My breath shudders. For a moment relief thrums in my veins as if hearing him say this makes it true.
But it doesn’t, and it isn’t. Because Jonathan is on his way over right now, and I don’t see a way out. My eyes fill again.
Beau’s gaze softens. “Tell me what’s going on.”
It’s a huge risk. He might look at me with disgust. He might hate me. He might tell a tabloid.
Okay, knowing what I know of Beau, the last one seems pretty unlikely, but still.
And even in the face of so much risk, I want to tell him.
I take a fortifying breath. “I’m supposed to stay with Jonathan, my director, this weekend.”
To my surprise, Beau nods. “Ramon told me.”
My eyebrows bounce. “He told you? When?”
“Yesterday.” He gives a little eye roll. “When he asked me to pick up the stuff in your yard.”
“Wha—”
“I’ll explain later.” Beau meets my eyes with his open gaze, without judgement. “Tell me about this terrible thing you’re doing.”
So I tell him.
And as I unload everything—all about Moira’s determination to see me with Jonathan and the actions she expects me to take—his jaw hardens and his nostrils flare, but I don’t find the disgust or disdain I expect in his eyes.
“I can’t do this,” I say, my voice shaking. “But Moira is determined. She’ll get her way even if I don’t cooperate.”
Beau frowns in confusion. “What do you mean? How could she get her way if you refuse?”
I deflate in his arms. “She has a controlling hand in everything. My email, my social media accounts. Bank accounts. Everything. She always has.” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “She can post whatever she wants and make a lie look true.”
His eyelids lower to a simmering glare. “She’d do that?”
My bitterness comes out in a choked laugh. “She does it all the time. It’s what managers do. They manage things.”
Beau’s nostrils flair. “But not against their clients’ wishes.”
I know. I know this. But—
“You don’t understand.” I try to step out of his embrace, but Beau holds me tighter.
“Then explain it to me. Why do you let her do this to you?”
I shake my head. “I can’t—” I want to tell him that I’d more easily explain the origins of the universe. That a cosmic explosion of absolutely everything—every atom ever—makes more sense to me than my relationship with my mother. But I don’t get the chance.
Mica barks again.
“Shit.”
Beau turns to follow my gaze through the glass of the French door, releasing me. The headlights of Jonathan Reynolds’ Lexus illuminate the storm-darkened front porch.
Beau looks back at me, and I can see he’s waiting. Waiting to see what I’ll do. I’m frozen. I should do something, say something, but I can’t.
Outside, the Lexus’s driver’s side door opens, and a huge golf umbrella emerges ahead of my director. But the rain is blowing sideways, and even under the umbrella’s canopy. He’s getting soaked.
This is my fault.
