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)
There was plenty of snark in my voice. I was still pissed at Beau. Not just about tonight, but about how he was as a person. I’d intended to only let out a drop of anger, but the dam was currently in danger of bursting. If he replied with one more insult, one more reprimand, I’d unleash on him. I ached to. Even though it had only been a couple of months of enduring his torture, everything had been heightened due to our close quarters.
But instead of meeting me for battle, Beau’s head slowly swung up and down, his jaw loosening. “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he said quietly, his eyes not leaving mine. “The cake is perfect.”
My jaw nearly hit the floor at the soft note in his voice, unable to process that it was being directed at me. My skin erupted in goose bumps, limbs relaxing. My body wanted to melt.
Pathetic. He was giving me the bare minimum. This man spoke to me softly for one sentence, and I was a puddle at his feet.
“You made it?” He arched a brow, looking from me to the cake.
I nodded slowly, not sure how to go from defense to … whatever this was.
Beau stepped forward, closer. It was the first time he’d voluntarily stepped closer to me. My skin prickled in awareness. The man had an energy about him that my body responded to. Viscerally.
I watched his eyes move over my cake.
“You made a cake. And did all this.” His eyes moved around the room, centering on the presents on the kitchen table. “And bought Clara gifts.”
It was nowhere near a thank you, and it wasn’t even him simply observing the environment. It was an accusation. Like buying his daughter gifts on her birthday were akin to giving her nuclear codes then telling her to go nuts.
I stared into his cloudy gray eyes, not willing to lower my gaze. Not this time. Not when it came to Clara. I’d look down for myself, take the hits, but not for Clara. “It’s her birthday. A pivotal birthday. It requires gifts. Sugar. Fairy wings.”
“Fairy wings?” Beau parroted, still not meeting the sharp note to my voice, no glower to be seen.
I nodded tightly. “Every little girl needs at least one pair, and a princess dress of some kind. Though you’ve got her covered with a kickass tutu selection.”
It struck me that this was probably the longest conversation we’d had without him being mean. It was the closest we’d stood. While alone. Our three-foot buffer was sleeping soundly in her bedroom.
When my heart started hammering, I fought to remain normal. What was normal? How did I usually stand? How did I breathe?
“This is…” Beau’s voice had softened further. No more accusation, which I sensed was a mask for some other feeling he was uncomfortable with. Anything that wasn’t brooding anger. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”
“I wanted to,” I replied firmly. Though I was only the nanny, I had a right to do this for Clara. Our time together had been brief but intense, the powerful feelings I had for that little girl strong and everlasting.
His eyes found mine. “Thank you.”
My heart caught in my throat. Had Beau ever thanked me? Probably not. Definitely not in this soft, soulful tone.
“I didn’t do it for you.” I was somehow able to keep my voice even, not betraying the reaction those two words had on the inside of my body. “I did it for Clara.”
“I know.” Beau’s reply came in a half whisper. “Which is what makes it mean the fuckin’ world.”
The silence thrummed between us. My heart was in my throat, my palms starting to sweat.
I could scarcely comprehend that this was reality, that this version of Beau existed for anyone other than Clara.
“It’s hard for me.” He drove a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow. I spent a long time preparing for my daughter to be forever four.” He sucked in a ragged breath so full of pain that it took my breath away.
This was nothing like my grumpy, borderline—okay, not borderline at all—cruel employer.
This was a person. A father. A tortured one. So full of love for his daughter that the pain at the thought of losing her had whittled him down to a shell of a person, only capable of wrangling humanity, smiles, and love for the little girl who had been dancing with death the past two years.
“I thought I would bury her before this day,” he rasped. “In my mind, all my hopes, my dreams, my imaginings for what she would be were half buried too.”
At that point, I smelled the faint scent of whisky on his breath. Just a hint. Likely no more than a glass since his eyes were clear, not a slur to his voice.