by Skye Warren
A shrug. I’ve never seen her this quiet. This withdrawn.
I almost prefer the screaming tantrum to this quiet version.
Of course she looks different, too, wearing a ruffled sky blue shirt with botanical drawings of flowers on it and a pair of skinny jeans. New clothes stock our wardrobes, but there is nothing in black tulle, nothing with Monopoly figures on it.
Beau left an envelope with my name scrawled across it. Jane. I’ve never seen his handwriting before. It’s strong and messy, much like the man who wrote it. My cheeks turn warm. Inside there’s a black AMEX with my name on it and a Post-it telling me to get whatever we need.
So I sit down at the small business corner with its fancy MacBook and start shopping. Cute T-shirts that say I own the block and Go directly to jail, do not pass go will not really fix her shock and trauma from the fire, but it’s all I can do right now. I spend $500 on cute Monopoly-themed clothes from Etsy that are definitely not licensed.
Of course it’s not only the clothes she loves. It’s the game itself.
That becomes a problem, because there are many kinds of Monopoly. That’s something I figure out pretty quickly. Paige doesn’t want Maine-opoly or Ultimate Banking Edition or even a solid wood luxury version that costs $500.
“It’s not the same,” she says, her expression horrified that I’d even suggest such a thing.
She doesn’t want the digital Nintendo version for Switch, either.
Unfortunately they don’t make the very specific version of Monopoly anymore. It’s one of the classic lines, the regular Monopoly, basically, but not the Updated and Improved version that retails at Target and toy stores right now.
So I browse eBay trying to find the right combination of keywords that will give me the exact board game Paige loves to replace the one that burned.
Though nothing will really fix the fact that her Vermont Avenue had a bent corner. Or that her Chance card deck had been chewed by the kitten. Or that this was the same set passed down from her father, Rhys Rochester, who had played the game as a child.
It’s an heirloom, and it’s gone.
Beau walks into the room while I’m busy scrolling through eBay and a million Facebook Shopping posts. I tense, because I’m not sure who he is to me now. I’m not sure what he expects from me now. Not sex, that much is clear.
But I don’t know how to go from lover to stranger.
Is he Beau or is he Mr. Rochester?
Whatever I call him, he’s a man I care about far more than I should.
He said he loved me when the house was burning, but maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe it’s something he said in the heat of the moment. Men say I love you during sex. It could be that believing you’re going to die is the same way—temporary emotion powered by adrenaline. But I know the truth. He did mean it.
You said you love me, I told him.
He hadn’t denied it. It doesn’t matter. My love is dangerous.
He looks windblown and severe, though considerably less intimidating when Kitten trails in after him, looking windblown as well. “Kitten,” I whisper, and she does a hopping jump over to me. I press my face into her supersoft fur and breathe in her scent. Though it’s tinged with something medicinal. “Did the vet give her a clean bill of health?”
“Yes,” he says softly, his dark eyes stormy.
“Then what’s wrong?”
He glances where Paige sleeps on the window seat across from me.
There’s no slip in his expression. A stranger might not see the worry, the fear, the deep hope he has for her emotional recovery, but I can. A stranger might not see the pain that pulls at him, stabs at him, the pain in his leg that he seems determined to hide. He didn’t hide it after the fall. He used his crutches even as he cursed at them. It’s only now, after the fire, as if he thinks he brought the disaster down on us with his own fragile humanity.
Paige has been napping most of the afternoon. That’s normal, according to my preliminary Google searches about recovering from trauma. The body needs sleep to heal. So does the brain, it says. But I wonder if we need to do something for her. A therapist, maybe. I’m not sure what Beau will think about that.
He comes to stand close, murmuring low so as not to wake her. “The fire chief let me come in and take some things from the scene, so I looked through the wreckage. Nothing much was salvageable, but I boxed up what I could find. I stacked it in the back.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything yet. They gathered evidence, but he hasn’t made his determination yet. I’m going to meet him in a couple days and get his final ruling when he releases the scene.”
Unease clenches my stomach. I want a ruling, because it will put my mind at ease. But what if the ruling isn’t what I want? “I’ll see if any of her stuff is in there. We can wash out the smoke.”
“Hell, buy her all new shit. Make it fucking expensive.” Another glance to the sleeping child. And a sigh. “But yeah, she would rather have her old clothes.”
“Maybe I would rather have my old clothes, too.”
He gives me a hard look. Everything I wore before was from Walmart or Goodwill, threadbare or secondhand, except what he gave me. “What did you lose?”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s something.” The gravity of him pulls me closer. “Tell me, Jane.”
“It was a photo. I kept it at the bottom of my suitcase. Before that, I’d get a garbage bag to carry my things. So it was creased and folded and spilled on, but it was the only picture I had.” Tears gather, hot and sharp. I don’t want to cry. Definitely not in front of Beau, but they spill over anyway. It was the only picture I had, with his illegible handwriting scrawled on the back. The only semblance of a family heirloom that existed in my life. Gone.
“I’ll find it,” he says, his teeth gritted.
