Chapter 10 #3
He pulls the handle of his door and the interior lights come on.
I look away quickly because I don’t want him to see how much I’m blushing.
Instead, I get out of the car too, the words I just said running through my mind.
It’ll be a relief when you leave and I don’t have to walk in on you half-clothed.
I said too much, because why would it be a relief except if I was attracted to him and trying hard to resist? I wish I could take those words back.
I keep my face turned down as we walk through the underground parking garage, hoping that the cool air will eliminate my flush. Beau uses the keypad to unlock the glass door, and we step into the lighted vestibule where I continue to keep my face turned away from him.
“Hey,” he says, the taunting tone is gone and nothing but gentleness remains. When I don’t look at him, he reaches over and tilts my chin toward him. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“Beau, you’re my best friend’s younger brother. And yes, you’ve grown up quite a bit and you obviously like showing off your amazing body. But when you try to make it sound like I’m attracted to you, it makes me feel like a lecherous creep.”
I watch his face move through a variety of emotions—none of which stay put long enough for me to decipher them—before he settles on what is most likely his sheepish “don’t be mad at me” face. “That’s just how I talk to women”—he shrugs—“sorry. I’ll try not to do that to you.”
“So what you’re telling me,” I say as the elevator door opens and we step in, “is that you basically go into every conversation with any woman assuming that she wants to sleep with you?”
“Not to sound conceited or anything, but I’m rarely wrong.”
“Oh my God.” I laugh and look up at the ceiling like I’m praying for patience. Which, in a way, I am. “You are too much.”
“Nah, trust me.” He shakes his head. “I’m just right.”
“You can’t even help it, can you?”
“Help what?”
“The flirting. It’s like . . . your natural state, isn’t it?” I can’t hide how amused I am. But also, I can’t help but wonder why he flirts with anyone who has a set of boobs. Does he really need the constant validation?
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess it is.” It sounds like maybe he’s never stopped and thought about this before. I resist the urge to psychoanalyze the situation with him, because maybe he just needs to stop and think about it himself first.
The elevator dings and the door opens as we arrive on our floor. I’m still focused on our conversation and wondering what would cause Beau to need this constant validation from women when he opens our door and we step inside.
The very first thing that happens is that my eyes track to Winston’s crate, expecting to see him there. It’s only been a few days and I’m already looking for him the moment I walk in the door.
“Oh no,” Beau says, his voice tinged with fear. “What’s wrong?”
I must be grimacing because he’s looking at me like I’m in pain and he’s worried.
“I . . . I expected to see Winston when we walked in.” I can feel my lower lip trembling, so I suck it under my front teeth and hold it steady. I will not cry over a dog who the vet insisted is going to be fine.
“I know,” Beau says, then sighs. “Me too.”
I glance over at him and he seems unusually serious. Melancholy even.
“He’s going to be fine,” I say as I hang my coat on the hook and walk into the apartment.
Then I make the mistake of looking over at the peninsula separating the kitchen from the dining room and living room.
Pieces of the brownies are strewn all over the counter, some sitting in chunks and some smeared across the stone like Winston was trying to lick up every bite he could.
The sob that escapes my lips as I stand at the counter staring at the destruction is unavoidable. I can feel Beau as he steps up behind me. “I can’t believe I did this to him,” I whisper.
“You didn’t do this,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders and giving me a reassuring squeeze. “This is my fault.”
“How could it be? You didn’t make the brownies, and you didn’t feed them to him.”
“He was after the peanut butter.” Beau’s voice is grim.
“And I’m the one who introduced him to peanut butter.
Every time I have some, I share with him.
Of course, when he smelled it, he was going to go after it.
And if I’d put him back in his crate while I was working out, he wouldn’t have gotten up there. ”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, letting myself sink back against him so my shoulder blades rest on his chest. I feel like he’s holding onto me for support right now, just like I’m needing him to support me.
“You can’t blame yourself for that. Why would you crate him when you’re home?
You couldn’t have known he could climb up on the barstool and get to the brownies. ”
“I didn’t. Any more than you knew he’d try to eat them if you made them.
So if I can’t hold myself responsible, neither can you.
” The warmth radiating off his rock-hard chest spreads across my back, warming me in more ways than one.
His physical presence and his reassurance are a comfort, but I’m still not totally able to let go of my guilt. “It was an accident,” he insists.
I stay there, with my shoulders resting on Beau’s chest, while I work on convincing myself that I’m not at fault, that there was no way to know he could get up there and get to the brownies.
When Beau moves his head so his chin nudges the top of my head, I know he’s trying to move me along.
I’ve overstayed my welcome, using his strength to bolster my own.
I set about cleaning up the mess, willing myself to hold it together as I envision Winston like Beau described him: laying on the counter amid the wreckage of the brownies, panting, heart racing. I close my eyes, swallow down those images, and then I keep on cleaning.
Beau’s already thrown away the rest of the brownies in the pan and washed it out when he comes back over to the peninsula. He rests a hand on mine where I’m clutching paper towels and scrubbing at the counter. “Hey,” he says gently, “it’s clean.”
My eyes track across the stone and he’s right. There’s not a sign of the chocolate or peanut butter anywhere. My sigh comes out in stuttered breaths. I don’t know why I’m unable to let go of the guilt. Winston will be fine, I remind myself.
I leave the paper towels sitting on the counter as I walk into the living room, headed for the couch.
But as soon as I step between the couch and the coffee table to sit down, my foot collides with one of Winston’s dog toys, sending it flying across the rug.
Predictably, I crumble onto the couch and dissolve into tears.