Chapter 5 Mila #2
June steers me inside before I can argue, dragging Beau along like he’s a reluctant prop in her matchmaking play.
The house is warm and loud and full of people.
Men in flannel. Women with big smiles. Kids running around with candy canes. A dog that immediately tries to sniff my boots like it’s doing background checks.
Someone shouts Beau’s name. Another person claps him on the shoulder. He nods stiffly, uncomfortable with attention.
But when I step closer—when I hover near him like I’m unsure—Beau’s hand finds my lower back.
Not possessive.
Not forced.
Just… there.
Steady.
Like he’s anchoring me without asking.
My stomach flips.
June watches it happen and looks like she might ascend to heaven.
Dinner is chaos in the best way.
I end up wedged between June and a sweet older woman named Linda who insists I try her casserole “because it’ll change your life.” Across from me sits Dillon—yes, that Dillon—who smirks every time Beau and I accidentally brush knees under the table.
Beau barely talks, but he watches me.
I feel it—his gaze on my face when I laugh, on my hands when I gesture, on my mouth when I take a bite of pot roast.
Like he’s collecting information.
Like he’s memorizing me.
At one point, June leans close and whispers, “He hasn’t looked at a woman like that since… well, ever.”
I nearly choke on a roll.
Beau’s gaze snaps to June. “Stop.”
June beams. “No.”
I try to focus on conversation, but Beau’s knee presses lightly against mine under the table, and it’s like my body becomes a live wire.
I shift, accidentally sliding my leg against his.
Beau goes still.
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
His eyes lock on mine.
The air tightens.
My breath catches and I swear I can feel the moment his restraint kicks in—like a door slamming shut to keep something wilder from getting out.
I swallow. “Sorry.”
Beau’s voice comes out low. “Don’t.”
My pulse leaps. “Don’t what?”
His gaze drops to my mouth again. “Don’t apologize.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
June claps her hands suddenly. “Dessert!”
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for an hour.
After dessert—which is apparently my assigned task, but June made three pies anyway “just in case”—the living room fills with chatter and games.
I’m smiling. I’m laughing. I’m pretending I’m not hyper-aware of Beau’s proximity every second.
Then Beau leans in close, his mouth near my ear.
“I need a minute,” he murmurs. “Come outside.”
My heart stutters. “Outside?”
His hand slides to my waist—firm, careful—and I swear my brain short-circuits.
“Just—come,” he says, voice rough.
I nod like I’m under hypnosis.
We slip out the back door into the cold night, the porch light casting warm gold over the snow. The world is quiet out here, muffled and still.
Beau turns to face me, and the second the door clicks shut behind us, something changes in him.
The calm cracks.
His gaze drags over me like he’s trying to control it and failing.
“Mila,” he says, and my name sounds like a warning.
My breath comes fast. “Beau.”
He steps closer until there’s barely any space between us.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admits, voice low and raw. “All damn week.”
My chest tightens. “Then why didn’t you come back?”
His jaw flexes. “Because if I did, I wasn’t sure I’d leave.”
The words hit like a spark to gasoline.
I swallow hard, suddenly brave. “Maybe you don’t have to.”
Beau’s eyes flash—heat, need, something hungry.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb stroking lightly over my cheek like he can’t help it.
“You say that,” he murmurs, “like you don’t realize what you’re asking.”
I lean into his touch because I can’t not. “I know exactly what I’m asking.”
Beau’s breath shudders.
Then he kisses me.
Harder than the first time.
Like he’s been holding back and it’s finally costing him too much.
My hands fly to his jacket, fisting the fabric as I melt into him. He grips my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the full force of how much he wants this—wants me—through every tense line of his body.
I make a sound I don’t recognize, something soft and desperate.
Beau groans low in his throat like it hurts.
His mouth moves against mine—slow, deep, claiming—like he’s trying to learn me by taste. His thumb slides under my chin, tilting my face so he can kiss me better, deeper, until my knees go weak and I have to lean into him to stay upright.
“Beau,” I breathe against his mouth, dizzy.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his lips along my jaw, warm against chilled skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs again, but this time it sounds less like a choice and more like a prayer.
I clutch his jacket. “Don’t.”
His arms tighten around me.
One hand slips under my coat, spanning my lower back. His palm is hot even through the sweater dress, and when he presses me closer, I swear every nerve in my body wakes up and starts screaming.
I tip my head back slightly, breath catching.
Beau’s mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath my ear, and I shiver so hard it borders on a gasp.
He stills instantly.
His head lifts. His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and heated. “You okay?”
The fact that he checks—even now—makes something in my chest go soft.
“Yes,” I whisper. “More than okay.”
His gaze darkens like that answer hits him somewhere deep.
He leans in again, slower, and kisses me like he’s savoring—like he’s trying to give himself permission.
My fingers slide up his neck beneath his beanie, finding warm skin. Beau’s breath stutters, and his hands grip my waist like he’s anchoring himself.
I press closer, and Beau’s control cracks again—his kiss turning hungry, his body pressing me back until my shoulder blades brush the porch post, snowflakes drifting down around us like we’re trapped inside a romantic snow globe built specifically to ruin my life.
His hand slides up my side, under my coat, thumb stroking the curve of my waist. I gasp softly into his mouth.
Beau swears under his breath—rough, shaken.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me.
His eyes are wild. His voice is low. “If I take you home tonight…”
My breath catches. “Yes.”
Beau’s jaw tightens like he’s fighting himself. “Mila—”
I reach up and kiss him again, shorter, firmer. “Yes.”
Beau closes his eyes like that one word hits him like a punch.
When he opens them, his gaze is all heat and decision.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Okay.”
A sharp whistle cuts through the night.
We both freeze.
The back door swings open and June leans out, grinning like a villain. “Y’all better not be making out on my porch like teenagers! Come back inside before I get the hose!”
I jerk, mortified.
Beau stares at June with pure, murderous exhaustion. “Grandma.”
June’s smile widens. “Don’t ‘Grandma’ me. I’m thrilled.”
Beau leans close to my ear, voice low and lethal. “She’s going to be the death of me.”
I laugh—breathless, flushed, a little wrecked.
Beau’s hand squeezes my waist once, a silent promise.
Then he murmurs, so only I can hear, “We’re not done.”
And the way he says it makes my whole body light up—because for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to run from wanting.
I want to lean into it.
I want him.
And judging by the way Beau looks at me—like I’m something he’s finally ready to claim—
He wants me too.