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)
Having my hands on Hannah’s hips, her lush body pressed up against me. Breathing her in.
No fucking way.
Elliot seemed to read my face. “Or don’t. Stay out here and be a miserable bastard. I’m going to get my wife. Because I’m not a miserable bastard.”
His tone wasn’t biting because he didn’t intend it to be. He gave me a wink before walking away.
I sipped my whisky.
I knew I’d had one too many.
But I needed the radiating sting of it, something to hold on to, something to distract me from her. In that fucking dress, skimming over every one of her delicate curves.
What the fuck had she been thinking, dressing like that? It was a wedding.
I didn’t miss the men—too fucking old for her, my age, which was too fucking old—feasting on her with their eyes. The waiters—closer in age—ogling her ass. I wanted to pummel all of them for daring to look at what was mine.
But she wasn’t mine.
I tipped the last of the whisky down my throat.
Not mine.
My daughter’s nanny. Years younger. Too good for me. That’s what she was.
Never mine.
Yet when her head tipped up and she directed her eyes to where I was sitting, our eyes locked, and my cock twitched.
Mine, something deep inside me growled.
She smiled, hesitantly, meekly, seeming to be uneasy. As she often was around me. Everything about her was delicate, fragile. More than anything, I wanted to calm her, make her feel relaxed around me.
I scowled at her, pushing my chair back so hard it tumbled to the ground before I stalked away.
I’d fire her.
Tomorrow.
HANNAH
How could a day that literally felt like a storybook happily ever after also be so heartbreaking?
How could I be so filled with love yet also feel smothered in pain?
Because of Beau Shaw.
Because of stubborn, emotionally distant, damaged, noble Beau Shaw.
I saw the way he looked at me in my dress. I felt it. In my fucking cells, I felt that look. I’d feel it on my deathbed.
No man looks at a woman like that without wanting her.
I’d seen men look at women like that. Elliot stared at Calliope walking down the aisle like that.
Kane at Avery. Rowan at Nora. Kip at Fiona.
And Beau. At me.
But unlike those men, Beau acted like it pained him to look at me. To want me.
Which I understood, I guessed. Because it hurt, physically, to look at Beau. To want him while knowing he’d always be out of my reach.
Even if he hung his jacket over my shoulders because he didn’t want me to be cold. Even though his gaze made me feel like a woman.
The drive home was silent except for the gentle hum of the radio. I was driving. Beau’s truck. Because he’d ordered me to. His breath had smelled faintly of whisky, and his eyes were far away.
He wasn’t drunk. No slur to his words. His movements were still sure, confident. But he’d had more than one drink, and he was Beau Shaw. Sensible. Responsible.
“You trust me to drive your truck?” I’d teased.
“You’re a great driver, Hannah,” Beau had said without a smile. “I trust you.”
The three simple words stole the breath from my lungs. They weren’t uttered in a warm tone; they were practically barked at me.
But they were important, settling somewhere inside my heart. To have Beau Shaw’s trust was priceless. I guessed I knew I had it in theory because he let me drive Clara places, let me care for Clara when he wasn’t around. But it being implied and said aloud were two different things.
Especially when I was staring at him in a shirt and tie, hair tamed, and I was wearing his jacket.
Clara had quickly fallen asleep on the short drive home. It was well past her bedtime, and she’d done a lot of dancing.
Beau sat ramrod straight in the passenger seat, staring directly ahead. My hands were at ten and two, my heart a hummingbird in my chest.
Though I did consider myself a good driver, I was nervous about driving Beau.
Especially with the reminder of his eyes on me when I was on the dance floor with Clara. The hunger in them.
Would he ever make good on that hunger? Or would I eventually leave with only fantasies about what Beau Shaw’s kiss would feel like?
“Will she be okay?” Beau asked, breaking the silence between us.
I blinked at the question and his tone—quieter, much more vulnerable than he sounded on an everyday basis. I’d only heard him speak like that the night before Clara’s birthday and the night Calliope almost died.
“Clara,” he clarified. “Being around all those people… I know they say her immune system is good, but fuck.” I saw him run his hand through his hair like he did when he was overwhelmed. “I don’t know. Can’t know. It’s like they’re reading crystal balls. And you’ve got more medical knowledge than me. So in your opinion, is she going to be okay?”