Chapter 11
It takes fifteen minutes to corral Beau to our room. As one leg moves in the right direction, his other rebels and almost topples us. I use his elbow and belt loop for leverage. He smells like dirt, bourbon, and his new girlfriend’s perfume.
I prop Beau against the wall while I fiddle with the key, and he tumbles through the threshold once I wrangle it open. He sinks against the closet, sliding until he’s seated.
“I need to get you to bed,” I say.
He gives me a thumbs-up and flashes a lethargic smile but doesn’t move. “You know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?”
I laugh. “You should save that line for someone you actually want to seduce, Cowboy.”
I squat and wrap my hands under his shoulders, heaving him up and coaxing him across the room until he lands on the mattress and curls into a ball.
“No sleeping yet. Concussion protocol. You hit your head when you fell. Come here.” I tug on his hip and get him propped on the pillows. I use my cell as a flashlight and look into his eyes.
He bats me away with both hands.
“I need to look at your eyes. I watched Arthur do this after you fell from the tree house.”
He circles my wrist in his palm, and I drop my phone. His hand dwarfs mine—and the brush of his fingertips against the pulse point of my wrist makes me shiver. His eyes find mine, and my arousal dissipates when he asks, “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
I hesitate but offer a tepid “Your pupils need to contract at the light—or something.” He doesn’t argue. So, either he doesn’t know, or I’m right. His eyes look normal—other than bloodshot.
“Don’t fall asleep,” I order.
He releases a sound that might be a laugh and closes his eyes.
“Awake, Beauregard,” I scold again, and he salutes, widening his eyes like a child trying to stay awake on New Year’s Eve.
I run a few washrags under hot water in the bathroom and return to dab at his mouth. I tug gently on his lip to assess the damage. There’s an angry wound on the inside of his bottom lip; he must have bitten it on the way off the bull.
“How are your teeth? Any loose?”
Beau pinches each tooth between his thumb and forefinger and tugs, wincing as his finger glides over the cut. “Nope.”
“Good. Your parents paid a lot of money for those perfect teeth.” I hand him a bottle of water and a cup. “Rinse.”
He takes a tentative sip.
“Spit. Don’t swallow.” I hold the empty cup under his chin.
He chuckles, repeating, “Spit, don’t swallow,” as the blood-tinged water spurts into the cup.
“Nice juvenile sense of humor. Good to see alcohol makes you less uptight.” I wipe his chin. The bleeding has stopped, so I turn my attention to the gash on his shoulder. His shirt is torn, but the scratch is superficial. “Okay. Can you take this off? I need to clean your shoulder.”
His smile is a tease as he tugs on the hem—it’s surprisingly playful and seductive. He struggles a few times but grabs hold, sliding the shirt up before it gets caught on his head.
“Smooth.” I slide onto my knees in front of him to help remove it without aggravating his injuries. Beau falls back onto the pillows, exhausted by the small effort.
I am a lecherous jerk for noticing in his current state, but holy hell, Beau is beautiful. Adulthood has been kind to him—and his abdominals, lats, and shoulders. There’s a landscape of smooth, tan skin spread out before me, and I want to explore every inch of his topography.
“Phe,” he sing-songs, “you’re staring at me.”
“Am not,” I say as I drag my eyes away from his clavicles, which look like crowbars atop his broad chest. “Just checking you for injuries.”
He laughs and lolls his head to the side. “Sure.”
“You’re cocky when you’re drunk,” I hiss while I swipe a wet washrag over the long scratch on his shoulder.
“You’re attentive when I’m half naked.”
I steer my focus away from the even expanse of silken skin and shake my head. “Where’d you get those, anyway?” I ask, gesturing to his six-pack.
Beau grunts, “Where? What?” He looks down abruptly, as if he’s never looked in a mirror. It makes the muscles flex.
“You’re a brain, Beauregard. You’re not supposed to have a body, too.”
He makes a sound like “pfft” that I’m not sure how to interpret, until he says, “How evolved of you. I’d never insult your intellect because you have that body.”
