost forget that raw patch is there at all.
The only thing I’m capable of feeling is the way his hold is secure and warm. It’s a delicious sensation against the sensitive inner curve of my wrist. He’s got me trapped beneath a feather-light grip and ever so tenderly turns my hand inside his own in order to closely scrutinize the strip of burnt skin on the underside of my forearm.
With a solemness about him, Beau takes his time to look—to thoroughly and slowly observe—the site of my wound. My stomach has churned into a mess of flapping wings and sparkling hopefulness, considering the fact this married man isn’t quite so married after all. The fact he’s touching me and lingering so near it would take nothing at all for my other hand to slide up the front of his shirt, has my pulse thrumming. It would be so easy to allow my fingers to explore him, if the invitation was there to do so.
Beau doesn’t speak, but his eyes appear hooded beneath dim overhead lights, and oh hell, he’s so achingly sexy. That gaze I’m studying far too closely for my own health flicks to meet my own, and I find myself swallowing down the dryness in my throat.
Beneath his hold and his stare, I wet my lips, feeling every crackling molecule of air intensify as he zeros in on that movement. Beau follows the glide of my tongue, and his fingers press a fraction harder into my wrist bone, as if he’s considering tugging me into him. His torso dips forward in that same moment, and the weight of him leans in closer. Oh, sweet Jesus, he’s leaning into me…
The silence and thudding of my pulse in my ears is shredded.
A relentless buzzing startles us, coming from his phone lying face-up on the bench top, barely five inches away.
And as we spring apart, our attention jerks to the photo filling the screen at the same time. The name front and center, right there, lit up and droning for attention.
I see it immediately.
Blond hair, curled and styled to perfection.
A wedding band and sparkling diamond ring, paired with French-tipped nails, settled against his chest.
Beau’s unmistakably broad shoulders wrapped around the woman who fills the screen.
His wife.