Chapter 2
two
HANNAH
PRESENT DAY
I stood in the kitchen, looking at Beau’s back.
It was an impressive back. Broad. Muscular, strong. I’d marveled at it many times because Beau gave me a view of his back more than his front. Because he didn’t like facing me, looking at me, or talking to me.
Our interactions were about Clara, her schedule, and his schedule.
And whatever I’d done wrong that day. Which could be anything from keeping the screen door unlocked while we were inside playing to jumping on the trampoline.
Or if I hadn’t given her her cold-pressed juice—which happened once—or if I’d let her bike for too long in the sun.
Most of the things I did “wrong” didn’t make sense in my mind. Kids thrived in the sun—wearing the proper protection—an unlocked screen door didn’t seem like an issue, and missing a single green juice didn’t signal catastrophe.
But I forced myself to accept his reprimands, silently listening and apologizing. Because I was used to someone, especially men, listing my faults, telling me I was inadequate. Beau was walking well-worn asshole pathways that had already formed deep grooves in my psyche.
It tested me—my healing.
I’d done a heck of a lot of work, telling myself all the things Waylon said to me were wrong. That all the things my mother said were incorrect. About me being stupid, lazy, unworthy, flaky, and ditzy. About me lacking.
I’d told myself that they were unhappy, toxic people who wanted to bring me down to their level.
I’d done kind of well at rebuilding my self-worth. Or at least I’d thought I had. Beau Shaw was really putting that house of cards to the test. Every day, one fluttered down, and I wondered if my mother and Waylon were right.
Beau was objectively an asshole. To me.
But he was a great dad.
He had a brother and a father who seemed to respect him too, both warm, good people.
He had a successful business. He had a steadiness to him that made me think of a lighthouse in a storm. Or an old British castle, still whole after regimes collapsing and empires falling. That was Beau. He’d remain standing. He’d endure.
I told myself I hated him, but the information I had gathered about his life demonstrated that he might be a halfway decent person—even if he was an asshole to me for reasons unknown.
So maybe his opinion of me was well-founded. Maybe I was useless.
I rubbed my bare arms, even though the temperature in the kitchen stayed toasty as the mornings grew colder.
I appreciated that. Not having to wear a coat inside in the winter because our heat had been shut off again.
I appreciated the coffee machine and the bathroom—which I had all to myself with good water pressure and no black mold on the ceiling.
I enjoyed the comfortable mattress, expensive sheets.
The sleepy street Clara and I could ride bikes down and the bakery with amazing croissants that was just five minutes away.
The sprawling backyard we had just finished planting bulbs in.
The flowers we’d planted in the early days of her isolation still vibrant, the ocean a short drive away.
It was a home.
Not mine.
But I would enjoy the creature comforts as long as I could.
Even though I had to tiptoe around Beau. That was mostly bearable when Clara was around as a buffer. But times like this, quiet mornings when she was still sleeping and my body demanded coffee?
Torture.
The first month, I’d taken to hiding in my room until Clara woke and it was safe.
But I’d forced myself to get up more recently, irritation giving me strength.
I deserved to be able to get up to get a coffee, be in another adult’s presence without dissolving into a bundle of nerves.
I’d been reading books about reclaiming my power.
Getting up and forcing myself to be around Beau was one of the things I needed to do.
I sucked in what I hoped would be a fortifying breath. He definitely knew I was standing here. I didn’t lumber around, but I’d seen his shoulders tense as I entered, his hand freezing for a moment. How he knew I was there without turning around was a mystery. Asshole powers?
“Good morning.” I forced myself to sound cheerful and warm. That was how you dealt with angry men. Over-the-top niceness, pleasantness. Give them nothing to home in on.
He hunched over the coffee machine just a little at my words, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically as he took a visible breath.
My stomach churned as I wrung my hands. What was so offensive about wishing someone good morning?
I’d made a point to soften my voice, not be too loud, not too grating. Even. Agreeable.
Clearly, that didn’t matter much when it came to Beau Shaw. Everything I did enraged him.
“Morning,” he finally barked, turning slowly.
