Beyond Words: The Hutton Family Book 1

by Brooks, Abby

  I assumed the fiancé had done something dastardly, something that made her angry and sad and drove her to drink. Maybe he said something terrible. Maybe he did something terrible. My gut told me she finally figured out he was cheating and my heart broke for her, even though she was better off without him. A soul that pure needed to be loved, not neglected.

  Her words kept me company.

  You’re in my head now and I’m not sure I want you there. And my whole world got turned upside down and I have no idea what I’m going to do, but every time I close my eyes, I see you. And I don’t even know what you look like! So, it’s just your words that I see and somehow that’s worse because what you said meant something to me.

  What she said meant something to me too, but I decided to do the right thing—this time anyway—and keep my distance. The last thing I wanted to be was someone else who took from her without giving in return. So I would do my best to forget her and move on, like any normal man would.

  Like she said, I didn’t even know what she looked like.

  All I had were her words.

  And somehow, that was worse.

  Chapter Eleven

  from: JournalGirl

  to: Mr. X

  date: July 26, 2018 at 12:07 pm

  subject: hey

  I have to hand it to you.

  I did not expect you to go radio silent on me.

  After nearly a week of not being able to get you out of my head, you win, Mr. X. You win.

  You say you got a glimpse into my soul. You say you want more. Well, buckle up cowboy, because here we go.

  I think I’m losing my mind. And yes, that’s a super dramatic statement because that’s what I put in my journal sometimes—super dramatic statements.

  Since you’ve ruined that for me, you have to deal with my inner monologue of confusion and worry.

  Anyway, I’m aware people have gone through so much worse and survived with so much more grace. Maybe my life has been too easy, and things that would seem so small to someone who has truly suffered knock me down hard. Maybe I’m too sensitive. Or maybe I’m just tired of not understanding why I can’t find a quiet place to lay my head.

  Again, that sounds crazy, especially out of context, but let me explain.

  I write my thoughts down in my journal because I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about the stuff that drives me crazy. For every thought I have, I can see the opposite side of the coin. I can argue it as well as I can argue my original stance because both sides make sense to me.

  My friends think I don’t know what I want. They think I’m weak. I’m not. I’m just…different.

  That’s the beauty of being raised by two completely opposite people who are both very smart and both love you very much. I don’t have one point of view, molded by two people working together to raise a child. I have two points of view. Sometimes three or four points of view. And I can see the strengths and weaknesses of all the choices in front of me. I try to weigh it all out, but sometimes, the pros balance the cons so well, there isn’t a clear winner. Everything looks equally good and bad.

  The way I see the world is a constant question mark because I want freedom as much as I want security and I want stability as much as doing the same thing every day bores me.

  Can you have security and stability as well as freedom and excitement? It seems like those things are mutually exclusive, one cancels out the other.

  Anyway, instead of talking to people, I write to myself. I can get all the thoughts out and argue as many valid points as I can find until I stumble on something that makes sense to me. Does that make me weak? In my opinion, it makes me strong, because I solve every single one of my problems by myself. And that’s what I mean about never finding a quiet place to lay my head. When no one fully understands me, it’s hard to let down my guard and actually be myself. Around anyone. That sounds way more dramatic than it actually feels. Maybe.

  I’ve never written down my thoughts and worried about someone else reading them before, but the noise in my head is getting too loud for me to handle, and I can’t open my journal because you’re in there.

  I’m starting to wonder if maybe I don’t know how to exist in this world. Or if maybe I’m not made to fall in love with one person and stay that way. How could one person satisfy me when I am more? I don’t know how to put it other than that. I want everything and that’s a horrible thing to admit because I know I can’t have it all. And it’s selfish of me to expect one person to be everything I need when I’ve already admitted that the things I need cancel each other out.

  I left Nash by the way.

  The day you found my journal was also the day I lost my job, which was also the day I came home early and found my fiancé giving all the passionate attention I’ve been craving…no needing…to another woman.

  I left with all her clothes. I didn’t mean to. They were in my hands and I never thought to put them down and by the time I could bring myself to turn around to give them back, she’d gone home. She probably left in Nash’s clothes and my friend says I should laugh at that, and I did, a little, but in the end, I felt bad for making her terrible day worse.

