Chapter 21
“I’m going to head into town to get an update on the highways,” Beau says as I hover over my coffee.
I didn’t sleep last night. The loft was a billion degrees, so I gave up and crashed on the love seat, which was an inch too short, forcing me to curl into an unnatural position that gave me a hip cramp.
It was still too hot. I was desperate to open the windows, but the ash on the deck glowed in the moonlight, reminding me of our climate predicament.
California is a fickle lover—gorgeous, tempestuous, alluring, unforgiving.
Beau woke me for real at six, banging around in his room like he was managing a construction project. I covered my head with the pillow, but it didn’t matter. I was up.
He emerged an hour later, showered and ready to start the day. I am neither of those.
“I’ll finish packing,” I say as he steps outside with his duffel on his shoulder.
“Ophelia,” he calls from outside a moment later.
I tumble off the stool and outside to find him in the driver’s seat, with the door wide open, one leg still planted on pine needles.
“Did you leave the passenger door open yesterday?”
“No?”
Beau shakes his head. “I can prepare for fires, floods, tsunamis, earthquakes, and tornados. But Hurricane Ophelia is always my demise.” He passes me, his cell phone in hand.
“Ouch,” I say. “What happened?” I call as the wind from his tantrum blows by me.
“You left the door open, and the battery is dead. We’re stranded.”
“If you knew I left the door open, why did you ask me if I left the door open?”
He stares at his phone, pacing near the dining table.
“We don’t have cell service,” I remind him.
Beau lifts his head and glares at me for a beat before he storms back outside. I follow him, but his legs are too long, and I can’t keep up. He rushes by the car and up the long, unpaved driveway.
“Where are you going?”
“To find cell service,” he shouts over his shoulder.
I’m still perched on the edge of the porch, jiggling my knee when he appears around the corner an hour later. I release a breath when I spot his familiar gait and trot up the drive to meet him. “You were gone forever. I was worried you were lost.”
Beau stops in his tracks, folding his arms across his chest. “I called the tow company, but they don’t know when they’ll make it out. I knocked on a few doors to see if anyone could give us a jump, but no one answered.”
“They may have been scared of the big angry man knocking on their door at eight a.m.”
He ignores me and trudges up the porch. “The roads are open—for now. But who knows if the winds will shift. But we have no choice but to wait.” Beau heads into the cabin, waving me inside. I follow him in and seal out the smoky air.
“At least it’s not a cowboy bar this time?”
“Too soon, Phe,” Beau says.
“Beau,” I say. He stills, turning to me in the entryway. “I’m really sorry.”
He shrugs. “It could have been me.”
I laugh. “We both know it wasn’t you. What did we say about lying to each other?”
His smile is faint. “I’m working on being more patient and forgiving. Someone told me I might be a little uptight.”
I nod. “That someone is very wise.”
He chuckles as he passes me and walks toward his bedroom. “But I will feel more patient after a nap. That smoke gave me a headache.”
My heart sinks a little as he closes the door behind him.
Hours later, I’m on the floor, leaning against the love seat at the coffee table working on a puzzle of the cliffside of Positano.
I’ve managed to connect all the edge pieces, and it helps to distract me from our quandary, the dead end I’ve hit in searching for my mom, and the dream I had about Beau.
I can’t stop thinking about whether he’s as focused a lover as he is an academic.
Beau emerges from his room. “Hey,” he says, his voice scratchy. The sun is already high overhead; it must be early afternoon. We missed another interview this morning. Our momentum has taken a nosedive, and I’m sure Beau is frustrated.
“Want to help?”
“Probably shouldn’t. My head is still killing me.”
“I have painkillers,” I offer.
“Took some, and the nap helped a bit.”
He peers at the puzzle, at the lid, and back. “You should organize the pieces by color.”
“‘How to Mansplain a Puzzle’ by Professor Beauregard Augustin.”
He collapses in the love seat behind me, his long legs hanging over the armrest before he drapes his forearms over his eyes. I place my hand on his arm, and he flinches slightly before settling.
“What can I do? Do you need water?”
He lolls his head from side to side. “I’m fine.”
He really doesn’t look fine.
“Scoot down,” I whisper. Beau opens one eye as I crawl onto the love seat and toss a cushion to the floor for more room.
He complies, making enough space for me to slip in beside him.
When I remove his glasses, he furrows his brows but doesn’t stop me as I set them on the end table and bring my hands to his head. “Let me know if it hurts.”
He closes his eyes, sighing as I massage his head. “It’s good,” he chokes out.
I find the pressure points at the base of his scalp, cradling his head with my palms and using my fingertips to release the tension there.
His head grows heavier, and I slide toward him to lift it onto my thigh.
He stiffens, but I keep going, and he exhales, giving in when I sink my thumbs into the wrinkle between his eyes.
There’s something powerful about making this man melt—and I enjoy taking him apart inch by uptight inch.
His face grows placid, his lips in their signature downturned arc, but parted and soft.
His shoulders drop away from his ears, his eyelids flutter when I hit a spot he likes, right at the top of his head.
I trail my thumbs along his scalp until I find the tight band of muscle at his nape.
He groans—it’s low and gravelly—and the sound does something to me.
There’s a warmth brewing in my belly, and I hold my breath as I work my hands along his neck to his shoulders.
His skin is hot to the touch, silk over taut muscle.
I press into the soft tissue above his collarbone and make compressions with my fingertips across the top of his chest, teasing the stretched collar of his shirt before dragging my hands out, where I cup the round arc of his deltoids.
I slip to his biceps, sliding under his sleeves to find his shoulders again, but I’m frustrated by the fabric.
I don’t pause to think before I whisper, “Take this off.”
I hold my breath as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, crossing his arms over his stomach.
He lifts slightly, revealing a small trail of dark hair, his navel, the ridges of abdominal muscles, before his canvas of silken skin is on full display.
I might be salivating. Beau tosses his shirt on the floor and settles with the top of his shoulders pressed against my bare thighs.
His muscles tense as he bends his knee and plants a foot on the love seat, his other braced on the floor.
His body is draped before me, from calves to thigh, stomach to chest. I find his shoulders, sliding lower, over his pecs, trying to find a rhythm that feels innocuous—that suggests I am a professional tending to his headache.
But he’s molten against my skin, and it’s making me ache in places that have been hibernating for too long.
I notice goose bumps pop up on his skin in the wake of my touch.
I wander lower before he startles me, placing a rough hand over both of mine, stilling me, and pressing my palms flat against his chest. My throat goes dry as his eyes find mine.
I swallow, and he watches the movement with parted lips.
He reaches his other hand to my nape, threading his fingers in my hair and pulling me toward him.
At least I think he’s pulling me, because I’m falling over him like water over a ledge until our mouths are an inch apart.
And we hover there—in the last measure of reasonable doubt.
Beau’s hand tightens against my neck, and he arcs up until his breath skates across my mouth and his soft lips meet mine.
I have enough time to think, What the fuck , and Yes , and Please , before I jolt at the sound of a loud knock at the door.
“Hello? Did someone need a jump?”