I stood rooted in place as his eyes darted over my body before quickly flitting away. Though the look was fleeting, I felt fire in its wake. He pushed from the coffee machine, stomping to the fridge then all but hurling it open, obscuring my view of him.
I looked down.
I was wearing a light pink sleep set. Maybe I should’ve gotten fully dressed before leaving my room. But I was wearing a tank and jersey pants. I’d put on a bra and cardigan. I wasn’t brave enough to walk around my employer’s home braless.
My hair was piled messily on top of my head. I wasn’t wearing makeup. I had brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and slathered on some cheap moisturizer.
I didn’t look amazing, but I knew I looked halfway decent, no morning breath, my hair not a bird’s nest. No skin on display.
What about me was offensive to Beau Shaw was anyone’s guess. And I was done guessing. I was done giving him my time and energy. Get through the rest of the year, save money, savor every moment with Clara, then leave. That was the mission. And not let Beau get to me.
I pulled back my shoulders, then started my journey to the coffee machine. Just as Beau closed the fridge door with an armful of ingredients.
He hadn’t seen me, or he’d been trying hard not to look at me. I hadn’t seen him because I was trying to pretend he didn’t exist and had been zeroed in on caffeine.
We collided.
Everything in his arms fell to the floor as he steadied me, his hands on my hips to stop me from flying backward.
My heart rate instantly spiked in response to the collision, the grip of his large, strong hands.
My skin burned underneath the thin fabric of my pants.
When I inhaled, I discovered Beau smelled like soap and coffee.
Simple. Masculine. Infinitely appealing.
His hands seemed so big, splayed across my hips, warm, exuding just the right amount of pressure, denoting the strength inside him.
We’d never been this close before, never touched. And though he made me feel more unsteady than any other man had in my life, standing there, feeling his warmth, his hands on my hips, I’d never felt more anchored to the earth.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted, realizing that we were standing in a mess.
Beau’s hands squeezed my hips in a delicious pulse that I felt in between my legs before he stepped back from me like I was contagious.
His head went down to the disarray at my bare feet.
My pink-tipped toes were now covered in milk and egg yolk.
“Fuck,” he hissed, sounding enraged.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, crouching down to my knees at the same time he did, grasping to pile eggshells back into the carton.
Our hands brushed.
Another spark ignited between my legs.
I looked at him from beneath my lashes, our eyes locking.
My breathing quickened, seeing the ferocity in his gaze, the flared nostrils. He was angry, yes. But that wasn’t what made my lungs burn. It was there again. That hunger I told myself I’d imagined at Calliope and Elliot’s wedding.
The way he’d looked at me, like he wanted me.
Like he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
My entire body erupted in flames, and I found it hard to take a deep breath.
“Get up,” he growled, eyes shuttering as he focused on the floor. “Get yourself cleaned up before Clara wakes up. And put on a fucking bra.”
My skin cooled as if icy water had been poured on me. Proverbially, it had. At Beau’s cruel tone and equally cruel gaze.
I jumped up, hands going to my chest, where my nipples were indeed pressing through my non-padded bra and my thin camisole.
Mortified, cheeks flaming, tears creeping from my eyes, I practically ran from the room.
I imagined it. Beau Shaw did not want me.
And I did not want him. I could not want a man capable of speaking to me with such coldness. I’d never want a man whose words were the reason for my tears. Never again.
I just had to survive these next several months.
I’d been through much worse.
I could survive Beau Shaw.
By the time I’d put on a bra that had sufficient padding—which made my already ample breasts look larger—splashed more water on my face, brushed my hair, and put on jeans and a tee shirt, I was brave enough to face Beau again.
I was only brave enough because I heard Clara was up. My angelic buffer. I truly enjoyed her company. I missed her once she’d gone to bed and during the brief occasions when she was able to visit with her family.
That was how quickly I’d become attached—likely too attached—to Clara Shaw.
We spent all our time together. Especially while quarantined after her bone marrow transplant.
Beau was there, hovering and ever present, especially at the beginning.
But with most of his focus on Clara, and his respect for my medical training—enough to trust me with caring for her and eventually leaving for longer periods, once it was clear she was responding well and getting better—he’d almost been bearable.