  Yes. Her terrible day. What if she didn’t know about me? What if she thought she was falling in love with the same dependable man I thought I had, only to discover she was the other woman? I would hate myself a little if that happened to me. If I were in her very expensive shoes.

  Nash and I fought. It was awful. I had no idea he could be so mean.

  Wait. That’s not true.

  I’ve seen him be very mean. Nash has no qualms about saying what he needs to say to get what he wants. He’d just never aimed that particular evil power at me before. Anyway, I left him, which means I also lost my home. I’m staying with my mom right now, which is an adventure and has my dad shaking his head, though oddly enough, I think he understands.

  And here’s the thing. All this chaos in my life should leave me terrified. It should keep me awake at night. It should make me want to curl up and give up, but it hasn’t. It’s like there’s a fire in my belly and it’s telling me to grow. To move. To change.

  I keep feeling this call to action, but I don’t know what that action is. I just know I need to pay attention and listen to everything that’s whispering in my ear and you know what? The one thing that’s whispering the loudest is YOU.

  Your words to me. All 480 of them. That’s right, I counted them because I can’t stop reading them. And I can’t stop reading them because I can’t stop wondering who you are and if you mean what you say.

  And, just so you know, I’m still furious at you for reading my journal. The easiest way to explain what you did is to say you stole from me, but it’s so much worse than that. You didn’t steal a thing, something I can replace. You stole…me.

  But I’m also touched that you saw every ugly thought in my head, every wild daydream, every childish fantasy, and it didn’t scare you away. In fact, you looked right at all the things that make me who I am and called me beautiful.

  So here I am, Mr. X. I’m an open book. Ask anything you want, and I’ll answer.

  * * *

  from: Mr. X

  to: JournalGirl

  date: July 26, 2018 at 12:15 pm

  subject: RE: hey

  Are you okay?

  * * *

  from: JournalGirl

  to: Mr. X

  date: July 26, 2018 at 12:16 pm

  subject: RE: re: hey

  I open myself to you and you go with ‘are you okay?’ Way to waste an opportunity.

  That’s a joke, by the way. I cried when I read your question. Thank you for caring.

  I’m fine. A little lost, a little confused, a little hopeful. Now please, hit me with something better than that.

  * * *

 
from: Mr. X

  to: JournalGirl

  date: July 26, 2018 at 12:25 pm

  subject: there is no better than that

  Of course that’s the first question I’m going to ask. Your whole life is upside down and you’re swimming through rough seas and before I can get into ‘something better than that’ I need to know you’re really okay.

  Why are you so ready to pour your heart out to me? You do know it’s dangerous to talk to strangers, don’t you?

  * * *

  from: JournalGirl

  to: Mr. X

  date: July 26, 2018 at 12:26 pm

  subject: looking stern

  Are you telling me not to talk to you?

  * * *

  from: Mr. X

  to: JournalGirl

  date: July 26, 2018 at 12:27 pm

  subject: look stern all you want

  No. Definitely talk to me.

  Why lost? Why confused? When there’s hope, cling to that. Life is crazy and change is inevitable. Sometimes it’s violent. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s both. The best any of us can do is know what we need and learn how to be happy along the way. To find a handful of people who cherish us and hold them close, because this journey is a doozy.

  The things that matter most aren’t actually things.

  They’re the odd moments of understanding.

  The breath in our lungs.

  The blood in our veins.

  The smile on the face of someone you love, of someone who loves you in return.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cat

  Sweat trailed down my back as I finished reading X’s email, parked in the sweltering heat of the Florida Keys. In front of me sprawled what had once been a stately home, but was now a luxury resort. As I took in the details, I came to the conclusion that whoever decided to name this place The Hutton Hotel lacked imagination. Nothing about the name evoked the pristine landscaping and sprawling buildings nestled against the ocean, oozing southern charm. The website boasted almost fifty rooms, yet the site was serene and calm and the furthest thing from the typical tourist traps found all too frequently along the beaches in the Keys.

