Chapter 13
thirteen
HANNAH
Rain pounded on the windows. My tea was steaming hot. I was getting to the good part in my book. Enemies were about to become lovers.
I’d gone back on my plan to stop reading romance books, devouring them with more desperation than ever. Reading them was the only way I could channel this … feeling. This tension coiled in my body, pulled tauter since Halloween.
Cole had sent me a package not long after he left. There were gifts for Clara—all sorts of cool things from the museum, like a fossil that looked too real to be from the gift shop. Then there was a separate package with a note reading, “Open in private.”
In the immaculate box was silk lingerie and a vibrator, along with some very expensive looking skincare and body products.
Heat had flushed through my body just looking at it, despite being alone in my room.
I yanked out my phone, closing the door to my room as I tapped on Cole’s contact.
“You got me lingerie and a vibrator?” I whisper-yelled at him, eyes darting to the door again.
“You’re welcome,” Cole returned, sounding smug.
“I do not need a vibrator or silk that feels like it costs more than my rent.” I rubbed the nightgown in between my fingers. It was buttery, luxurious, womanly. I’d always wanted to wear expensive nightwear, to spoil myself that way. But that was an indulgence I could never justify.
“You don’t pay rent,” Cole countered sassily. “And if you did, it would most definitely be more.”
“It’s too much, then,” I groaned. “And completely inappropriate.”
I’d always been a little prudish about sexuality, embarrassed by my own desires and never validated or given a safe space to explore them.
Cole, on the other hand, had always been the opposite. Despite growing up in a backward small town where his sexuality put a target on his back.
Especially by his own, deeply homophobic and evil father.
Cole never shrank, never cut himself down, didn’t let it tarnish him.
One of the many, many things I admired about him.
“Girlfriend, I’m no longer the trailer park boy without two pennies to rub together,” he scoffed.
“I have more than I know what to do with.” He hummed, silent for a moment.
“That’s a lie. I know what to do with all of my money and that’s treat myself.
Which you never do. So it’s my job to do it for you. Until another man takes up the helm.”
I scowled. “I thought you were more progressive than that,” I snapped. “I don’t need a man to treat me to anything.”
“You do,” he argued. “Since you never treat yourself and trying to convince you to do so would be much harder than finding a worthy man to do it for you. Maybe even the man you’re living with. You fuck him yet?” he asked conversationally.
My eyes bugged out, my eyes rushing to the door again, as if Beau had his ear pressed up against it. He had better things to do.
“No!” I whisper-yelled. “That is absolutely not going to happen.” My body prickled with unease and need just thinking about it.
“Right,” Cole sighed. “The lingerie was a gift for you—because you don’t need to wear it for anyone but yourself. Though the less progressive version of me was hoping you could wear it for a hot single dad, absolutely desperate for you…”
My heart rate doubled at the mere thought of wearing the silk for Beau…
Nope. Never going to happen.
“Cole—"
“But…” he continued. “The vibrator was the main gift since I had an inkling you hadn’t fucked him yet, and you were about to burst from the female equivalent of blue balls. I’m sure you’re making things work the old-fashioned way, but that is the Porsche of vibrators. So I’m told, at least.”
I was about to open my mouth to argue with him further, but he didn’t give me the opportunity.
“Got to go,” he said. “Fuck the hot single dad. If not, use the vibrator.”
Then he hung up, leaving me staring at a vibrator that did indeed look sleek, interesting, and expensive.
I shook my head, shoving it away in a drawer.
Until that night, when I was unable to sleep, frustrated, tense, and … horny.
Then I used the vibrator.
It was the Porsche of vibrators.
I thought of Beau as I used it, which was totally wrong and inappropriate. Using it with him sleeping down the hall made it all the more sordid and exciting.
And afterward, I never slept better.
Despite feeling a wisp of embarrassment while entering the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, the vibrator worked to take the edge off the worst of my sexual frustration.
Not all of it, though.
And the next night was even worse. I couldn’t relax.
Beau was late. Later than he usually was.
Not that he kept strict hours, they varied.
Sometimes he left before the kitchen closed, but that was rare.
He usually stayed until the kitchen and the bar were closed.
It was torture, never knowing when he’d be home.