I scoff. “You insult my intellect all the time.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.” I hold his gaze, and he looks confused before closing his eyes.
“Do you have a first-aid kit?” I ask.
“In the car,” he says.
Of course.
I find makeup-removal pads and a hair scarf in my toiletry bag and make a crude bandage that I hope will keep the cut clean for the night. “I’m a regular Flora Nightingale.”
“Florence Nightingale.”
“Whatever, Professor. All those degrees didn’t teach you to avoid a mechanical bull while drunk off your ass.”
He sighs and closes his eyes. “I always fall for the wrong women.”
I finish wrapping the scarf around his shoulder and tie it off with a makeshift knot, settling beside him on the bed. “Oh, I don’t know. The cowgirl was cute.”
He opens one eye in a skeptical glance that looks more like sober Beau instead of sloshed Beau.
“This is like our old slumber parties in the tree house,” he mumbles.
“Plus alcohol and head injuries.” And more nakedness, muscles, and tan skin.
He sighs, throwing his head back on the pillow until his throat is bared to me.
I riffle through my purse on the nightstand and find a bottle of Advil.
“Here.” I hold two pills above his palm, but he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. So, maybe not sober. “You might be hurting tomorrow.”
“I’m fine.” He spills the water down his chest as he swallows the pills, and I wipe it up with the washrag.
His eyes follow the movement before he lays his hand over mine, trapping it between his chest and palm.
His skin is burning through the cotton of the cloth, and I feel the filtered contact everywhere. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Anytime.” I try to pull back, but he resists and pulls me closer until I’m hovering over him, and it’s taking every ounce of my restraint—and dignity—not to slither against his naked skin and find a home there.
“I was a dick about the keys. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was totally my fault. Maybe you do have a concussion.” My words come out breathy as I lean over him, and he reclines like a Calvin Klein model—every hard-bodied inch of him exposed but untouchable.
“You didn’t know.” He finally releases me, curling into the fetal position until his warm, taut body bends around where I sit on the edge of the bed. I try not to stare at the way his oblique muscles bunch in that position. I want to touch them to see if they are as firm as they look.
“Didn’t know what?”
“It’s better this way. I should have tossed it myself a long time ago.”
“What are you babbling about, Professor?” I try to focus on the conversation, but he’s almost naked and so close to me.
“My wedding ring.”
“All right, you’re delirious. Time for sleep.”
Beau yawns and inches closer and drapes a solid, warm arm around my waist, his eyelids heavy.
He has a fat lip and a pale bruise blooming on the bridge of his nose under his glasses, and now he’s disoriented.
I’ll need to wake him in a bit to ensure he’s responsive.
Binge drinking and head injuries cannot be a healthy combination.
But then I stumble back through his last drunken comments, piecing them together. Is he confused, or confessing? “Beau, shit, was your wedding ring on that key chain?”
“Affirmative,” he says through a yawn.
I duck and brush his hair away from his eyes. “Oh no. Beau, I’m so sorry. I’ll go back tomorrow. I’ll find it.” Fuck. No wonder he was so upset. But who does that? Who puts their wedding ring on a key chain?
“It’s the last sad relic of my marriage—and my therapist says I get too attached to things.
” Beau tugs at my waist and pulls me until my back is against the headboard.
He rests his head in my lap, closes his eyes, and sighs.
I hold my breath and remind myself that he wouldn’t touch me if he weren’t drunk.
But it’s hard to remember that when he’s shirtless and holding on to me like I’m a life preserver.
And yeah, he’s really fucking hot.
I cross my arms over my chest, resisting the urge to caress the broad expanse of his back, melt into the affection, and acknowledge how good it feels for him to touch me.
“It’s like when my mom cleaned out my room and donated that Matchbox car you gave me. I didn’t speak to her for a week, even though I knew I was too old to play with it—just like I’m not going to wear that ring. Better to toss things that remind me about what I can’t have.”