I was foolish to fall for the chucklehead good-guy act when he’s clearly drowning. I can see him sinking right before my eyes. And I want no part in that. I can’t afford to be taken down with him.
“Beau.” I step forward, right up to him. He tenses, but I’m too pissed off to have many boundaries right now. And I’ve always felt more at ease around him than most people. He’s always had a way of making me feel like that, which is why I don’t think twice about shoving my hand into his pocket and wrapping my fingers around his keys.
His body is rigid. His muscles coil, but he makes no move to stop me. The jangle of metal between us has me looking up into his eyes for a sign I’ve taken things too far.
I angle my face up to his and get caught in his thrall for a moment.
I only see those moonlit eyes and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“I’ll make you a chamomile tea,” I say, breaking the tense silence between us. “Helps with sleep. But you need to promise you won’t make a scene like that again.”
He nods and drops his head. “I promise.”
The tension between us evaporates as he follows me back into the bar. Prying eyes stare at him as he stands, swaying on the spot, like he’s going to be the one to clean up the shattered glass.
“Sit your ass down, Eaton,” I grumble as I do it instead. The last thing I want to clean up is his blood.
I can tell he’s ashamed. And he should be, but I will not pile on his punishment. He’s beating himself up just fine already. Instead, I prepare him a steaming mug of tea, wipe up the beer he spilled, sweep the evidence of his outburst into a dustpan, and carry on with my night like he isn’t here.
I refill the tea.
He drinks the tea.
We don’t talk, but he watches me, spinning the mug between his broad palms. I feel the outline of his keys in the back pocket of my jeans.
Pete, our cook, walks out of the back at 10 p.m. “You all good out here, Bails? Kitchen’s closed.”
I scan the bar. It’s busy for a Monday night, but manageable. We’re only open for two more hours anyway. “Yup. All good here,” I reply, giving him a brief thumbs up.
Pete returns the motion with a smile and heads out the front doors. He got hired from the city, which means he doesn’t automatically hate me. Which makes working with him a breeze.
When I check Beau’s tea again, he stops me. “So, he leaves, and you’re here alone for the rest of the night?”
I shrug as I take his mug to add water. “Yeah. I’m a shift manager now, so if it was busier, I’d have kept a server on, but I cut her early.”
He rests his forearms on the bar, pads of his long fingers pressed together like he needs something to do with them. “But you’re alone? You shut down alone?”
Steam rises as hot water pours from the dispenser.
“Correct.”
As I slide the mug across the bar top until it bumps into the tips of his fingers, I try to remember how many refills I’ve done since the tea is looking awfully watery.
I crouch down and rummage through the box of tea on the bottom shelf. The Railspur isn’t a big tea place, but I find another bag of chamomile and drop it into the mug, making a mental note to have our general manager, Jake, order more.
When I tie the string around the handle, Beau doesn’t move his palms from around the cup, like he’s desperate to soak up the heat.
“Does the manager know this?”
“Jake? Presumably. He makes the schedule. Never met the new owner, totally hands-off investor. So as long as the place is making money, I doubt they care either.”
His brow furrows. “That’s not safe for you. What if something happens?”
My fingertips brush against his hand as I complete the knot.
I peek up now, lifting one eyebrow. “Like some guy pitching a fit and knocking beer all over the place?”
He glares at me, and I try to keep from smirking at him.
With a nonchalant shrug, I answer the question. “I deal with it.” Like I always have. I’ve been looking out for myself for as long as I can remember. It doesn’t feel like such a hardship anymore. Just reality.
The only thing Beau gives me in response is a hard stare and a grunt.
But he doesn’t leave. He drinks tea at my bar for the rest of the night. For two hours, he sits there, keeping watch. And when I kick everyone out at midnight and shut things down, he stays behind, silently guarding me.
“Are you sober?” I ask as he walks me through the darkened parking lot to my car.
“I’ve been drinking fucking chamomile tea for two hours. I’ve never been more sober or hydrated in my life.”
I suck in a deep breath and pull his keys from my back pocket, holding them out to him on a flat palm. “Don’t pull that shit on me again, Beau.”
His throat works as he reaches forward and swipes the keys from me. “You’re not how I remember you, Bailey.”
I let myself smirk now because, of course, we all change. I couldn’t stay that frozen, terrified little girl forever.
I wanted to change.
“You’re not how I remember you either, Beau.”
His eyes shift back and forth between mine, like he’s searching for something in them. “What days do you work?”
I snort, glancing down to pull my own keys from my purse. “What days don’t I work?”
“Okay, what nights do you work alone?”
“Sunday through Tuesday,” I reply, zipping my bag.
Beau nods and says a terse, “Okay,” before spinning on his heel and giving me his back, looking every bit the military man he is. Head held high, shoulders perfectly straight.
Like he’s some sort of knight in shining armor.
One who starts pulling up a stool every Sunday through Tuesday to drink chamomile tea until midnight, so I don’t have to close by myself.
3
Beau
Cade: You’re coming to the wedding, right?
Beau: It’s my little brother’s wedding. Of course I’m coming.
Cade: You’re not exactly reliable these days. You no-show. And when you do show, you’re a miserable asshole.
Beau: I’m only doing my best imitation of you.
Cade: I’m not miserable anymore though. Just an asshole. That’s why everyone voted and decided I had to be the one who sent this message.
Beau: Everyone voted? Very democratic.
Cade: Willa says you need to apologize to Winter. She’s in the wedding party.
Beau: Willa doesn’t run my show.
Cade: You must be new here. Willa runs everyone’s show.
A song I don’t recognize plays from the speakers, but I two-step anyway. I’m wearing a suit that feels fucking awful, and these dress shoes are rubbing my grafts uncomfortably. Winter Hamilton has one hand on my shoulder and her nose is tipped high as she stares just beyond me. Or possibly at the top of my ear. I’m not entirely sure which.
Dancing with Winter is more uncomfortable than anything going on in my shoes. And that’s saying something.
For an entire song, we dance like stiff pieces of wood, ignoring each other. I can see Rhett and Summer dancing too. They look so fucking happy it’s hard to watch, but I don’t know where to land my gaze. It seems like everyone is watching me. I’ve got my hands locked in place because I don’t want to slide too low or too high on Winter’s ribcage. Those are no-fly zones, and based on the way her baby daddy, Theo, is glaring at us, every inch of her might be a no-fly zone.
The music switches over to a slower song and Winter mumbles, “Thanks. That was the junior high dance blast from the past I’ve always dreamed of.”
“Good god, Winter.” My fingers tighten. “One more dance.”
“Why?” Her head tilts and her blue eyes home in on my face. I feel like I’m in therapy again. Something broken that needs fixing. A specimen for medical professionals to poke and prod and analyze. Between my burns and my brain and my insomnia, I’m like a shrink’s wet fucking dream.
I hate that feeling. That expression. Like I’m a big dumb goldfish in a bowl.
“Because I need to apologize to you.”
She just shrugs. “No, you don’t.”