Page 11
Hell. It’s too late.
With the clarity of a man watching his own house catch fire, I fear my wicked attraction to Elodie is gonna take me down.
The two of us have nine more weeks together. If things get any more intense, no matter how hard I fight it…
Eventually I’m going to cave in.
five
One Week Later
Well, this location is a real buzz kill.
We’d planned to go to his house today, but he texted earlier and said a study room on campus was all he could manage today. Something about a busy schedule.
It’s a lie, of course. I may be young and have limited experience with men, but we had a moment at the cafe last week. He may have shut it down, but…
Anyway, I said, “no problem.”
It made him uncomfortable and I don’t want to add anything to his plate. I like the man. He’s a good guy so I’m not gonna give in to his “hot daddy vibes.” I vow to tamp down any indication I’m attracted to him.
Which all goes out the window when he comes in five minutes later.
Age has been indecently kind to Beau. Silver-blond stubble sharpens his jaw, and the lines around his mouth make me wonder how they’d feel beneath my tongue. His eyes are a clear, piercing blue. When they settle on me, every thought in my head rearranges itself around getting him naked.
The man dresses for the possibility of a stage. Faded black jeans cling to his thighs. A thin T-shirt skims the flat plane of his stomach beneath a narrow-cut leather jacket. Worn boots, silver rings, an old watch.
No khakis. No golf shirts. Nothing suggesting he’s ever operated a lawn mower.
My whole body leans toward him without asking me first. Damn. I’ve spent this entire week telling myself this is a crush I can outlast. Nope. The second he drops into the chair and pushes his sleeves up his forearms, I lose my own name for a second.
It’s best I focus on the assignment. We emailed initial drafts to each other two nights ago. I’ve read his four times and hate it more each time. He slides my copy back across the table. I push his back at him. We’re taking old-school manual notes at his request.
“You wrote me as a sympathy card for a funeral I didn’t have.” I scrunch my face up. “‘Elodie carries a grief beyond her years with remarkable grace.’ Grace? You turned me into a brave little inspiration. Exactly what I told you I didn’t want.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Well, it’s what I saw.”
“No, you’re playing it safe.” I hold his gaze without backing down. “You wrote a Pollyanna version of me. A sweet college kid, not the real woman in front of you. Don’t diminish my life and experiences. I may only be twenty-two, but I feel forty. I think the real me is a problem for you, and we both know it.”
Shit. I said too much.
Beau smirks. Taps my pages without looking down at them. “Pot calling kettle. You wrote me as a goddamn saint. Rough childhood followed by textbook wild rockstar years, met Yolanda, cleaned up, had kids, the end. You cut out everything interesting. Tell me why.”
Goddammit. He’s right.
“Fine. You want the parts I left out?” I lean over the table. “You almost died twice on tour. You put your fist through a sound guy’s face in Portland and paid to make it disappear. You went through women like hotel towels. You were a mean, beautiful disaster, and everybody around you was scared of you or in love with you or both.”
His face doesn’t move, so I keep going.
“Then Yolanda looked at you like you were worth more and you decided to become the version of the guy she saw. You got sober. You were faithful. You built yourself into an amazing husband and a great father one day at a time.” I drop my voice. “If you want the truth, I don’t think you’ve killed the other guy. He may be buried, but he’s still in there, wide awake, and you spend every day of your life sitting on the lid. I think you’re exhausted, Beau. I think being this good for this long, with nobody left to be good for, is killing you. I think some part of you is begging for one reason to release the Kraken.”
Beau’s face goes white. He’s quiet for a long moment then leans across the table.
“You’re half-right. I am tired. Tired down to the fucking bone.” His voice is eerily level, which is worse than him being angry at my incredulous observation. “The man I keep hidden isn’t fun, Elodie. He’s the reason a woman I dated before Yolanda spent a week in a mental hospital. He’s the reason my own mother stopped taking my calls for two years. The old me doesn’t come out to blow off steam. He comes out to burn everything down. Other than my bandmates, I’m the only person still alive who remembers how bad it got, so yeah. I need to keep the door shut and locked. I’ve met the real Beau Bixby. You never have and if it’s up to me, you never will.”
It shuts me up. Underneath the calm, Beau isn’t being noble. He’s being careful. Responsible.
“Okay.” I lower my voice. “You told one reporter staying good takes something out of you every single day. Can’t you figure out how to be fully yourself without giving in to the destructive parts?”
