“I can’t have sex with you!?” I want to die. That’s clearly the only way out of this.
Harlan’s guest bathroom was everything I would have expected it to be. Stunning, bright green and white tiles arranged in an intricate mosaic and a claw-foot tub that put my Zillow trolling to shame. But I could barely enjoy the kind of snooping that usually comes from being in a stranger’s guest bathroom, because I had to heave the torn shirt off my body and throw it into a shockingly ornate, possibly hand-gilded trash can.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I’d buttoned Beau’s shirt halfway down my chest and knotted the ends at my waist in a last-ditch effort to make the look seem intentional and not what it actually was—the by-product of Dylan-not-Damon’s bullshit accessories. Beau had opened the French doors that led to one of the home’s Juliet balconies and was leaning on the railing, taking in the view of the canyon.
The soft glow of the house lights cast shadows against his profile, his posture relaxed, one hand curled loosely around the balcony’s iron rail. He must have heard the shuffle of my footsteps, because he glanced back at me. His gaze swept over the knotted shirt, lingering for a second before he smirked. “Nice.”
Shit. He looks good.
My cheeks flushed again from the embarrassment of rejecting an advance Beau hadn’t made. I already knew it was the kind of embarrassment that would wake me up at one in the morning years from now, urging me to relitigate what I should have said, what Iwouldhave said if I was thinking clearly. If he didn’t look so, so good.
This day is a light rail to hell.
Beau tilted his head toward the canyon. “You ever been up here before?”
I frowned. “To Harlan’s house?”
He shook his head. “No, up here. The canyons.”
I glanced past him to where the ridge stretched beyond the property, wild and untouched. In the distance, the city lights glittered like scattered jewels.
“No,” I admitted. “Not a lot of time for hikes in Simon’s employ.”
I glanced down at the scene unfolding below, more convinced than ever that some people’s success defied both logic and the rules of natural selection. Someone was definitely snorting lines off the patio furniture. Near the outdoor bar, a bartender wielded a chain saw—because, apparently, knives were too pedestrian for craft ice—while Harlan presided over the spectacle like a king in his debauched court. Proof that chaos and success weren’t mutually exclusive.
Beau followed my gaze, his expression amused.
“I give it twenty minutes before someone loses a finger,” I murmured.
“Twenty whole minutes?” His mouth twitched. “That’s generous.”
“You can’t sell to him,” I said, watching as someone—probably high on ketamine—climbed onto a table. “You’re actually great. Don’t give your software to this pack of assholes.”
Beau huffed a laugh. “Pack of assholes?”
“Somebody has to be the one to say it.” I shrugged, unapologetic for the overstep.
“But you think I’m great,” he said with a softness in his voice that melted me.
There was a spark in his hazel eyes as they held mine, and the shift in the air was so subtle I almost convinced myself I imagined it. Almost. But it was there, in the narrowing space between us, and the hint of spearmint on his breath. The way his gaze flitted from my eyes to my lips and back again made my body fizz like a shaken bottle of champagne. For a single, fragile heartbeat, I thought we might kiss.
No. No. No. You cannot kiss Beau Walker. You are sleeping with Simon.
We didn’t have titles. The closest Simon and I had come to definingwhateverwe were doing was when he asked if I wanted to have dinner at his house for Valentine’s Day, and I nearly spilled my coffee from panic. I didn’t want to stare at him longingly over sushi. I wanted to take over the world. The way I flinched must have made my boundaries clear, because Simon never asked again.
There was no “us.” No titles. No love notes or whispered confessions. Beyond the boundary of his bedroom, we were co-workers. But we were both so busy that our arrangement was the exclusive kind. That was the rule I made—because anything else would’ve been a liability.
And up until this exact moment, it was the perfect arrangement for two workaholics. But something about the warm hazel of Beau’s eyes made Simon’s and my arrangement not so convenient.
I straightened, trying to recover. “You’re great at your job—obviously. And lending out shirts. And you’re particularly skilled at keeping a straight face while I unravel.”
Beau watched me with an expression I would have paid good money to decode.
“I should probably go,” I said, but I only made it three steps before I heard his footfalls behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I said, “You don’t have to walk me out.”
He slid his hands into his pockets. “I know.”
But he didn’t stop. So we both descended the stairs and practically ran into Gemma.
