“I don’t want to.” I strengthened my resolve and tried my damnedest to ignore the pleasurable burn in my core that wanted him so much it hurt. My body could beg and plead all night, but in the end my mind would win. It always did. “I don’t want this.”
Beau backed off, surrendering his hands in the air, though the look on his face gave me an indication that he had no intentions of giving up that easily. I had no clue how to get our interview back on track or if we could recover after that, so I cleared my throat and took a step back.
“I should go upstairs and check my email. Call my producer.” I hugged my sides. “I’m a little tired. Why don’t we try again tomorrow?”
Beau studied me, his brows meeting in the middle and his mouth firmed into a straight line as he pushed a deep breath through his nostrils. I’d seen that look before, one hot Kentucky summer when his truck was having engine trouble. He’d taken apart the carburetor and studied it until he taught himself how to fix it. Only took him half a day before it was all put together and his truck was running again. He gave me that same look – as if he was trying to figure me out. I was a broken part, and Beau was determined to put me back together. To make me work again.
I left him downstairs and headed up to my guest quarters, which was technically Ivy’s old bedroom. The floral wallpaper and boy band posters that surrounded the little twin bed felt quaint and homey and rustled up warm, nostalgic tingles in my belly despite what had just happened. I clung to that comfort as if it were all I had.
I pulled out my phone and checked my email the second I pounced onto the bed, responding to the quick ones and flagging the rest to deal with upon my return. A handful of missed text messages from Harrison instructed me to call him, and I’d learned over the years how much he hated to be kept waiting.
“Hey,” I said after he answered in the middle of the first ring. I kept my voice low.
“How’s everything going?” Harrison asked. It was quiet in the background, and I imagined he was sitting in his favorite leather chair in the living room of our apartment surrounded by Chinese takeout, his iPad, and the Wall Street Journal, of which he still preferred to read the paper version. “Getting anything good?”
“It’s slow going.” My voice was a near whisper. “I should have everything I need by the time I leave Wednesday.”
“Good. Maybe you can come home early.” Harrison’s comment came out of left field. I laughed silently at the notion that perhaps he missed me.
Random.
“I’ll try,” I said, knowing full well it’d be damn near impossible for Beau to let me leave early. He wasn’t going to let me go that easily.
“It’s weird not going with you on location,” he mused. I heard the rustling of paper in the background. Harrison was always multi-tasking. Getting his undivided attention was a luxury I never could afford in our marriage.
“Trust me. You’re not missing a thing. You’d be bored to tears out here.”
For whatever reason, it never bothered me until that moment that Harrison had never cared to visit Darlington during the duration of our relationship. Though in his defense, I once loved that about him. I loved that he didn’t dig up my past – the part of me where he certainly didn’t belong.
“I should let you go,” I said, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was going to be an early bedtime for me, but it’d been a long day. “I need to prep for tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Coco.” Harrison said my name with deep intention, as if to subtly remind me that I was still her. I was still Coco.
I placed my phone on the nightstand and slipped into pajamas before trailing down the hall to wash up for bed. The house was still. If I had to guess, Beau was probably sitting outside with Ruby staring out at the night sky.
Glancing out Ivy’s old window, I caught a glimpse of Beau rocking in his chair down below, his hand resting on top of Ruby’s head as he scratched behind her ears hard enough to make her foot thump.
I always imagined the three of us – me, Beau, and our daughter – were out living some simple little life in some alternate universe somewhere. We were happy. We had a quaint house and made just enough of a living to get by. We were respectable members of the community, involved and charitable. Our lives were simple and filled with happy memories and slow, languid days that blurred together over the years.
I’d once wanted that life with him more than anything. I wanted to keep Mabry. I wanted Beau to come back. I wanted to taste the sweet at the expense of being two struggling young parents trying to make it work.
Instead, my options were limited to making ends meet as a nineteen-year-old single mother or giving Mabry the beautiful life she deserved with Sam and Rebecca.
I clicked off the bedside lamp and crawled under the covers until the faint lull of Beau’s voice trailed in through the drafty old windows. He was down below, singing some old tune I’d heard before. It wasn’t one of his – it was an old folk song his grandfather had taught him when he was younger.
My eyes burned hot until I willed the threat of tears away.
How could a man so entwined in family and sentiment turn his back on his own?
Chapter Fourteen
5 years ago
“Hey there, cowboy.” Three little words pulled my attention to the bubbly blonde bartender holding a bottle of whiskey and flashing me the widest smile I’d seen in a long time. “How about we cut you off? Get you back home? Where are you staying?”
My brows scrunched and my eyes squinted. Even in my drunken stupor, I could see she was the kind of pretty little thing a lonely guy could have a nice time with.
“Where are you staying tonight?” she asked. Sleek blonde wisps hung over her eyes until she blew them away with one huff. “It’s closing time.”
I pulled in a long breath and sat up straight, as if a breath of fresh air had the ability to undo the last several hours of drinking. Glancing around the foggy bar, I didn’t see a single one of my guys.
“What time is it?” I slurred.
“Damn near two in the morning,” she said. She reached for the crystal tumbler in front of me and slid it away, dropping it behind the bar and out of sight. “Time to go home. Need me to call you a cab?”
“Nah, my bus is across the street,” I said.
“You live on a bus?” she laughed. “Like a camper or something?”
“A tour bus.”
“Ah, what kind of music do you perform?” She rinsed out some glasses and patted them dry with a white towel. Behind her, the other bartender, a man with at least a couple hundred pounds of solid muscle, closed out the cash register.
“You don’t know who I am?” My head cocked to the side as I sized her up and attempted, poorly, to study her face for any hint of a bluff.
“I don’t know who you are, cowboy,” she laughed. “Judging by the way you’re dressed, I know you’re not from Detroit.”
Ah, Detroit. That’s where I was that night.
“What’s your name?” I asked.