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)
I sat up straighter. “I should probably give you my resignation.” The words tasted toxic as I said them.
Beau’s eyebrows didn’t so much as twitch, his face staying still, calm. “No way in fuck you’re doing that.”
I raised my own brows. Beau had been brusque, curt, and straight-up rude to me before, but he hadn’t ever cursed at me as much as he had tonight. Though it didn’t sound harsh or hurtful… not toward me, at least. “Excuse me?”
His expression stayed blank. “You’re not resigning.”
“Beau…” Despite the current situation, uttering his name felt like a thrill. “I can’t predict what Waylon will do. But he knows where you live. And I don’t want him anywhere near Clara.” My stomach roiled at the mere thought. Although it would be indescribably painful to leave Clara, her safety would always trump my selfish wants.
Beau’s expression darkened, a muscle working in his cheek. “He won’t be getting anywhere near Clara. Or you.”
I sighed. Oh, to be a man who could utter such sentences with a surety that wasn’t affected by a lifetime of tiptoeing around the opposite sex. “We can’t know that. The only way to ensure Clara doesn’t get wrapped up in this is to take myself out of the equation.” It was realistic, if not heartbreaking.
“Do you want to resign?” Beau tilted his head to regard me.
If he’d asked me that at the peak of his disdain toward me, my answer might not have been so immediate. But so much had changed. “Of course, I don’t—”
“Then go to bed,” Beau ordered.
I settled back into the warm cushion of the couch, folding my arms over my chest. “Beau, this conversation isn’t over. You’re a practical man. You know that my resignation is the most sensible option.”
“It’s not,” Beau stated matter-of-factly, as if he were informing me of the weather report. “I’ll take care of it. You go to bed.”
Fire crept up my throat. Slowly building because my nervous system was shot, and I was unsettled by the change in dynamic between Beau and me. But female rage was not to be dulled, especially not when a man was trying to steamroll your life choices, trivializing them.
“It’s not yours to take care of,” I argued tightly, straightening my spine. What I really meant was I’m not yours to take care of.
It was difficult not to squirm when Beau gave me a long look, as if he were searching for something on my face. As if he were searching for something to say. “Yes, Hannah, it is,” he eventually uttered. Then he got up. “You’re exhausted. You need to get to bed.”
I wanted to say that he didn’t get to tell me what to do, that he wasn’t allowed to just take care of things for me as if he were someone who had taken care of me in the past. As if he hadn’t treated me poorly for months.
But I was exhausted. And confused. And in need of a rather large sobbing session over all the emotions Waylon had brought with him, reeking of cheap whisky.
I really didn’t want to ugly cry in front of Beau. The next logical option was to do as he’d instructed.
I got off the couch.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, looking up at Beau. “For…” What was I thanking him for? For saving me from Waylon? For making me feel heard and seen? For treating me like a half-decent human being for once?
“For listening,” I finished lamely.
“You don’t have to thank me for that, Hannah,” Beau replied gruffly, leaning down to grab my mug before I could. “Good night,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen.
“Good night,” I said to his back. Then I went to my room. I had tears to shed.
So why did I feel a seed of something warm blooming in my chest? A prospect of happiness?
BEAU
My girls were sleeping.
I checked on both before taking my phone and a generous pour of whisky outside.
It was cold as fuck, but the chill helped to tamp down the fire coursing through me. The fury. The urge to drive around Jupiter, tear apart rooms at the one shitty motel we had—the one I knew someone like him would be staying at—to find him. To punish him. For plucking a flower like Hannah, so delicate, so beautiful, and instead of nurturing her and nourishing her like she deserved, pulling the petals off one by one. Tearing off pieces of her, her confidence, self-worth, her faith in the future.
Because men like that liked to ruin women for sport, to ensure that they never realize they’re too good for them, that they should leave. That had been his intention with Hannah, it was clear as fucking day. Tear her apart to ensure that she’d never leave him. I’d been in his presence for all of two minutes, and I could see that. I could feel it as Hannah recounted their much-sanitized history to me. I knew there was a lot more, more that would’ve made me punch holes in walls if I heard it right then. God only knew how many more things he’d done to try to tear Hannah down.