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Or it could be nothing.
I wipe at my nose with the back of my wrist. “I know. It’s…man, this is—”
“Hard.” Mom sits on the arm of the sofa and smooths back my hair. Thank God for moms, right? “I understand. It’s a lot, which is why you need a break.”
“I’d go if I could stop crying already. And if this kid would just take the boob.” I try again, but Maisie howls. My breasts are so full they hurt.
I’m gripped by the urge to hand her to my mother and quietly but quickly slip out the door to run away forever.
Mother of the year right here.
“Be patient,” Mom says.
“I’m trying.”
Just when I’m really about to lose it, Maisie clamps down on my nipple and starts to suck. I let my head fall back on the sofa.
“I do need a break. And a cocktail. Too bad you’re not supposed to drink when you’re on antidepressants.” Another cherry on this shit sundae.
“You took the Zoloft?”
“I did.”
“Good girl. And you don’t need to drink to have a good time with Beau. Go.”
Right on cue, my phone chimes.
Beau: You’re thinking about blowing me off. Don’t. I have a cocktail and a seat by the fire with your name on it. Unless you’d prefer a mocktail? Not sure what your status is with nursing and all that stuff.
I grin. The man knows me, I’ll give him that.
Annabel: Is your seat next to mine?
Beau: Always. Now get your ass down here.
The sun is setting when I leave the house. A few long, thin clouds float across an otherwise clear night sky. It’s chilly enough to need a jacket, but not so cold that I’m uncomfortable. The kind of fresh spring air that makes this season in the South so magical.
I follow a footpath down to the outdoor pavilion. Set into the hillside beside a small lake, it’s about as picturesque as it gets. Fairy lights in Mason jars light the path leading up to it, and an enormous bonfire crackles in front of the stage.
People have set out picnic blankets on the lawn around the fire. Kids roast marshmallows at what looks to be a s’mores station. The air smells like burning wood and bourbon. To the left of the stage, a long farm table is set with coffee, hot chocolate, and cocktails, plus trays of appetizers and desserts.
A figure, dark in the fading light, waves to me from near the fire. As I get closer, I recognize a familiar set of broad shoulders. Beau steps closer to the fire, and it lights up the cocky half-smile, half-smirk thing he puts on when he’s happy but wants to play it cool.
He’s wearing his signature baseball hat, but it’s backward this time, with a puffer jacket, unzipped, and jeans.
But it’s his eyes that get me. He may be wearing a carefully calibrated smirk, but nothing’s fake about that hunger in his gaze. That burning vulnerability.
“Stop that,” I say with a shiver, tucking my chin into the collar of my jacket.
“Stop what?”
“Stop not smiling,” I say. “None of this smirky celebrity bullshit with me, all right?”
He rewards me with his smile, a real one, and when I stop in front of him, he wraps me in his arms. I melt into his warmth. I’m not petite by any means, but my head still only comes up to his chest. I rest my cheek against that chest, large and solid. The smell of him surrounds me. Woodsy. Hint of smoke. He’s worn the same cologne for as long as I can remember, and it makes me think of good times.
Happier times.
“How ya feelin’, Mama?”
“Better.” I let out a breath into his shirt, closing my eyes. “Better now.”
He kisses the top of my head just like he always does.
And like I always do, I say, “Hey, friend.”
“I keep waiting for you to say, ‘Hey, handsome.’”
I grin, my lips whispering over the fabric of his shirt as I open my eyes to meet his. “Don’t hold your breath. I refuse to add any more ammunition to that ego of yours.”
He pulls his brows together, eyes going wide in feigned bewilderment. “I have an ego?”
“A big one, yes,” I say, giving his chest a little shove. “Nice Robin Hood Men in Tights reference, by the way.”
He holds up his hand, and I give him a high five.
“We should watch that while you’re here. I know I for one could use a good laugh. C’mon,” he says. “I got us some chairs and that cocktail I promised you.”
I follow him to a pair of Adirondack chairs that face the fire and the stage.
Best seats in the house.
Of course.
A low table between the chairs is set with a plate of chocolate chip cookies—my favorite—and two copper mugs of steaming cider.
I look at him. “Beau.”
“What?”
“You know what. This—and the house, and the wine—”
