To: Annabel Rhodes ([email protected])
From: John Riley Beauregard ([email protected])
December 30, 2005 1:01 AM EST
Subject: Miss ya
Bel! How was your Christmas? Did you get that power suit you wanted? God I’d love to see you in it. I miss you so damn much. Tell Lizzie I said hi. I know y’all are off to the beach for New Year’s to hang with the extended family. I’m jealous.
Also, I’m really glad to hear Christmas Eve with your dad went well. I know you were kinda dreading it, but sounds like y’all got along. I’m happy for you.
I don’t mean to be, like, Debbie Downer here. But things with my family haven’t been so great. In fact, this has probably been the worst Christmas. Ever. Dad isn’t doing well. His dementia is getting really, really bad. It’s been awful, seeing him like this. He hasn’t been himself for a while. But he’s taken a turn for the worse, and it’s wigging all of us out.
He’s way too young for this to happen.
Mom is struggling to cope. I see the toll it’s taking on her. She says she’s fine. But I went downstairs a little while ago to grab something from the fridge, and I saw her crying.
I promised I would take care of her and Daddy. You know how well my season went this year. My prospects of going pro are looking pretty decent right now.
Still, I’m scared, Bel. I’m trying to put on a strong face for my family. But inside, I feel helpless, and I hate that.
Wow. I’m going from Debbie Downer to Drama Queen. I’ll stop now. But it’s late and I’m thinking about you and I wish you were here. Counting down the days until spring semester starts. Please tell me you’ve watched as much porn as I have over break.
Your favorite pervert,
B
Chapter Ten
Annabel
My phone dings just as I’m reheating my coffee for the twelfth time today. Eight AM, and I already feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Beau: I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I don’t mean to be an asshole, but like I said, I needed time to clear my head. There are some things I need to tell you. Think you can swing dinner at my place later? I have an insane day but should be free around six. You’re welcome to bring Maisie of course. In the meantime, give her a kiss from Uncle Beau.
Reading it, my heart pops around my chest. My first reaction is concern. What else does Beau need to tell me? I hope everything’s okay. Although I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that it isn’t.
That Beau isn’t okay. He told me about his depression. What if there’s more to the story?
The thought makes my stomach, already queasy, lurch.
Especially considering what I want to tell him.
Namely, that I’ve had feelings for him pretty much since the day we met, and I’d very much like a repeat of what happened last night.
Is this a bad idea? It’s not like he’s got some magical dick that will suddenly cure me. I know I need to do the hard work of healing on my own, of waiting for things to get better. With help, of course. But I can’t rely on him to do the heavy lifting for me.
I can’t numb the pain of waiting with sex. Then I’ll never heal at all.
But getting my groove back physically? Emotionally? That doesn’t seem like a bad idea. In fact, it seems like a necessary part of coming back to myself. And who better to help with that than my honest, kind, smoking-hot best friend? The guy I’ve been confiding in, trusting, forever?
It’s just—in my heart of hearts, I know I want to at least try more with Beau. Maybe it will take some time. We’ll have to get to know each other in a whole new way, but my gut is telling me it’s worth a shot.
Annabel: I feed Maisie at 7, so how about dinner around 7:30? I hope you’re okay. Looking forward to talking. Maisie says hello!
Beau: Hi, Maisie! 7:30 sounds good. Can I pick you up?
My heart pops again. There’s something so…gentlemanly about a guy picking you up. Romantic.
Is this a good sign? Bad sign?
And why do my hands shake as I type my reply?
Annabel: Sure. I’ll ask Mom if she can babysit. It’s hard for me to concentrate when I have Maisie with me.
Beau: Okay. The resort has sitters on retainer, by the way.
Beau: Just in case you ever need one. You’ll be put at the top of the list.
Annabel: You really need to stop.
Beau: Stop what?
Annabel: Being ridiculously over the top with your generosity.
Beau: Speaking of—2PM massage work for you?
Annabel: STOP
Beau: Jesus Bel just let me flaunt my wealth and fame okay?
Beau: [Winky face emoji]
Beau: Christ, you made me use an emoji. See you at 7:30.
“A scarf with pajamas.” Mom tilts her coffee mug to her lips, giving me a once-over. “That’s a new look.”
I startle, glancing up from my phone. My hand immediately goes to my neck. The hickey there pulses.
“I was chilly when I woke up.” I sip my coffee. “Coffee’s great. Thank God.”
“They truly have the best of everything here. How was last night?”
“Good,” I reply a little too quickly. “Hank is really talented. As a musician. The stuff he played was great.”
“And Beau?”
I swallow. The coffee scalds my tongue. “It was a treat, hanging out with Beau again. Nice to feel like my pre-baby self for a bit.”
Even nicer to be pressed against a wall and kissed by the guy I’ve wanted since we met.
Sounds a little weird, considering I was married there for a bit. But when I met Ryan, Beau was still all over the place. He was dating an actress and buried in building the resort. I was ready for romance. Ready to find real love and start a family. I told myself the timing wasn't right with my old college friend and moved on.
