16. Beau #2
Right now, I can’t concentrate on Chad. I need to focus on how to make things right with Shelby.
Seriously, what the hell was all of that?
The eruption and fight at the sixteenth green came out of nowhere, yet somehow it was brewing inside of me all day.
It was the oddest feeling, because I knew exactly what I was doing when I hit Chad, yet I felt like I was out-of-body when Shelby and I were screaming at each other.
I don’t remember how she got on my back, but I don’t need the videos circulating to know she did.
But what scared me the most? Somehow my brain hit the oddest deja vu—only instead of Shelby being on my back at the golf course, it was her last night as we walked down the strip.
And instead of her yelling at me to not be a jackass, she was yelling to everyone in a five mile radius that we were married.
Clearly I was still drunk today. That’s the only explanation.
Though I didn’t say that to reporters when I gave my statement after the round. I kept my answers, and apologies, as general as possible, only mentioning specific details I remembered and that I felt sorry for.
Which is why I didn’t apologize to Chad. Fuck that guy.
But what I didn’t do enough is apologize to Shelby. This was supposed to be her comeback day. Two years out, and back on the course. And she was playing pretty well despite being just as hungover as me, and maybe just as confused about last night.
And I ruined it. I seem to have a habit of doing that when the two of us play together.
“Fuck,” I groan out, knowing that I need to go talk to her. Maybe try to call a truce—a real one—for the rest of this weekend. Not whatever last night started out as.
I grab my phone, but then remember she blocked me yesterday, and I highly doubt she undid that after today.
“Fuck it,” I say, throwing back the rest of the whiskey before grabbing my key card and wallet, and heading to Shelby’s room.
Luckily, no one sees me in the halls or in the elevator, letting me privately knock on her door.
“Go away, asshat!”
I chuckle to myself as the image of Shelby looking through the peephole, yelling at me, comes to mind.
“Shelby. Open the door. We need to talk.”
“We actually don’t.”
“You know we do. Open the door, Belle.”
I’m surprised my words work, and in a few seconds, I hear the click of the lock and watch the turning of the handle. But what I’m even more surprised about is the vision in front of me.
Because Shelby is…fuck…
My throat goes completely dry. Her hair is wet from a shower, and her cheeks are red. That perfect hue that complements her porcelain skin.
But that’s not what’s making my jaw drop and my dick get hard.
It’s her in an oversized T-shirt that hangs so low off her shoulder, her breast is begging to fall out.
This time it’s a boy band T-shirt that I remember her and Gabi listening to on repeat in their tween years.
I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it.
Her shirt is so long, I can’t tell if she’s wearing sleep shorts—or anything—underneath.
Focus, Beau. Apologize. Say you’re sorry. Then get the hell out before you do something stupid. Like kiss her.
“What do you want?”
“Nice to see you too.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” The door is still open, but she’s barricaded the entryway, making it impossible to get in without me actually running her over. “What. Do. You. Want?”
I shove down my initial reaction to spar with her, remembering I came here to apologize. Be mature. Own my mistakes.
Well, at least the ones I know I made.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, piece together what the hell happened last night.
“Can I come in? We need to talk. About a lot.”
She takes a second to think before she greets me with a heavy sigh as she steps out of the doorway. “You can talk. I might listen. I will drink.”
I don’t know why that makes me chuckle as she walks to the small bar in her hotel room, dropping a few ice cubes into a glass before pouring a healthy dose of vodka on top.
“Hair of the dog for you too? I went with whiskey.”
She turns and levels me with a look. Which, I deserve.
I acted like an ass today, and I barely looked at her as we left the course after our press conference.
Even now, I don’t know where to look. At her?
I should, but frankly, she’s scaring me a little.
Do I sit? Stand? I do see my shirt from last night balled in the corner and debate whether I should retrieve it now or later. Or ever.
“Talk so you can leave.”
I let out a sigh, knowing what I want to say to her, but also knowing it’s going to lead to another fight. It’s inevitable. Because that’s what Shelby and I do.
“I’m sorry.” I know I don’t deserve praise and a celebration for that admission, but Shelby’s stoic face isn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for. “Are you going to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say?” She tops off her glass and goes to sit on a chair in the corner of the room.
