Chapter 19
nineteen
HANNAH
“Gonna need you to work tonight.”
I looked up from where I’d been knitting Clara a scarf. I’d already made her a hat. Made Nora’s new baby booties. And I’d gotten requests from all the Jupiter Tides moms for beanies once they saw what I’d made for Clara and Nora.
I looked up at Beau, who was standing as far away from the entrance to my room as humanly possible, as if stepping over the threshold would make him catch something. I’d held his hand in a quiet moment last night. But it could’ve been a dream, for all his expression was showing.
“Do you mean can I work tonight?” I replied, putting my knitting down. I spoke sharper than I ever had with Beau.
But there was a bottleneck of emotions gurgling inside of me that had me on the edge of exploding.
Yes, I was actually officially divorced from Waylon.
Yes, there was a light at the end of that godforsaken tunnel.
That should’ve made me happy. But happiness was a simple emotion that I’d been unable to achieve without the complexities of my past and present tainting it.
I was still ashamed that Beau witnessed all of my failing, that he’d had to swoop in to save me.
I was mad at myself for longing for such a physically and emotionally unavailable man, for reading into every unique look, every nonabrasive word he uttered to me, only to find him reverting back to his bad behavior all over again.
I was pissed. Scared. Sad. Angry. And I was sick to death over finding ways to make myself agreeable.
Beau studied me, having listened to my snarky response without a change in his expression.
But then his brows furrowed slightly, and he opened his mouth as if to say something before closing it again and clearing his throat.
My hands gripped my knitting needles, not because I wanted to stab him with them or anything, but because my level of frustration was soaring. How would I continue this strange dance with him? How could I ever leave?
“Can you work tonight?” The question came through gritted teeth.
I wanted to tell him no, that I had plans, that I was a busy, in-demand young woman.
Except I wasn’t. And I couldn’t lie because I lived with him.
Unless I really wanted to commit to the bit, get dressed up, hang out at the local bar …
alone. Maybe get hit on by some drunk guy if I were lucky, get ignored by the world at large if I wasn’t.
The mere thought had my throat tightening.
I wasn’t the woman at the bar who got showered with attention.
Though I’d never actually hung out at a bar alone, I wasn’t going to start tonight.
“Yes.” I put down the needles. “Of course, I can work tonight.”
“Clara and I will have an inside dinner-time picnic,” I decided. “We’ll bundle up and look at the stars.”
She stargazed every night. Mostly with Beau, but on the nights he was working, I got to be there. Watching the stars, even with the crisp wind biting through my clothes, was one of my favorite things in the world.
Especially since the wind no longer whistled through my expensive new coat.
Beau nodded in response. “I’ll get dinner and dessert organized for you two before I leave.”
I shook my head. “I know I’m no chef, but I can throw together a dinner picnic and dessert. I’ll stick to your ingredient rules.” I’d memorized what Clara couldn’t have by then—food dyes, high fructose corn syrup, and seed oils. Only organic, grass-fed, pasture-raised.
Beau’s features didn’t change, his eyes remaining on me. “I’ll do it.”
Again, I normally would’ve conceded, especially considering Beau’s harsh tone. But I wasn’t feeling submissive.
I stood up, pulling my shirt down when I realized my knit sweater had ridden up to expose my midsection.
It only flashed for a second, and it wasn’t an unseemly sliver of sin.
Plenty of women my age showed that much or more on a regular basis, in public.
But the way Beau’s eyes traveled to that small area made it feel decidedly inappropriate.
My body tensed. Need coiled in my stomach, forbidden, wrong. Tawdry. Which made it more desirable. Which made him all the more desirable. If such a thing were possible.
“You cook all day at the restaurant.” I cleared my own throat, trying to banish my feelings. “I’ll take care of dinner.” My voice had a husk to it that I didn’t entirely recognize, as though I’d meant to say, “I’ll take care of you.”
Because I wanted to. Take care of him. Yes, maybe in all the sexually explicit ways I imagined in the dark of night.