Not knowing when I could breathe again. Because even though Beau’s nearness made my hormones go haywire, I never felt completely safe until he was home.
It was after midnight. The rain had gotten heavier, thunder so loud it rattled the panes of the windows.
My jaw hurt from how tight I was holding in my worry. Panic.
What if he’d gotten into a crash? Perhaps his car was in a ditch somewhere, and there was no one to miss him until tomorrow morning? Except me. And I didn’t. Miss him. Didn’t miss his quiet, bursting, menacing presence. Nope.
But worry formed a knot in my stomach as I read over the same line of my book at least ten times. Who did I call if he didn’t come home? His father? Elliot? But maybe he wasn’t coming home on purpose. He could be with a woman.
The very thought had bile singeing the back of my throat.
What if I panicked about him being dead and made a big scene by calling his family when he was just getting laid?
But Beau would’ve told me if he was going to be gone the entire night. Surely.
I paced back and forth, worrying and fuming in equal measures. How dare he make me worry like this. How dare I care so much about the man.
I exhaled in relief when his lights illuminated the driveway. Not dead in a ditch. Just late. He was allowed to be late. Maybe there was a fire in the kitchen. Whatever the reason, it was not for me to know. I didn’t ask questions. Not about him. That wasn’t in my job description.
It was time for me to scuttle off before we had another awkward interaction, loaded with all the lines we’d crossed then retreated behind in the past few months. But the knot in my stomach hadn’t unwound. My body was still tense, a feeling of wrongness creeping up my spine.
There was no reason for the feeling. Yet I stayed. On the couch. For no other reason than I wanted to lay eyes on Beau, to make sure he was okay.
For Clara’s benefit. That was it.
The door opened and closed, the rain pounding as loud as my heart. Boots thumped on the floor, then Beau took up what looked like the entire doorframe.
My heart dropped the moment I saw him. Something was wrong.
I knew Beau. Had memorized every expression on his face, had come to understand how a simple furrow between his brows meant worry.
How when his eyes went far away they were thinking of Clara in a hospital bed.
I even knew the all-encompassing hunger that shrouded his gaze when he lost control and looked at me.
But his face was painted with an expression I’d never seen on it. Grief. Fear. A mix of them both, maybe. I couldn’t quite understand it, but it terrified me.
I leapt off the couch, rushing over to him.
He watched me, but with a vacant stare in his eyes. No menace. No irritation. No, he was looking at me like I was … an anchor.
“Beau,” I whispered. “You’re soaking wet.”
He was still wearing his coat. Water was beading from his hair, his beard, dropping delicately onto the floor.
His boots were ringed with a small puddle.
Even that small detail signaled that something was very wrong.
Beau never wore his boots inside. No one did.
It was a rule about germs. He was militant about it.
Without realizing what I was doing, I brushed the wet hair from Beau’s face. He was ice-cold. When he flinched at my touch, I was about to jerk my hand away, preparing for some kind of sharp insult or reprimand.
But, in a blur, he lifted his arm, circling my wrist in a tight grasp. My skin tingled. He pressed my hand to his jaw, into the rough, wet hair of his beard. He even leaned into it.
His hand was freezing, his eyes still gaping chasms of grief, pain.
We stayed there. Him dripping, breathing heavily, his eyes terribly empty, plastered on me. And he wasn’t just seeing me. It felt as if he were latching onto me so he didn’t … drift away.
“Beau,” I whispered, my hand still on his cheek. “What happened?”
It was bad. Whatever happened was bad. For him to let me touch him. For him to need me to touch him, if the strength of his grip was anything to go by.
My wrist was beginning to sting, bordering on painful. There would be a bruise there tomorrow.
But I didn’t try to move my hand.
Beau didn’t answer me straight away. He kept breathing, holding on to me. “Calliope,” he finally rasped.
My heartbeat stuttered, and my throat closed.
I didn’t know Calliope well, but I liked her.
She was the reason I had been welcomed into the group of women here in Jupiter.
Elliot was in love with her, their father adored her.
She was Clara’s favorite aunt—even if she was her only aunt as Beau repeatedly pointed out. Clara was besotted with her.
I wanted to ask questions. A lot of them, but I didn’t want to press Beau when he was like this. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stayed where I was, cupping his jaw.