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He let out a long breath. “Driving around. Thinking.”
I sighed and lowered myself to the couch. “About?”
“That show was fucked up, G.”
Resting my head on the arm of the couch, I kicked up my feet on the cushions. “It’s just a show. Why’d you let it get you all riled up?”
“Just a show? Just a show? Fuck, it’s not just a show. It makes us look like we’re—you know, and we’re not. For Christ sakes, it makes you look like you gave it up and we spent the night together. When that is not the truth at all.”
“We knew this going in, Beau. It’s not a surprise.”
“You couldn’t have known what it would look like. Honestly, Geneviève, you couldn’t have known. And now—it’s out there. Everything. If I could take it back, I would. This was a stupid, goddamn idea. I can’t believe I talked you into it.”
I felt a sad smile form on my lips. “You didn’t talk me into anything. I am an adult, you know.”
“No, G, no way did you have any idea what you were getting into. I was a dick for making it seem like it was no big deal. When it’s a huge fucking deal. This is your life, Geneviève.”
His voice was jagged and hoarse—full of emotion like I’d never heard him before. My tiny heart twisted and ached for him. “I’m fine, really. You’re interpreting it wrong.”
“Honey, millions of people saw your dad’s pictures. They heard you share about him. Fuck, they heard me play his goddamn guitar.”
I started tearing up. His words wound around me like a warm, sheep’s wool blanket. His worry for me touched me somewhere so deep inside, it made me feel—I didn’t even know how it made me feel. This was something new for me. New and confusing.
Beau wasn’t my boyfriend—he just played it on television, for the world. For the team. I wasn’t even sure if we were friends. Whatever this relationship was—is?—confused me.
His feelings of guilt stirred an emotion inside of me that I couldn’t quite name. “It’s okay. I knew about the cameras.”
“It’s not fucking okay. Nobody but you and whoever you decide to show should see it. That’s messed up. Do not cover for me and try to make this shit okay when it is fucking, not,” he spat out. He was filled with so much anger, I wished he was beside me so I could calm him down.
“I’m fine. You’re fine. Come home. Please? None of this matters. Next week—next month—next year—nobody will even remember who I am or what happened. You’ll be photographed with a new starlet and three more princesses by next Christmas, I’m sure. And I’ll fade back into my boring, little life.”
“It was one princess, Geneviève,” he said, a teeny hint of humor in his tone.
“I’m sure there are at least three more waiting for your call.”
“And she was complete crap in bed.”
“Oh my gosh, you didn’t say that out loud.”
“I said it to you. And she was awful. Bony. Those fluffy dresses hid a lot of sharp edges.”
I exhaled and tried not to giggle. “You’re terrible.”
“I am. I’m just sorry I dragged you down to my level. You—fuck—you don’t deserve any of this. You’re a good person. And now your reputation is—”
“There are worse things in the world than being known for sleeping with Beau Moreau, star forward for the Las Vegas Angels.” I tried to tease him.
“You’re better than that, Geneviève. So much better. This—this—this is all bullshit. I’m going to talk with Angelique and Marcel. We can’t go on like this. It’s so wrong.”
Oh God.
Now I knew what that feeling was.
Love.
I loved Beau Moreau, star forward for the Las Vegas Angels—only man I’d ever had a crush on in my entire life, the person I just knew I was going to marry from the instant I first saw his hockey card when I was young.
Oh crap.
