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)
All little girls deserved to believe in all sorts of magic at five years old, Clara more than most.
The cake looked pretty good, if I said so myself.
And tasted good, I thought, swiping the last of the frosting from the bowl.
A dark swath in my periphery made me let out a scream as I turned, brandishing my butterknife on instinct. My body tightened, ready to fight this intruder, determined to ensure that he didn’t get near the sleeping little girl in the room down the hall.
But as my vision cleared, I thankfully realized I wouldn’t have to fight for my life with a dull knife covered in frosting.
It wasn’t an intruder.
It was Beau.
He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, scowling at me—big surprise—his mouth moving.
I pulled my headphones from my ears. “What?”
His expression looked nuclear, nostrils flaring, hands fisted at his sides. “You should not be listening to music so fucking loud that you can’t hear anyone entering the house when you’re alone.”
He had a point. Jupiter had a laughably low crime rate, and this was a quiet family street, but shit did happen. I’d watched enough true crime documentaries to know women were never really safe, that even in our own homes, we were at risk. Especially in our own homes, as I’d learned the hard way.
Beau’s ire was still misplaced. I didn’t bother mentioning how low of a risk that really was. I’d lived in much more dangerous areas my entire life and managed to survive. This man didn’t know reason. And he had a point. His daughter was sleeping in her room. I was supposed to be taking care of her. Protecting her.
But then I remembered I was mad at him.
Therefore, I didn’t blurt an apology, which was second nature at that point. I felt like all I did was exchange rudimentary greetings and apologize to the man when I wasn’t talking about Clara.
Beau’s glower was zeroed in on me, but then he looked around me, at the cake then into the living room. The house had been transformed by decorations and presents.
“What the fuck is this?” His voice was heavy, throaty and accusing.
Of course, Beau would find this somehow insulting or irritating.
“This is a cake,” I stated, since his gaze was back on the cake. “A birthday cake. For your daughter. It’s her birthday tomorrow.”
I hadn’t thought it was possible, but his glower became even more severe. Brows pointing down, mouth a thin line, a tic in his jaw. “I fucking know it’s her birthday tomorrow. I was there the day she was born.”
The accusation was clear. The ownership. He was telling me he was there, I wasn’t. Therefore, I had no right to speak in the biting tone I hadn’t previously ever used toward him.
Normally, that would be enough to make me step back into my role of nonconfrontational nanny.
Except I couldn’t stop seeing Clara’s glassy eyes in my head. And yes, maybe I was nursing a bit of a grudge about the week of near-silent treatment and passive aggression—even more than normal—from Beau.
“She wanted to see you.” I realized I was still holding the frosting-laden knife. I stared at it, considered the amount left, licked it off, then tossed it into the bowl. “She wanted to see you. On her last night of being four,” I added. Beau, eyes narrowed.
Beau’s scowl flickered somewhat, giving me a glimpse of the guilt he should’ve been feeling.
“Fuck.” He seemed to mutter the word more to himself than me as he pinched the bridge of his nose, shoulders slumping. The change in his posture and energy was rapid, jarring. I could feel it, the shift in the tension in the room. It was no longer wired for battle, an argument.
He truly felt bad. Whatever my thoughts about him as a person, he was a good father. Trying his best. And his best was pretty damn good, tonight notwithstanding.
“The restaurant got busy.” He sighed. He looked tired. Weary. Like two years of sleepless nights, hospital visits, and unimaginable worry had drained his very life force, and he was only now letting it show.
He still looked good, though. His long-sleeved thermal clung tight to his muscles. The jeans he wore weren’t tight, but they encased his powerful thighs perfectly. His well-maintained beard added to the pissed-off lumberjack look. All he needed to grace the cover of any romance novel was an axe and to take off his shirt. But there were circles under his eyes, a weariness to him that marred his attractive exterior.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I got her a cake.” He nodded to a box on the counter I hadn’t noticed until then. He then motioned to mine. “Not a cake covered in insects, though.”
I folded my arms in defense, heat blooming in my cheeks. “Clara loves insects. We’ve been reading about forests and the creatures that live in them. Both mythical and real.”