“Don’t.” The word comes out like an order. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
I’m talking about more than an old, bent photograph. I’m talking about us. About this strange purgatory we’re living since the fire. He understands. The knowledge sits in his dark eyes. “I’m not lying to you, Jane.”
“You’re not telling me the whole truth, either.”
He looks away. It’s an admission. A refusal. My heart squeezes, but then he looks back at me and pins me with a stare. “I would tell you everything if I didn’t think you’d run for the hills.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
A ghost of a smile. “Not really.”
I glance at Paige, because it’s easier to talk about her. It’s easier to use her as a wedge between us. Ironic, because she’s also the glue keeping us together. “I’ll have to check the boxes for the game. There’s nothing that’s an exact match online. So far she shakes her head at everything I show her.”
“There’s no way the game made it through the fire. I’ll get in touch with Hasbro and see if they have something in a warehouse somewhere. Or at least a line to a collector.”
A soft laugh, which makes me cough. My eyes sting as I force it to be as quiet as possible. “Sometimes you seem almost normal. And then other times, you’re…”
His lips quirk. “I’m what?”
“Rich.”
He frowns as if I said something wrong, though it can hardly be a surprise that he’s wealthy. “Clothes. Board games. That’s what money is good for. It doesn’t help with the important things.”
“Like what?” I ask, my tone challenging.
A glance at Paige. He pitches his voice lower. “Like keeping her safe.”
Worry runs through my veins. “What does that mean?”
“We’re in a new place. You know how she likes to hide. We’ll have to keep a close eye on her. That’s all I mean.” He looks sincere. He sounds sincere.
I swallow hard. “Beau, did someone set that fire?”
“I told you Causey is a bastard. Don’t let him get into your head.”
“They don’t know yet, and there’s no point assuming the worst. There are a million options in an old house. Faulty wiring and materials that aren’t up to code.”
“Or someone put the chemicals there to start a fire.” My heart thumps heavy with the possibility. It’s been in my head since Detective Joe Causey questioned me.
“We were the only ones in the house.”
I shiver. “That we know of.”
“It was the middle of the night. We stood outside the house and didn’t see anyone standing around holding a gasoline can or lighting a match.”
“Right,” I say, my throat dry. Except it was pitch black that night. It’s terrifying to think there might have been someone in the trees watching us. Waiting to see if we’d die in the fire or make it out alive. Maybe wanting to finish us off, if the fire truck hadn’t arrived in time.
“You’re cold,” he says, pulling me up from the sofa. His arms wrap around me, but I don’t feel their warmth. I’m not cold, precisely. I’m scared. What kind of crazy person sets a house on fire?
“What are we going to do?” I whisper.
“We’re going to hire a construction company. Rebuild. Restore. Move back in. I’m paying enough that they’ll drop their other jobs to work on mine.”
Then we’ll know how it happened, but how will we find the person who did it? I suppose that’s a question for the cops, but I learned early not to trust the cops. Or teachers. Or nurses. They have too much power. And children have too little. I glance at Paige, anxious for her.
“She’s fine,” Beau says, reading my mind. “I don’t want her to worry. I don’t want you to worry either, but you need to keep your guard up. In case…”
“In case what?” In case whoever set the fire tries again. The words hang between us. I wish they were mocking, his dark eyes. Taunting. It would make this a joke, instead of serious.
He looks grave as the night. “In case Detective Causey comes around.”
“He already questioned me.”
A grim smile. “I have no doubt he’ll be back. And based on the way he tried to ambush Paige when I left the hospital, he’ll probably try to catch you alone, too.”
“I won’t let him get near Paige.” The detective made me uncomfortable. I don’t know whether it’s my old fear of authority or something deeper. Regardless, I’m not going to let him question Paige. “Why’s he so suspicious? Even if someone did set the fire, it seems like he should be looking at other people. Not just us.”
Beau gives a half shrug. “It’s in his nature.”
I glance away, a little nervous. A little scared. “I’ll protect her.”
“I trust you to protect Paige, but I need you to do more than that. I need you to protect yourself.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I think I don’t trust anyone until we know what happened that night.” That only raises more questions. More concerns. Every single thing I learn about Beau Rochester only pulls me deeper into murky water. He must see it in my face, because he gives a short shake. “Anyway, Paige is resting. You should be resting, too.”
“No, I’m fine.”
A dark look. “That wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.”
I remember Mrs. Fairfax’s words. I see the way you look at him. And more importantly, I see the way he looks at you. He’s looking at me now, his gaze a dark pool of secrets. What does he really think about me? What does he want from me?
The same thing I want from him, possibly.
Or nothing at all.
I love you, damn you. He said the words to me when we were inside the burning house. And the worst part is, he meant them. He told me his love is dangerous, but he’s wrong. His love didn’t start that fire. His love didn’t kill Emily Rochester.
“A boss couldn’t tell me to rest,” I tell him, almost gentle in my rebuff. “Only a lover could do that. And you’ve already made it clear that you won’t be mine. Your love is dangerous, remember? Your love starts fires and wars. Your love is a category five hurricane.”
His gaze turns sharp. “This isn’t a game.”
