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Mom was right. Being here on the farm, having the time to heal and take a deep breath before I dive back into the deep end, is helping.
The Zoloft and the food and the time with Beau are helping.
Leaving him is going to hurt. But deep down, now I know I’ll be happy again. Eventually. May take a while. Hell, it may take months. A year.
But I’ll get there.
It will be me and Maisie against the world.
And for the first time in forever, I’m realizing just how much fight I’ve got left in me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beau
“Pull.”
The clay disc arcs through the air. Stance steady, rifle pressed to my cheek, I wait. One heartbeat.
Another.
I wait until it feels right, then I squeeze the trigger.
I absorb the kickback with well-practiced ease, leaning into it. The clay shatters with a neat crack that echoes across the forest around us.
My skin prickles with the heat of Bel’s stare. I thumb the rifle’s safety back into place.
“What?” I ask, removing my earplugs.
“I don’t like guns,” she says. “But Lord, do I like watching you handle one. It. The gun.”
Our guide, Carlos, a young Argentinian guy with hair that curls out from under his Blue Mountain baseball cap, tries not to smile as he opens a new box of shells.
“You sayin’ I handle my weapon with exceptional skill?”
Bel’s eyes dart to Carlos. “He’s not usually this much of a perv. Wait, that’s a lie. He totally is.”
Carlos clears his throat. “You two need a minute alone, or—”
“No. Nope.” Stepping behind Bel, I help her position the rifle on her shoulder by covering her hands with mine and showing her where to hold the gun. She presses back into me, almost curling into my body, inviting me closer.
Touching this woman is an addiction I can’t seem to break. Even though this morning I promised myself I’d keep my hands off her. We spent the night apart. I made the decision easy and blamed my inbox, which wasn’t entirely a lie as I had, no joke, one hundred twenty-two unanswered emails plus seventeen voicemails. Granted, my assistant can handle a big chunk of those, but they’re still scary numbers to see.
I figured we needed time to cool off. Process.
Yesterday was a lot, and so was last night. I guess I wanted to give Bel the chance to digest all the stupid decisions we’re making.
Me, I’m impulsive. But she’s still sharp as a tack. She’s still capable of proceeding with caution. It’s important to me that she be given the headspace to think clearly and pull the ripcord if need be.
I half expected her not to show to our clay-shooting session this morning. My rational side hoped she wouldn’t. Part of me hoped she’d already gone and pulled that ripcord.
But Bel showed, looking cute as hell in jeans and boots and a sweater that makes her full tits look even bigger. Purple thumbprints under her eyes. (“Maisie definitely did not sleep through the night this time.”) Eyes that sparkled when they landed on me.
Aw, shit.
The stuff inside my chest had to rearrange itself to fit around my swollen heart.
Something else swells, too, as I nudge Bel’s left leg forward with my own. Once she’s in the proper position—legs spread, torso tight, that slight lean forward—I should back off. But I don’t.
She’s here, isn’t she? She knows what this is, knows what my limits are, and she’s accepting it.
It makes me a little angry. She deserves the world—she deserves to be someone’s whole life—so why is she settling for two weeks with me?
She feels warm and sure pressed up against me.
I fucking love having this girl in my arms. Admitting as much may make me a shameless bastard, but I can’t help it.
My desire for her, for her to have the best of everything, leaves me stuck between a rock and a hard place. Dipping my head, I brush her ear with my lips. You deserve so much better, I want to say to her.
“Say ‘pull’ when you’re ready,” I say instead. A little louder than normal, on account of the earplugs she’s put in. “Finger on the trigger. That’s right. Now aim.”
“Pull!”
Carlos releases the clay.
Bel squeezes the trigger. Her entire body recoils at the force of the kickback, the butt of the gun sliding from her collarbone into her armpit.
The untouched clay lands somewhere on the ground with a muted thud.
“Je-sus.” Her fingers immediately move to the inside of her upper arm, her mouth a perfect o of shock. “Ow, Beau, I’m afraid of it. That hurt!”
I try not to laugh. “Have more faith in your weapon-handling skills. You gotta hold the gun in your shoulder nice and tight. Otherwise, you’re gonna get beat up. Here, I’ll hold you so my body will absorb some of the shock, too. Try again.”
