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I know right then that I want this to happen again. And again and again and again.
I want to be with Beau.
But I understand where he’s coming from. Taking some time to cool off is probably a good idea right now, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish he’d spend the night in my bed.
“Your boob still hurt?”
I manage a little laugh, despite the lump in my throat. “My boob will be fine.”
“Let’s get you home.”
Neither of us says a word on the ride back to the cottage. Beau sits stiffly beside me, careful not to let so much as his jacket touch me.
When we pull up to my house, there’s a light on in the foyer, but the rest of the house looks dark. I let out a silent sigh of relief. Mom will know something’s up the second she sees my face, and I don’t really feel like talking with anyone but Beau right now.
I linger for a minute in the cart. Beau is still stiff as a stone beside me, wrist hanging over the wheel, hurt and heat radiating off him.
That makes me hurt. Was it really so bad, what we did? Is he angry with himself, or is he angry with me?
I swallow hard. Beau promised me answers. I just have to be patient.
“Take all the time you need,” I say.
He makes this expression, this half-wince, half-grimace, jaw clenching. “I hate to keep you waitin’. I’m sorry.”
I put my hand on his knee. “I keep telling you, Beau, it’s fine. Just because we…did what we did, you’re still my best friend. I’m here to listen, always. When you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” His eyes are pleading. My curiosity to know what’s going on with him burns brightly inside my chest, but I can’t push him. He’ll tell me when the time is right. That’s his choice. “Bel—”
He stops himself, sliding back his hand to grab the wheel with his fingers. He looks away.
“Yeah?” I whisper.
He looks back. “Promise me we’ll be okay. I need us to be okay, no matter what happens next. I need you.”
I give his knee a squeeze. My throat is so tight I can hardly breathe. “I promise. Always.”
“You gonna be okay?”
I nod, even though I know I’m full of shit. “I’ll figure it out. Good night, Beau.”
“Night, honey.” He presses a scruffy kiss to my cheek.
He makes sure I get inside, and then he drives away.
Chapter Nine
Beau
The next morning, I wake up earlier than usual, bone tired, my knees and head screaming. The memory of Annabel all over me.
My dick is hard as a tree trunk.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. I have dozens of texts, per usual—most from work people. Updates from my head of partnerships. A text from Samuel, probably another saga about how Emma is a pain in his ass. A text from my sister, Milly, probably bitching about so-and-so client changing their mind again about their color scheme.
And a text from Annabel. I open that one first.
Annabel: Sorry for texting so early. Maisie’s 3 AM feeding got me like [red-face emoji with bleeped-out curse word]. But I can’t stop thinking about last night. Our friendship means the world to me. I’d never intentionally do anything to wreck what we have, and I understand if you don’t want a repeat of what happened at the dock house. But I felt better being with you than I have in ages. You made me feel good, Beau. So whatever you’re feeling right now, I just hope it’s not guilt. You didn’t hurt me, and I sincerely hope I didn’t hurt you either. I’m sorry if I did. Call me in the AM [kissy-face emoji].
My stupid heart swells with hope, but I do my best to stop that swelling in its tracks. So what if I made her feel good? It’s not like anything can come of it.
Annabel is not herself right now. She’s said as much. This is just the fucked-up shit inside our heads making us do stupid things we wouldn’t otherwise do.
Tugging a hand through my hair, I groan when I pivot my hips and set my bare feet on the floor. Then I groan again when I settle my elbows on my thighs, cradling my phone in my hand.
Mornings, before I fuel up on my usual gallon of coffee, are the hardest. Glamor and glory surround the careers of pro football players like me, but there’s this conspiracy of silence around the aftermath. My body—and my head—took a brutal beating in the decades I played ball. The soreness and stiffness and outright pain I wake up with most days make me feel a hundred years old.
A reminder of why I cannot, under any circumstances, touch Bel again.
I take care of my hard-on in the shower, ashamed that I think about Annabel while I jack off, but I’m too tired—and too fucking horny—to care.