And I did move on while I was with Ryan. I was genuinely in love with my husband. But now that he’s out of the picture…
I mean, what if this was all meant to happen? My divorce, the PPD, that sultry Rolling Stones cover?
What if I was meant to be with Beau all along?
Mom grins. “Is that who you’re texting?”
How do moms know everything?
“Yeah. Yes. We’re, um, gonna have dinner tonight.”
Mom is trying to fight a smile. It’s a fight she’s losing.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. You just seem a little…jittery this morning. Are you excited about something?”
Excited. Turned on. Confused. Scared.
“I’m…in my feelings, yeah.”
“What’s ‘in my feelings’ mean?”
I glance out the window. “It’s something the youths say. Means you’re feeling stuff. I think, anyway.”
A hollow wail erupts from the monitor. Just like it does every time I attempt to sit down. To breathe. To talk. To have coffee. Will she ever do what the books tell me she’ll do and sleep for a full hour?
I fight off the tears as I get up to go comfort her. Again.
The massage helps.
Helps pass the time.
Helps my hamstrings and butt, which apparently are connected to the spasm-y ache in my lower back.
But my general mental well-being? Jury’s out on that. Halfway through the eighty minutes—because sixty wasn’t enough for Beau—my mind, ever the saboteur, starts to spin out.
I left my baby with my mom yet again. I make a mental note to book Mom a massage too.
This feels too good. I’m too relaxed. Am I getting away with something? I’m definitely getting away with something.
My boobs hurt. Am I leaking all over the table?
I miss Maisie.
No, I don’t.
Should I miss her more?
I want to kiss Beau again. Then I want to get him naked.
I don’t want this massage to ever end.
But it does, sadly, and afterward I get dres
sed in the swanky locker room. Then I shoot my friend Mandy a text.
Annabel: Did you ever not miss your babies when you left them?
Mandy: All. The. Damn. Time. Everyone needs a break. No shame in enjoying it. Why? Having a bout of mom guilt?
Annabel: Maybe.
Mandy: Remember you gotta put your oxygen mask on first, Mama. Sending you hugs.
My full boobs won’t allow me time to lounge at the spa’s ridiculous indoor Jacuzzi, so I head home.
Standing at the front door, I take a breath.
I can do this. I can feel joyful when I see her.
Will this always be so hard? Will weaning her or something help me finally fall in love with motherhood?
I don’t know. One thing I do know? This is just my new normal. There truly are no real breaks from your baby when you’re nursing her around the clock.
You chose this single parent gig, Annabel. How can you complain?
The rush to get away and the rush to get back are real. But they’re my choice.
Today, though, I was gifted some time away. And I can see I have a smidge more patience with Maisie. A smile comes more naturally as I pick her up and cuddle her to my chest.
I’m here, sweet girl.
I can already see that having time to myself, away from the baby, has benefits. It’s an absolute privilege to be able to take that time even though it shouldn’t be. But if I can take it, I’m realizing that I should.
I need to. For Maisie’s sake. And for mine.
Beau shows up right on time. Glancing out the window, I try not to read too much into the way he’s dressed: nice jeans, nice shirt, no hat. His hair is neatly parted and still a little wet from the shower.
Which means he’s going to smell delicious.
My heart is pounding inside my chest, and my skin is already tingling. I normally feel so relaxed around Beau, but now I know what his mouth tastes like. I know how big his dick is.
That kinda changes everything, doesn’t it?
“You look great,” Mom says as I hand over Maisie.
I pluck uncomfortably at the front of my shirt. “Thanks. Nothing’s hanging out or leaking, is it? No stray nipples to report?”
Mom laughs. “Nope.”
If I’m being honest, I did dress up for a date.
Well, I did my best with what I brought with me, anyway. Jeans that are a size too tight and make my stomach hurt when I sit down in them. A black V-neck blouse (bonus points for being easy to nurse in, thanks to the front clasp), and black high-heeled booties. The one pair of statement earrings I brought.
“There’s an extra bottle of breastmilk in the fridge. Just in case she needs it.”
“We’ll be fine. Go have fun.”
I reach out and place my hand over Mom’s. “Thank you. I know I’m leaving you guys two nights in a row—”
“Really, Annabel, it’s fine. Think about it. These are the first nights you’ve been away from the baby in four months. A break is long overdue. See you in a bit.”
My phone pings with a text from Beau as I’m heading out the front door.
Beau: Here.
He looks up from his phone, and our eyes meet across the front yard.
My heart trips to a dead stop inside my chest.
He looks laughably huge in the golf cart with one wrist draped casually over the wheel. No jacket, so I can see just how perfectly his arms and chest and shoulders fill out his shirt.
And his eyes—
They’re soft. Serious.
They’re on me, raking over my features, my body, before locking on my eyes. Makes me feel human again—wholly, embarrassingly, refreshingly human.
Makes me feel alive.
My heart resumes its beating and takes off at a sprint.
The sudden change in pace leaves me breathless.
