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)
“How was the restaurant?” I asked. I was playing with fire here, both loving and hating the thrill from being alone with Beau, feeling the tension in the air.
“Busy.” Beau’s response was clipped.
“That’s good.” I cupped my too-hot mug. “Busy. That’s good.”
Beau didn’t reply. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he looked glued in place, as if my presence prevented him from moving around in his own house.
My palms burned, yet I kept them there because I needed the pain as a distraction from Beau.
His eyes went to the breakfast bar.
“What are those?” he asked flatly.
I stared at him then back to the flowers, unsure if I should state the obvious since I was certain he’d actually seen flowers before. Yes, he wasn’t a man to stop and smell them, but he knew they existed.
Obviously, I took too long to answer because his brows knitted as he leveled an irritated look my way. “You get flowers from your boyfriend, you put them somewhere else. Preferably not in my fucking house.”
I pursed my lips, bracing against the quiet fury in his tone. Which wasn’t uncommon. But this had an unhinged edge to it, one that made my skin prickle and my stomach lurch. I wanted to shrink away, to run, avert my gaze. All well-worn neural pathways.
I’m not doing that anymore, I told myself.
I’m stronger than that.
I jutted my chin up, maintaining eye contact. “They’re not from my boyfriend.” I decided not to correct him by saying that I didn’t have a boyfriend, merely an estranged husband who wouldn’t sign the divorce papers.
“I bought them.” I internally squirmed at how tight my voice sounded. “With Clara. She said they were pretty. And she deserves flowers. Scientific studies show that fresh-cut flowers improve the happiness of those in a home by 25 percent.” I motioned to the flowers. “So those should raise yours to … about 25 percent of that of a regular human.”
My cheeks flushed at the impulsive last sentence. I hadn’t meant to say it. Be confrontational. Poke the bear when Beau didn’t need to be poked in order to roar. My existence alone did that.
I waited. Bracing for a scowl. A mean comment. Or for him to flat out ignore me. He did that often too. Like he couldn’t be bothered with responding to me. Like I wasn’t worth the effort.
Instead, I got a twitch of his lips.
Not a smile. Nowhere near, just a twitch. He was amused.
There was a person, complete with emotions and maybe even a sense of humor, somewhere in there. Underneath that excellent beard, the perpetual scowl, the hardened gaze. I’d known there was the man who smiled at his daughter, of course. But I’d never imagined one existed who might find me a bit amusing.
We stayed there, staring at each other for a handful of seconds. I didn’t breathe the entire time.
“You should go to bed, Hannah.” He eventually broke the silence.
To my surprise, his voice wasn’t cold or mean. No, it was low, throaty, and it sent my skin on fire.
I swallowed thickly. “I need to, um…” I rounded the counter, walking toward him. As I neared, his entire body stilled. Preparing. As if he were expecting me to … what? Rush him? Climb him like a tree?
Oh, I wanted to. This thing between us, this tension was mostly cold and mean. But then there were moments when it was an inferno, when I wanted to hate fuck him into infinity.
But I wasn’t that brazen. Not that confident. Because most likely, this was all in my head. I was probably being overly romantic, imagining that a man like Beau would want me. That all of his meanness was a front to cover something else, that need I thought I saw from time to time.
The more realistic explanation was that he simply didn’t like me. Not everyone was going to like me, that I knew. I wasn’t special.
I held my breath, giving him as wide of a berth as was physically possible to get my book. It wasn’t wide enough, though. I smelled him, leathery, oaky, a little of that trademark restaurant smell that didn’t seem to be greasy or gross. Just … pleasant.
I snatched my book from the coffee table, promising myself I wasn’t going to do this again before quickly looking at Beau through my lashes.
“Good night, Mr. Shaw,” I whispered.
His body jerked. Jerked like I’d hit him. “It’s Beau, you fucking know that.” His gaze shrouded me, cloaked me in something heavy, hot. His eyes went to my throat, dropping to my rapidly rising and falling chest. The book I was clutching. “Good night,” he growled. Then he stomped off.
I was left panting in the living room.
Why did I address him like that? What possessed me?
I’d only called him that a handful of times, garnering a similarly pissed-off reaction. I was big on manners. Had been since elementary school when a lot of teachers and students assumed I was trailer trash on account of my mother’s and brother’s reputations. I’d been determined to wipe the filth from my skin. By reading everything I could at the library, scrubbing my clothes for traces of stains and repairing what was torn, since I rarely got new clothes. I tried to present myself as well as I could and spoke with impeccable manners.