Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
There was no knowing what the energy would be like. He looked like shit—well, for Beau. He still looked great, even with the deep frown, red rimming his eyes, and the messy tangle of his usually well-groomed hair.
I doubted I looked much better. I’d sat up for hours last night. His head in my lap, brushing his forehead as if I could erase the crease between his brows even in sleep.
Eventually, I must’ve nodded off because when I woke, the dim dawn rays were shining through the window, and I was horizontal on the couch, covered with a blanket. Beau was nowhere to be found. I’d stumbled to my own bed and tried to catch another hour, but I’d lain awake until I heard the quiet sounds of life from the kitchen.
We stared at each other for a few long beats. I swallowed, my throat dry. I didn’t know what to say, where the lines were with us.
“How is Calliope?” I asked softly. I hadn’t gotten any of the story as to what happened, and I was worried sick.
Beau blinked a few times before responding. “She’s, uh, in the hospital. Last I heard, induced coma. I need to head over there now. As soon as Clara wakes up, I can tell her what happened.”
There was a heavy dread in his voice when he spoke of Clara. I knew he was sick to his stomach at the prospect of handing her bad news. She’d had enough to last a lifetime.
“What did happen?” I asked, stepping closer, wringing my hands.
Beau stiffened at my approach, nostrils flaring, jaw clenching—all signs basically flashing do not come any fucking closer.
I stopped in place, heart falling. I’d known last night was an extreme situation, a one-off, culminating in extreme circumstances. I wasn’t so dense as to think comforting him in his time of need would change the fundamental base of our relationship. Even knowing that, it hurt.
Beau rubbed his jaw. “We don’t know too much yet. A waitress from the restaurant was involved. Essentially, she tried to kill Calliope. Calliope didn’t die … yet. There’s poison in her system, they’re trying to detox her right now. Some organs are shutting down.”
He said all of this in a businesslike way. Cold. But I didn’t miss the way his hands shook as he spoke. Calliope meant everything to Elliot. Was important to Clara. And to him. He was scared.
I tried to take in all of that information. Someone had attempted to murder Calliope. Tried to poison her, by the sounds of it. And that only invited a heck of a lot more questions, since I didn’t think people were poisoned in real life and because Calliope had always been this iron queen in my mind. It was unfathomable for anyone to hurt her.
It shook me more than I cared to admit.
But I kept it together. For Beau.
“Okay.” I clapped my hands. “You sit.” I pointed to the breakfast bar. “We’ll wait for Clara to wake up, because right now, she’s sleeping peacefully with no knowledge that anything bad has happened to her favorite aunt, and I think it’ll be nice to continue that a little longer.” I stepped to where the pots were kept, kneeling to grab one.
“I’ll cook breakfast,” I declared.
Beau hadn’t moved. Or spoken. He was just staring at me.
Likely he didn’t trust me in his kitchen.
“I’m no Beau Shaw,” I admitted with a weak, forced smile. “Or Nigella or Martha. But I can whip up some really excellent scrambled eggs. Usually with bacon, but I’ll make do with…” I checked in the fridge, bringing out a package. “Organic chicken and mushroom sausages.” I made a face even though I’d had these before, and they weren’t bad.
I placed the sausages and eggs on the counter.
Beau was still watching me, probably about to blow a vein in his forehead because the eggs and sausage weren’t completely perpendicular to each other or at a right angle.
His gaze was heavy. Hot, warming the back of my neck. My smile stretched, though it was painful to keep the false expression on my face.
“I know it’s hard for you to see me in the kitchen without wanting to crack the whip, but—”
Embarrassment scorched my cheeks.
Crack the whip was meant to be a joke about him being the boss in the restaurant kitchen, but it fell flat.
Or it ventured heavily into sexual innuendo territory where it shouldn’t have gone. Most especially not on such a somber morning.
Beau’s jaw twitched. Nothing else about him moved.
I swallowed the shame strangling my trachea then cleared my throat. Soldier on, I told myself. “Sit.” I pointed to the barstool.
The moment Beau’s eyes went to my extended arm, he surged forward, grasping my forearm in a featherlight grip and turning it over in his hands.
I stopped breathing.
His fingertips ran over the purplish bruise on my wrist. It wasn’t bad or even overly noticeable, but there was definitely a mark in the shape of a large finger.