But not just that. I wanted to feed him, rub his shoulders, be the person he could talk to and lower his walls with.
I wanted to be the person he could be vulnerable with.
I wanted to keep my hand on his thigh for more than five seconds while we were driving.
Beau’s body straightened, scrubbing a hand along his jaw.
A visible reaction. One that told me my tone affected him.
I affected him. I’d been collecting moments like this, looks like this, to reinforce my theory that there was something between us.
My collection of moments tipped that theory to almost certainty.
But then his features turned harsh, as was his default. “I’m not working tonight.”
“Where are you going, then?” I probed.
Beau didn’t have a social life to speak of. I’d never once witnessed him grab a drink with friends, beyond Elliot or his father coming over and forcing him to relax with exactly one beer. Maybe a whisky.
The only time he was willingly away from Clara was for the restaurant, and that took up a lot of his time.
I waited for him to tell me it was none of my business, be cruel or rude. I welcomed it. Suddenly, I wanted a fight with Beau.
Anything to make me feel like something other than a victim. And Beau deserved a hefty amount of the fire that I felt like breathing in his direction.
He considered me, surely reading my flared nostrils, my arms folded across my chest, and the rapid rise and fall of that chest.
I was daring him. To fight me.
“A date. I’m going on a date.”
All the fight ran out of me. My heart stopped working, my fingers going numb.
A date.
Beau was going on a date.
And he was simply there asking me to do my job—to essentially babysit his daughter. Because that was all I was to him. A glorified babysitter.
Embarrassingly, my eyes filled with tears. Shame nipped at my skin, though I refused to look away from Beau. I couldn’t.
I just stared at him. Like a lovesick fool.
Beau stared back at me, definitely noting my tear-filled eyes because it was impossible not to. His features flickered for a second, softening as he visibly swallowed.
Then he turned his back on me.
Like I was nothing.
Nothing but the nanny.
BEAU
I made a mistake.
A big fucking mistake.
Well, I’d made plenty of big fucking mistakes in my life. Not making Naomi sign a prenup was one of them. I still felt the sting of her taking almost all of my savings, the only viable option because the alternative was to give her half of my share of the restaurant.
I could never say marrying her in the first place was a mistake, because then I wouldn’t have Clara.
Since becoming a parent, I’d made a bunch of mistakes. Not packing a change of clothes in the diaper bag, not buckling Clara into her high chair. Not being alarmed enough by a small, dime-sized bruise on my daughter’s stomach.
Yeah, I’d made plenty of mistakes as a father.
But going on this date trumped them all. Except the bruise.
Could I bring myself to think that hiring Hannah in the first place was a mistake?
I thought of my daughter’s smile, the laughter, and warmth in our house since her arrival.
The way Clara’s eyes had lit up when I brought out her cake, the cake Hannah made her.
I thought of fairy gardens, picnics, fresh flowers, and music.
I thought of handmade Christmas decorations. Chocolate brownie batter on the edge of her mouth.
I thought of rooms that smelled of her.
Her long, tanned legs. I thought of the hope in her eyes when she walked out of Marty’s office, the weight lifting off her shoulders that I’d been too self-centered to even notice she was carrying.
No. Even though hiring Hannah had caused me a great deal of pain, sleepless nights, and overall discomfort being in my own home, I couldn’t say it was a mistake. I would never say that was a mistake.
It was a gift to have her in my life. To witness the beauty of who she was. Her kindness. Her imagination. Her intelligence. All a gift.
My mistake was going on this fucking date and having to see Hannah’s eyes fill with tears, her delicate features curling in pain.
Because of me. I did that. I hurt her.
Not just today.
But almost every day since I’d met her, I’d hurt her.
By trying to make myself not want her and trying to make her hate me—as if that were easier—I’d hurt her.
She was soft, loving, gentle, and never fought back.
Yet I’d kept hurting her. It was bad enough when I didn’t know her past, it was still inexcusable then.
