Chapter 12
Beau sleeps the whole way to Santa Barbara, flinching when I hit a pothole or turn a corner.
He was monosyllabic and surly when the locksmith called this morning, waking us both from where we slept entangled in each other.
I tried to sneak away last night, but his arm was clamped around me like a lap bar on a roller coaster.
When the phone sounded the alarm and the morning light streamed through the windows, he scrambled out of bed, creating a cool void where his warm, hard body had been.
I gave him a few painkillers, and he took them like a grown-up. I miss hot-mess Beau. There’s evidence of him behind the swollen lip, bruised face, and deep-purple bags under his eyes. But the personality is all angry professor.
We haven’t talked about our sleeping arrangements. But I haven’t stopped thinking about how he splayed his hand against my stomach and pressed his hips into my backside, or how his breath tickled my nape.
He wakes now as we exit the freeway, straightens in his seat, and cranes his neck to watch as the car hugs the Pacific Ocean, and the white tips of the sapphire waves taunt us as we pass.
We have another interview in Paso Robles tomorrow, so we can’t even enjoy downtime on the coast. We’ll likely get back in the car and head inland without our toes touching sand.
Two identical keys and a temporary cardboard tag dangle from the ignition.
Gone is the keepsake metal key chain engraved with the face of Half Dome; missing is Beau’s house key, his parents’ spare, and his wedding ring.
I wonder if he’ll ever mention the ring again, or if a night in a saloon is like a weekend in Vegas and I’m supposed to pretend he didn’t give me a glimpse of his soft underbelly—still struggling with a broken heart.
“Did you get her number?” I ask.
“What?” Beau croaks out before grabbing his water bottle and draining it in three swallows. He grimaces, slumping back against the window.
“Carrie Underwood.”
“Who?”
“You really need to work on your pop culture references.”
“You need to work on basic knowledge of historical figures.”
“Focus, Beau. The cowgirl. Did you get her digits?”
He doesn’t answer as I pull up to a stoplight. I glance at him as we wait, but he keeps me in suspense until the light turns green. “No.”
“Why not? I think she liked you.”
“Because I don’t even know what town we were in last night. I live hundreds of miles from here. What’s the point?”
“Are you always so practical?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and groans. “When have you known me not to be practical?”
“Well, last night, you battled a mechanical bull after two dozen shots of whiskey.”
He ignores me and flips down the visor to study his face in the mirror. “Do you have anything that could cover this?”
“Sorry, my makeup wouldn’t work. You’re about three shades tanner than me.” He flips the visor up, sinking back in the passenger seat. “Embrace it. You look hard and mysterious. It toughens up the whole uptight academic thing you’ve got going on.”
I turn onto the private drive and punch in the gate code Anna Thorne provided before pulling to a stop in the curved driveway.
The sprawling Spanish estate stretches along the cliffside, hogging the view like a spoiled child.
We’re nestled in a grove of jacaranda trees.
The purple blossoms are faded, and the thinning branches provide a window to the curling ocean beyond the bluff. “Do you need extra backup today?”
“I’ve got it.” He runs a hand through his hair, straightens his spine, and adjusts the angle of his glasses. “But thank you.” He smiles for the first time today—it’s thin and pained but looks genuine.
“Anytime.”
Beau twists toward me in his seat, his eyes cast down. “I,” he begins, hesitating. “I don’t usually lose control like that.”
I laugh. “You didn’t lose control, Professor. You downed that bourbon like it was on your to-do list.” I nudge his arm with the back of my hand. “You’re a bit self-destructive but otherwise a likable drunk. I wouldn’t mind a second date.”
“Don’t count on it.” His lips are chapped, cracking along the bottom.
“Here.” I dig in my purse and hand him a tube of ChapStick and two more Advil.
Beau swallows the medication in a long guzzle and slathers on the balm, studying me. “You’re surprisingly maternal, considering.”
The words drop like a clang.
Beau slips out of the car, and I follow.
“I’m maternal, considering what? That I’m such a flake?”
He turns to me in the driveway, his expression contrite. “What? No. I meant, you know, you’re not known for ...” He sighs. “You’re free-spirited, not the den-mother type.”
“Ouch.” I shut the door with more force than necessary. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that same shit? I’m fun, but not relationship material. I’m good for a night out, but not a dinner with the boss. I’m fine to be introduced to the guys, but not to Mommy.”