“Hey,” I manage, running a hand through my hair. I give my jeans a tug as I walk up the gravel path to meet him.
My face feels warm. Warmer when he says, “You look great, Bel.”
“Thanks. Amazing what a shower and a little shampoo can do.” I slide onto the vinyl bench beside him.
He smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. I’m getting the feeling I won’t like what he’s got to say.
It’s not awkward when he leans over to kiss my cheek. The brush of his beard against my skin makes my nipples harden. Not two seconds in, and I’m already getting turned on.
But it is awkward when a beat of silence, and then another and another, stretch between us on the drive to his place.
We both move to break it at the same time.
“How was your—”
“You enjoy the ma—”
We laugh. More awkwardness.
Shit.
“You first,” he says.
I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. It’s chilly now that we’re moving. “Nothing. Just asking about your day.”
“Long.” He sighs, running a hand down his beard. My gaze catches on his forearms; they’re bare, the sleeves of his button-up rolled to his elbows. Bare and big. I follow a trail of thick veins to his hands. Those are big, too.
They were on me last night, touching me everywhere I craved to be touched.
“Yours?” he asks.
I blink. “The massage was really great. Thank you again.”
“My pleasure.” His eyes flick over my legs. That attraction I felt last night flares to life. But then—
More silence.
I hate this.
I fucking hate this.
When we pull up in front of Beau’s new place, I remember I haven’t seen it yet.
“It’s beautiful,” is all I can manage. It’s new, but the intentionally weathered siding makes it look like it’s been here for generations. It’s gigantic, a rambling, barn-like home with shutters and greenery galore.
His Bentley is parked in the gravel motor court out front.
“You like it?” There’s pride in his voice. “A Bobby McAlpine original.”
Of course Beau would have hired one of the world’s preeminent architects to design his house. He can be flashy, but he also has good taste. He was always into art, design, literature.
The house is a manifestation of his intense interest in the world and his appreciation for beauty.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “It’s you. A little country. A little obnoxious.”
“A lot awesome, you mean.”
I grin, and he grins too, and for a split second, we’re back to where we need to be.
He holds the house’s side door open with his arm. I have to get close to him to pass through. I almost wince at how painful my desire for him is at that moment.
At how painfully awkward this feels.
“I have a fire goin’ on the back porch, and the food’s being set up out there too. That sound okay to you?”
“Sounds great.”
I try hard not to read too much into the way Beau puts his hand on the small of my back as he guides me down the steps to the patio.
The view is out of this world. The sun sets over the mountains, blue peaks and purple ridges stretching out before us as far as the eye can see. The sky is a rainbow of muted colors, orange fading to green to deep blue. Clouds are gauzy tonight, like cotton batting pulled loose.
A plane, high up, razors a white tear in the blue.
A fire crackles merrily in a massive fireplace to my right. A dining table and chairs are to my left, along with a huge outdoor sectional.
A handful of men and women bustle around the table. It’s set with way more food than Beau and I could eat in a lifetime. A basket of biscuits, bowls of collards and grits, an enormous roast surrounded by carrots, potatoes, Brussels sprouts. There’s also a plate of cookies and a pie.
I notice the wine glasses are filled with sparkling water. Beau being thoughtful again.
The setup is lavish and over the top in all the best ways. So Beau.
But it feels like he’s…not bribing m
e, but making up for something, maybe.
Apologizing?
Grabbing the sparkling water, Beau hands a glass to me. He taps his glass to mine, cutting me a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Cheers, Bel.”
His voice is deeper than normal. Rougher.
His eyes are still serious, and I still want him.
I sip my water, wishing it were wine. Maybe then it’d give me the liquid courage to say what I need to say.
To: John Riley Beauregard ([email protected])
From: Annabel Rhodes ([email protected])
January 02, 2006 08:00 AM EST
Subject: Miss ya more
Oh, Beau, my heart aches for you. I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. I can’t imagine how hard this is for you and for your family. I’m thinking about y’all and sending lots of hugs your way. If there’s anything I can do, you’ll let me know, okay? Asheville isn’t that far. I can hop in my car and be there by dinner. Or you could come here? You know my mom would LOVE to see you. I think she may like you more than me. Then again, who doesn’t?
I know it’s hard to see your mom so upset. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about moms, it’s that they have this, like, superhuman strength. Just remember you don’t need to be everything to everyone. Let yourself grieve. Like you always tell me, it’s okay to fall apart. I’ll be here to help you pick up the pieces, same as you were there for me. Promise. Just like you promised to do my laundry and clean my dorm room after losing to me not once, not twice, but three times at beer pong.
I’ll let it slide this time. The laundry, not the cleaning. I’ll have a broom and some Lysol ready when we get back on campus. For a guy who’s really, really good at pretty much every sport ever, you suck at beer pong. Sorry, but I know you’ll agree. We’ll work on it.
I’ve watched a fair bit of porn this break, thank you very much. Steve’s been at his family’s beach house so I’ve been flying solo. Literally and figuratively.
Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance Page 9