But finding out what she’d been married to, seeing those bruises blooming on her delicate skin, knowing it was not the first time a man had marked her… it made me sick.
I’d been able to live with it up until then, telling myself it was for the best, for the greater good.
To ensure that she didn’t have any romantic notions about me.
This was my backup plan if my willpower ever failed me, if I ever crossed a line by trying to come on to her.
To taste her rosebud lips, palm her heart-shaped ass—
“Beau?”
I blinked. The woman seated across from me had a crease between her brows, head tilted to the side in question. Her long blonde hair was curled, wild, her face accentuated by heavy makeup. She wore a dress that was classy but still showcased a curvy body, great tits.
One of the servers at the restaurant had been trying to set me up with her sister for months. She was determined, and apparently, not scared of me. I’d utilized the number she gave me out of fucking desperation, after the moment with Hannah at the wedding.
Her hand on my thigh, her body in that dress.
“Yeah, I agree.” I cleared my throat, gambling that whatever she’d asked me was a question.
She was nice. My age. Divorced. No children. Interior designer. Polite to waiters. Allergic to gluten. I couldn’t remember her name.
Her smile dimmed. “I was asking what you wanted for dessert.”
Fuck.
I rubbed the back of my neck and took a sip of my water, wishing it were whisky. But I only had one when I knew I’d be driving. No way in fuck would I jeopardize Clara’s future by drinking and driving. No way would I miss Clara’s future. Not for anything.
“Sorry.” I genuinely meant it. It was an asshole thing to do, taking a woman on a date who I was essentially using to hurt the woman I really wanted. Then, on top of that, not having the decency to listen to her on the date I had no intention of repeating.
“It’s okay,” she replied warmly. “Dating is hard, I get it. And I know you’ve had a difficult few years. This is your first time on a date since…?”
“Since I was married.” I sighed.
Not that Naomi’s and my dates were enjoyable after Clara was born.
She had to convince me to leave Clara, usually by using tears, dramatics, and ultimatums. I would reluctantly go while my dad watched Clara, only halfway listening to Naomi, pushing her away as she tried to give me a hand job under the table so I could check the baby monitor.
I hadn’t wanted to leave my daughter. And those “dates” had made it unavoidable to realize that I truly disliked my wife. Those “dates” had led me to decide to file for divorce.
“Wow.” The woman—fuck, I wished I could remember her name—sipped her wine.
“Yeah.” I shrugged.
“Are you ready to date?” she asked, peering at me as if she already knew the answer.
“No,” I answered honestly, though without the clarification that I wasn’t ready to date anyone but the five foot five, auburn-haired nanny currently living with me.
“I get it.” She smiled again, this time sadder. Once again, I felt a stab of guilt for being an asshole. “It took me three years after my divorce to properly get out there. And I’m still here.” She waved at her torso. “It’s hard.”
I nodded again, feeling like a piece of shit.
“Well, we can always have dessert at my place?” She chewed on her lip.
“No strings. And I’m not saying that and secretly thinking otherwise.
Truly, no strings. It can be lonely after a divorce.
Not being emotionally ready but physically…
” She didn’t finish the sentence, her cheeks coloring.
But she didn’t look down, confidently proposing no-strings sex.
I liked that. Appreciated it. If I’d never met Hannah, it might’ve turned me on. A self-assured, straight-shooting, attractive woman.
But my cock didn’t so much as twitch.
I considered taking her up on her offer anyway.
My cock would eventually wake up. I wasn’t dead.
And it had been a long fucking while since I’d taken anyone to bed.
But that crossed lines even I wasn’t willing to cross.
It would be using this woman. It would completely erase any possibility of Hannah.
The possibility that I told myself didn’t exist.
It would be betraying her.
Even though we weren’t together.
She was my nanny.
I was her employer.
I could fuck whomever I wanted.
And maybe fucking another woman would rid me of this obsession once and for all.