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)
The room exploded in happiness and warmth.
But dread was ice, running through my veins.
My past and present had collided. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Usually, I was relaxed in Lori’s company. But I had been coiled tight since she arrived, my smile forced, my tone a touch too high.
Lori noticed because she was perceptive, and we had come to know each other well, spending as much time together as we did. But she didn’t ask, because that was Lori. She was waiting for me to say something. Which I would. She already knew some of the backstory with Waylon, knew about some of the tension with Beau. It would be a welcome release to speak plainly to her about both things.
But I couldn’t do that with Beau and Clara present. Beau didn’t make his presence obvious; he was in his office most of the time. But his door was open, often coming out as if he forgot something. I’d watch him glance toward the windows, his eyes touching me with knitted brows before he went back. Then he headed into the kitchen to make us chocolate lava cakes.
From scratch.
Without us even asking.
Because that was Beau.
Soon, Clara had to go to bed, Lori would drive home. Beau offered to drive her since the weather had turned and it was dark. And because he was a gruff alpha male who, despite being surprisingly feminist, still had that caveman need to protect women. Especially Lori, being pregnant, petite, soft-spoken. She definitely had that woman in need of saving vibe going for her. Until you got to know her better, uncovered her quiet strength.
“I’ve been driving these roads since I was fifteen, Beau, you know that,” she told him. “Being pregnant doesn’t affect my driving skills.” Her voice was soft, but her words were sharp.
I bit back a smile.
Beau nodded, holding his hands up in surrender. “Text Hannah when you get home,” he ordered, before going back to the kitchen to do the dishes.
Lori and I said our goodbyes. She promised to text me when she got home, because that was what good girlfriends did. And then it was time. It was just the two of us.
My heart was galloping, making it difficult to breathe properly. Panic was crawling up my throat.
Though I desperately wanted to flee, I stayed in the living room, tidying up. Beau repeatedly told me that wasn’t part of my job, but I needed to busy my hands.
The extremely cowardly part of me wanted to run to my room, close the door, and hide under the covers. Beau wouldn’t breach my space. Then I’d be able to spend the night coming up with some kind of game plan, some kind of story to explain Waylon without me looking like a total gullible, weak asshole.
But I already knew there wasn’t a way of telling my story while making me look like some kind of heroine. I was an active participant in the unraveling process of my life as it pertained to Waylon.
And, worse, I was scared. Scared to be alone in my room with my thoughts. Scared to tell Beau the truth. I was so damn sick of being scared.
“Hannah.” I jumped when Beau growled from behind me. I’d been folding and refolding the throw on the sofa, lost in thought.
I looked up to him standing in front of me, holding a steaming mug. His gaze was harsh, but the corners of his eyes were soft.
“Take this.” He offered the mug.
I took it, feeling relieved to have something to do with my hands.
“Now sit.” He nodded to the couch.
Again, I obeyed. The firm tone of his voice was something to hold on to. Even through the hammering of my heart.
My lips parted in surprise when he sat too. On the same couch. Granted, it was on the other end, but he could’ve sat in the armchair, creating more distance.
He didn’t.
I shouldn’t have read into that. Shouldn’t have read into anything with Beau.
“Tell me.” Beau’s tone was soft, inviting. He was treating me with exquisite care—I could feel it in his tone, the way he looked at me, the positioning of his body. Though his eyes kept dropping down to the spot on my arm that was still faintly pulsing.
I blinked at him, my hands warm around the mug of hot cocoa. I slowly took a sip, killing time, and because my body felt frozen to the couch.
The cocoa was rich, the perfect blend of bitter and sweet. A touch of cinnamon. Trust Beau not to just use something boxed and easy. He’d taken care when preparing this.
Not because of me, I told myself. Because that was Beau.
I’d been thinking about this conversation all night. Planning what I would tell him. Technically, I didn’t have to tell him anything. It was my private life. I didn’t owe him anything. He employed me to take care of his daughter, nothing more, nothing less.