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)
It made me smile, just a little, seeing his discomfort. He kind of deserved it, didn’t he?
The men parted for me, greeting me with smiles and warm words. I smiled back, murmuring shy responses. Beau had his back to me and hadn’t seemed to notice me, so I touched his arm to get his attention.
He turned, eyes flaring and eyebrows narrowing on where I’d touched him. I kept my hand on the bare muscled skin of his arm, swallowing thickly while forcing myself not to look away.
“I’m thinking it’s time for the cake,” I told him, my voice thin and raspy. “I’m going to go put the candles on, then you can bring it out.”
My hand was still on his bicep. I should’ve removed it. It was only there to get his attention. I had his attention. But I couldn’t move it. It was as if it were glued to his arm. I was half horrified by my body’s betrayal, half … something else that resembled my feelings from last night. When I looked at Kip, he was grinning, his dancing, playful blue eyes darting from my hand to Beau’s eyes. Necking his beer, he walked off.
Leaving us alone.
Finally, I managed to remove my hand from his arm. I was surprised it didn’t leave a red mark considering how much my palm was burning from the contact.
Beau hadn’t spoken. I swallowed glass, too afraid to look at him, my head buzzing from the champagne I’d just chugged. “Um, yeah. It’s time for the cake. I’ll just go put the candles on, then you can bring it out.”
Then, eyes downcast, I practically sprinted into the house.
Why did I touch him? I had a voice—though I didn’t use it much when Beau was around. I could’ve called his name. He would’ve heard me, turned, likely responding because we were in polite company, and he probably didn’t want to come off as a complete asshole.
It was the alcohol. I wasn’t used to drinking, and I hadn’t eaten because I’d been too busy organizing, making sure everything was perfect. My hand shook as I lit the candles, the sounds of happy children and soft music drifting in through the open windows.
My throat constricted when there was a clang from the back door, a thump of boots. Why was he wearing boots when it was seventy degrees outside? Why did he look so good in the aforementioned boots? Why did I touch him? Why didn’t I quit?
More pressingly, why didn’t I shove the candles on the cake then dart out of the kitchen before he arrived?
Who knew?
Blaming it on the champagne felt apt.
The energy in the kitchen changed when his boots crossed the threshold, my body on fire as I pushed the last candle into Clara’s cake. I took longer than I should’ve, placing the candles.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled under his silent gaze. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. So I had to. Slowly, with a pounding heart, I turned.
And there stood Beau.
He was keeping a measured distance between us, so far away from me that it was actually strange. People didn’t stand that far apart unless one of them had a contagious disease or an unfortunate body odor.
There was no way to smell my pits discreetly, but I didn’t think I smelled bad, and my only disease was a lack of common sense. I doubted that was contagious, especially not around Beau. He was the epitome of common sense, but not manners.
His eyes slowly traveled my body, and I felt the impact of them as if they were his hands.
My knees were quivering when he made eye contact, my chest rapidly rising and falling, waiting for what he might say. Because there had to be something to accompany that look, one that was not a glare or a scowl but the hungry gaze of a man who wanted a woman. A man who wanted me.
Then his eyes shuttered, his mouth forming a thin line. A chill crept over my skin that wasn’t caused by the crisp wind blowing through the open windows.
“Tell me how much,” Beau demanded gruffly.
I stared at him, confused, my head still swimming in champagne and hormones.
“How much?” I repeated.
“How much for the supplies.” He gestured to the cake. “The presents. Everything you did for the party that you paid for out of your own pocket. I’ll write you a check.”
I shifted on my feet, my throat suddenly dry. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he interrupted harshly. “You did all of this, and it has made Clara happy, which I greatly appreciate, but it is not your place to pay for it all. I’ll pay you back.”
The words were firm, the implication behind them was firm too. I was his employee. It was not my place to bake cakes, plan birthday parties, touch him, want him. I inhaled deeply, trying to fight back tears. Logically, I knew all of that was true. I didn’t belong here with happy, affluent people. I was the help. The presence Beau tolerated but didn’t welcome. A warm body he desired because I was near, that was it.