“Good job apologizing for shit that was your fault to begin with? You want a gold star? Me to pat you on the back? What false praise would Beau Devereaux like for apologizing for the first time in his life?”
While she has some points in there, I need to breathe through the desire to immediately snap at her. She acts like I’ve never felt sorry about anything ever. Then again, Shelby has always believed what she needs to be true when it comes to me.
“I know you don’t think of me as a decent human, but give me credit that I have some ounces of empathy in me.”
“Emphasis on ounces,” she says. “Now, if you want to tell me what you’re actually sorry for, I might not think of you as a complete asshole tonight.”
“Just tonight? Can’t wait to see what you think of me tomorrow.”
“Oh, tomorrow I’ll go back to thinking you’re a cheater and a pain in my ass.”
“And there it is!” I bellow. “What the fuck do I have to do to convince you that I didn’t cheat? I thought we were over this!”
“And I thought you were serious when you said you wanted a truce last night, but I guess that only works when we’re shit-faced!”
“I was serious!”
“Then why the hell didn’t you act like it this morning!”
“Because I was hungover, confused over why I woke up in your bedroom, and then I fucking saw Chad and I lost it!”
Shelby starts to reply, but closes her mouth just as quickly as she opened it. “You spent the night here?”
That’s what we’re going to talk about? Sure. Whatever. If it means we aren’t getting security called on us because of the volume of our voices, I’ll take it. “Don’t worry. It’s not like we were spooning or anything. In fact, clip your toenails. They were digging into my stomach.”
“Fuck you,” she says, turning away so she can pace a small circle in the room. She stops midstep, and that’s when I think she realizes what I saw as soon as I stepped in. “Is that your shirt?”
“Yeah,” I say, walking over and picking up the rumpled ball of fabric. “But can we get back to the reason I’m here?”
I can see the debate wrestling in her eyes. “Fine. Apologize. Then leave.”
I do my best to take a calming breath, though I don’t know how much it actually helps. Not when I want to simultaneously pull my hair out and kiss her.
“I’m sorry, Shelby. Truly. I am.”
I catch her double blink before she puts her wall of armor back on. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, needing to also get out this next part. “And as for the sixteenth hole, that was the volcano exploding. When I heard you say what Chad did, on top of everything else with him, I snapped. I shouldn’t have.”
“Did you really punch him last night? Is that why your knuckles were red?”
I nod, no sense in denying it now. “I did. I saw him at the hotel bar before I came out to Frank’s. Things got…heated.”
“Heated? Heated how?”
I don’t want to lie to her, but we’re finally calm, and I have a feeling she won’t be if I tell her what he said about her. “Let’s just say he was out of line.”
“Out of line how?”
God I don’t want to tell her. She might actually kill him. “Don’t worry about it, Shelby. I took care of it.”
Judging by the widening of her eyes, my response wasn’t the right answer, either. “Took care of it? By punching him?”
I shrug. “Something like that.”
Nope. Wrong answer. Because now her face is redder than the shirt I planned on wearing on Saturday.
“How many times do I need to tell you, quit defending me!”
“What? That’s what you’re mad about?”
“Yes!” She’s back to pacing. Hell, I think she might leave a trench in the carpet. “Quit treating me like I’m still that little girl who was nervous to go and play for the first time. I don’t need you defending me. Or belittling me. Or questioning me. Just stop it.”
“I don’t do that.”
Much. I don’t do that much.
“Bullshit. You had a comment about every swing and shot I took today. You challenged me on the reads of almost every putt. And then there’s the whole taking questions for me because you didn’t think I could handle it.”
“Could you?” I shout. “You were panicking. Staring at Michael and unable to speak. So I helped out. Or are you so fucking stubborn you can’t let anyone help you, ever?”
“I can let people help. I just don’t need you playing Superman.”
All I can do in reply is snort out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You think I’m doing that because of a hero complex?”
I don’t expect her to be taken aback by that statement, but she is.
“Isn’t that how it’s always been? Beau Devereaux, saving the day.
Making sure I don’t get picked on by other boys.
That I had everything I needed if we weren’t playing in the same group.
Defending me when I wanted to play from the men’s tees.
Answering questions because you think I can’t handle an interview.
“Beau Devereaux, always wanting to play the hero. Unless it doesn’t make him look good, allow him to win, or hurts his reputation. Then he runs away like a fucking coward.”