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)
Lori’s cheeks colored, her eyes narrowing at Fiona. “I’m not in love with him,” she protested, almost as loudly as when I’d said I wasn’t a lesbian. It comforted me since she was only two sips into her champagne.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Sure.”
“He’s not interested in me in the slightest,” Lori continued. Even though I’d just met the woman, I knew from her tone and the panic in her eyes that she definitely had feelings for the police chief.
“Right,” Fiona intoned. “We’re in an upside-down world, where, apparently, the girl getting her PhD is dense and blind.” She smirked at me knowingly. “You two will get along so well. A lot in common.” She waggled her brows in a way that was supposed to be meaningful.
Then she walked away. Leaving both Lori and me frowning at each other.
“What was that supposed to mean?” I asked her.
She shrugged, downing her drink. “I adore all of these women, but they are all loved up with men who shouldn’t strictly be real. They think there are an infinite number of decent men walking around the world, waiting to sweep us off our feet.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ll create a love story about almost anyone. Case in point, Finn and me. Nothing is going on there.”
She said it in a way that told me there was a lot more going on than nothing.
“And with you and Beau.” She gestured with her drink. “Nothing going on there, right?”
I smiled at her. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
I tried to enter the house quietly, even though the light in the living room alerted me to Beau being awake. It was the only reason the light would be on. Because he wouldn’t leave the light on for me. That would require consideration, fondness for a person, and basic manners.
Beau didn’t have any of those things. Not when it came to me, at least.
Nonetheless, I tried to be quiet as I entered the house, but it didn’t work with the keys not fitting into the lock properly. It took me three tries to hear the satisfying click as it opened, my fingers almost numb as I turned the handle. I tripped over the doorstep and dropped the keys with a clatter.
“Whoopsie,” I muttered, swinging down to pick them up, pulling the door with me with a slam before falling onto my hands and knees.
“Ouch,” I yelped as the keys jammed into my palm. I looked around for something to grasp on to, to help pull me up since I didn’t entirely trust my balance. It should’ve been embarrassing or shameful, since I’d seen my mother in states not dissimilar to this throughout my childhood and swore I’d never become her. But such heavy thoughts were too big to latch on to in any real way. Instead, I focused on what was important—finding me something solid to pull myself up.
Then my eyes found it.
The console table by the front door, anchored to the wall. Every piece of furniture in this house was anchored to the wall because Beau was an excellent father and did not take a chance on anything that could hurt his daughter.
I sighed at the thought that made my chest burn uncomfortably, at the dichotomy of admiring his devotion to Clara and abhorring how he treated me.
Finding my way to the console table, I used my hands to pull myself up to my feet, shaky at first—much like a baby who hadn’t quite learned how to walk yet.
“I did it.” I stood in triumph.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I turned slowly to see Beau standing in the archway between the living room and entryway.
He was bathed in light and shadows. Only a corner lamp and the TV were on, so I couldn’t see him in exquisite detail. His arms were crossed, and he was regarding me with an expression that said he’d just seen me stumble through the door then crawl on my hands and knees across the floor.
Shit.
That was not at all professional.
I cleared my own throat, straightening my spine. “Good evening, Beau.” I tried to sound serious, responsible, and most important, sober.
“You’re drunk.” Beau’s voice was even, cold but not entirely combative. It almost sounded … amused.
“I’m not drunk,” I argued, trying to pull off my jacket, only to realize it was somehow fused to my body. I struggled a little as my ankle rolled, and I almost toppled over.
I would’ve if it weren’t for his firm hands on my hips. When the scent of juniper and leather fragranced the air, my skin tingled at his smell, at his nearness.
“You caught me,” I whispered, turning to look up at him. His jaw was hard underneath his beard. The harsh glint in his eyes was still there, but behind it shimmered something else. Something I must’ve been imagining.