For some reason, I expected Beau to know me better than that.
“Whoa.” He steps closer, his posture softening as he wraps his hand around my upper arm to still me.
“I’m sorry. I’m being an ass because I have a raging headache and a fat lip, neither of which is your fault.
What I should have said was thank you for taking care of me. I’m grateful for your maternal side.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. As frustrating as his constant irritation is, his gratitude is even more confounding.
His warm eyes are burrowing into me, making me feel .
.. things. I look away and step around him toward the front door, stage-whispering over my shoulder.
“Now let’s pretend to be surprised that our kazillionaire isn’t a saint. ”
“Okay, Anna was the worst so far,” I say.
“Worse than the hit-and-run?”
“Yes. Because her mistake was a choice, not an accident. And she abandoned her friend.”
Beau grunts, crosses his ankles, and closes his eyes, drinking in the warm afternoon sun.
We’d finished our interview and picked up sandwiches.
I convinced Beau to grab a spot on the warm sand of Mesa Lane Beach so we could eat lunch before another long drive.
But he’s terrible company. I console myself with the opportunity to watch the waves and pretend I’m on vacation.
I’m jealous he’ll grow another shade tanner, while I’ll probably burn.
“Explain to me what you think she did,” he says.
Anna Thorne and Jocia Antwon were college roommates who dreamed up the perfect clubbing purse—a handheld clutch with a wrist loop, belt clip, and cross-body strap.
It had just enough room for a credit card, lipstick, cell phone, and condoms. They’d designed the prototype from their dorm room.
Anna was a Hollywood princess who talked her daddy’s friend into investing.
When Jocia started to have ideas of her own, Anna told her the investor wouldn’t take them on as a partnership, even though the investor had made no such stipulation.
Anna built a purse empire. Jocia was cut out and left behind.
I swallow a bite of my turkey-and-avocado sandwich and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “You were there. She betrayed her friend.”
“Uh-huh.” Beau draws his knees up and drapes his arms over his eyes.
My phone rings, and Beau winces at the noise.
“Hey, Cherry,” I answer, plugging my other ear against the noise from the waves.
“Where are you?”
“Santa Barbara.”
“What the hell? I’m in LA for one day and you’re not here? Come back,” she says. “I have one night to get out and rage. Austin is doing the overnight shift.”
“I won’t be back for a few weeks.” I would have fun with Cherry if I were in town.
We always have fun. If she hasn’t been my best support for the last several weeks, it’s because I haven’t given her an opportunity to practice.
I’ve never been the girl who needs a pep talk when a relationship ends, or a girls’ night in with ice cream and movies after a career disappointment.
I’m the friend who will throw on lipstick and a little black dress and look for a distraction at happy hour.
Cherry doesn’t know what to do with me right now.
But I don’t know what to do with me either.
“Who are you with?” she asks.
I hesitate before answering, “No one,” and glance at Beau, guilt nudging me in the ribs.
But I don’t want Cherry’s inquisition. I don’t want to explain what I’m doing or why I’ve come.
I don’t want to listen to her make assumptions about the “hot historian” or make lewd jokes about the sex I’m not having.
I don’t want her to belittle this trip or Beau’s intentions.
“What’s going on, Phe?” she exhales in a dramatic sigh. “Last I heard, you were selling the house and going back to LA. And now you’re on some road trip? Are you okay?”
Beau peeks up at me through his forearms, squinting into the sun. His brows are knitted together, and his posture is stiff. I press the phone closer to my ear, but who am I kidding? Cherry has no volume control. Beau can probably hear the whole conversation.
“I needed to get away. But, hey, I’ll send you some restaurant recommendations. I have a friend who—”
“I don’t need your concierge service. I need a night out with my best friend. And you need to have some fun. What good is a single friend if you can’t entertain me on my one kid-free night?”
Beau whistles and stands up, brushing the sand off his shins and staring out into the sea.
“I can’t, Cher. But I’ll make it up to you when I’m back. Promise. I gotta go.”
“Ophelia,” she whines.
“I’ll call you soon,” I placate.
I hang up, and Beau shakes his head and strides toward the shoreline.
I stand and follow him. “What?”
“Some things never change.” Beau steps into the retreating surf, letting the foam roll over his toes.
“What things?”
“Cherry Stewart is still a terrible person.”
“Hey, she’s my friend.”