My cheeks heat. He’s going to break my heart. “Even if you don’t want me, you can’t go on believing this. Forget about me. Paige needs you.”
At the sound of her murmured name, she rustles. There’s a murmur, and then her eyes flutter. She’s coming awake. Beau looks at her, and in his dark eyes, I see the love he has for her. The fear he has for her, because he believes it. My love is dangerous.
He walks out of the room before Paige stretches and sits up. I feel rejected all over again—the same way I felt in the hospital bed. Embarrassed and small. Most of all, alone. Except I have a small child with me now, one with rumpled hair and sleepy eyes. She needs me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jane Mendoza
I feel slightly more normal the next day. More like I’ve been hit with a regular hammer instead of a sledgehammer. The bruises on my body from falling debris turn an ugly green.
“More syrup than that,” Paige says.
She’s sitting at the kitchen island, her gaze glued to the mini pitcher in my hand. Amber maple syrup spills down onto the stack of pancakes I’ve made her. Marjorie took the morning off—an appointment, she said—so it’s just us in the kitchen. “More than that.”
“Your pancakes are going to float away.”
“Then make them float,” she says, expression serious.
I tiptoe right up to the edge of floating the pancakes on the sturdy china Marjorie uses, then stop pouring it with a laugh. “Let’s save a little bit for me.”
“Is it all gone?” Beau asks from the doorway. He has a stack of paper in his hands. I don’t know how he could be reading it, what with all the pacing he’s doing. He keeps looping back to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway, and going away again.
“Not quite.” I cut my glance toward the cupboard. Marjorie is too competent of a bed-and-breakfast owner to actually run out of syrup. “But we might be getting close if Paige needs her pancakes to sail away on a syrup ocean.”
She grins at me through a mouthful of pancakes. My heart squeezes. She’s been so pale and quiet and unsettled since the fire, but this morning she seems like she’s starting to get used to it. Maybe we all are. As soon as I think it, I become aware of my clothes again. Thick, expensive fabric, and soft. Not the sturdy cotton that most hand-me-downs are made out of.
From the outside, no one would be able to tell that I don’t really belong here with Beau and Paige. All they’d see, if they looked in the window, is a woman and a little girl making breakfast, and a man hovering around like a moth drawn in to a flame again and again. They’d probably see a little family.
There’s nobody out there, but when I turn back to flip the pancakes I check the window. Nothing but a fresh, clean day. Warm out already. Buttery sunlight. Plants tentatively starting to bloom. It’s unseasonably warm, according to Marjorie. Warm enough that people are swimming in the ocean. Not me. I’ll go to the beach with Paige, but we’re sticking to sandcastles away from the cold water’s edge.
Beau leans against the doorframe and scans the papers he’s brought with them.
“Do you want any pancakes?” Paige cranes her neck to look at him.
His eyes come up from the papers to meet hers, and then they move to mine. My pulse ticks up. Is that longing in his eyes? Does Beau Rochester want to be invited to sit down to breakfast with us? That’s what would happen in that picture-perfect family. I would serve them pancakes at the kitchen island. He’d sit there next to Paige and tease her about the lake’s worth of syrup on her plate. I would laugh. We would be happy.
Beau blinks like he’s clearing a similar vision from his mind. “I’m all right. Thanks, sweetheart.”
Paige screws up her lips in a pout, but it disappears just as quickly. Beau’s footsteps travel up the stairs to the second floor. A door closes with
a soft click just as the back door opens.
Mateo steps in from the outside, bathed in golden morning light, looking exactly like an ultra-hot movie star.
Because he is an ultra-hot movie star.
Right now, he looks the part. A towel is slung low on his hips, held in place with one of his fists, and his dark hair glistens. He runs a hand through it, tousling it just so, and he flashes me a smile that looks as expensive as his carved abs.
His abs.
Which are on display. Fully. If the towel moved another inch…
“Morning, Jane. Hi, Paige.”
I remember I’m looking at a human being and not a movie poster and almost drop the spatula into the frying pan. My face heats. It’s not that I’m attracted to Mateo. He’s just attractive. It’s a natural reaction in the presence of a gorgeous man like he is. “Morning, Mateo. How was your swim?”
“Bracing,” he answers. He hasn’t dried himself off all the way, despite the towel. Water droplets still cling to his shoulders and the ridges of his abs. I need to stop looking at them immediately. “It clears my head to wake up that way. Straight from bed to the ocean.”
“Does it? I’d freeze, I think.”
“You don’t freeze if your body stays moving. Besides, the ocean is warmer than it looks this time of year. Once you’re in it’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, but those first few steps are enough to make a girl change her mind.”
“It’s always hardest below the waist,” Mateo says.
“What is?” Beau asks from the doorway. “Think about your answer before you say it, Mateo.”
* * *
Beau Rochester
I came back down here for some goddamn pancakes, and what do I find but Mateo half-naked in the kitchen, flirting his ass off.
With Jane. My Jane.
And I know she’s not mine. I know she might never be. But fuck if I’ll let this happen under the roof of this inn. Fuck if I’ll let this happen while I’m in the same house.