  The email needed a response, but I couldn’t wrap my head around what to say yet. His words touched me. They made sense in a way not many people ever did. If he was standing next to me, I would put a hand on his arm. I would smile at him. I would take a breath and shake my head and let him see exactly how deeply he touched me.

  But he wasn’t here. He was somewhere back in Galveston, maybe sitting at the coffee shop, watching to see if he could figure out if I was there, too. I wondered, if I was still in Texas, would I go back to that coffee shop? If I was really honest with myself, I wanted to. I wanted to see this man who managed to make me hopeful while my life crashed down around me, who made me feel beautiful when the rest of the world considered me a bit of an odd duck.

  I decided to let my response marinade in my subconscious for a bit, locked my phone, and dropped it into my purse before hopping down from the Jeep. The air seethed with humidity. I smoothed my hair and adjusted my skirt before crossing the lot and climbing the steps to an elegant wraparound porch. Ferns hung in pots and swung in the breeze that cooled the sweat at my temples.

  The hotel looked more like a home than a place of business and I hesitated, unsure if I should knock or step inside. A sign on the door read Please Come In, so with one last deep breath, I did just that.

  The décor on the inside matched the outside—easy, pristine, welcoming. A hand drawn chalk sign pointed me toward the office and I stepped through a wide doorway into a room dominated by oak bookshelves, windows with streaming sunlight, and a heavy oak desk. Potted plants and orchids added color to the richly decorated room, but they were not what had my attention.

  A man sat at the desk, his head bowed as he studied papers spread out before him, every bit as imposing as the furniture. Large hands ran through thick, honey-blonde hair. A white button down shone against tan skin, the top two buttons undone. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t move. The sight of him froze me in place while my nerves sang with…what?

  What was I feeling, looking at this man? Something I had never felt before, of that I was sure.

  He smiled to himself before glancing up to look at me. The smile faded when our eyes locked.

  He took my breath away as he shifted in his seat, his movements slow and confident. His eyes traveled across my face and body and I sucked in my lips as I smoothed my skirt, suddenly feeling underdressed.

  This man exuded confidence and control. He was a warrior. A Viking. Standing before him, I felt small and helpless. Time stopped as he studied me, then his gaze fell on something over my shoulder and the spell was broken.

  “You must be Catherine.” The voice came from behind me and I turned to find another man, less imposing than the first. Good humor twinkled in his eyes. “I’m Wyatt Hutton. That there is my older brother Lucas.” He indicated the man behind the desk with a jerk of his chin as he offered me his hand.

  “Please,” I said, swallowing hard as I glanced back at Lucas. “Call me Cat.”

  Wyatt nodded. “Cat it is. Normally I do my interviews in the office, but Lucas is busy doing…” He leaned through the doorway and stared at his brother. “Just what are you doing in there again?”

  Lucas leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “Pretty sure I’m doing your job, aren’t I?” He cocked an eyebrow at Wyatt who laughed, while I trembled at the sound of his voice.

  “Only because I couldn’t trust you with Cat, here.” Wyatt turned his attention back to me. “You and I can talk in the other room so the big bad wolf can finish pretending to do my job.”

  Lucas rolled his eyes and gave me his full attention once again. My stomach fluttered and my thighs clenched, sending a rush of blood to warm my cheeks.

  I had often wondered what it would be like to have someone see all of me. In a way, Mr. X had when he read my journal, but I hadn’t been there when it happened. The reality of Lucas’ sharp eyes dissecting my every move was off-putting. I glanced away to buy myself a chance to breathe, then brought my gaze back to his so as not to be rude.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in a voice like smoke and wood and leather. And with that, he gave his attention back to his work and I drew another ragged breath.

  Wyatt led me into what looked like a sitting room. He lowered himself into a plush leather chair, indicating one for me. Acoustic guitar music filtered through an open door in the back.

  “That’s my sister.” Wyatt glanced toward the door. “If it bothers you, I’ll holler at her.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “No need to ask her to stop.”

  The look on Wyatt’s face made me think I passed some kind of test, though I couldn’t imagine what that test could be. The family resemblance between the brothers was strong and I wondered if the sister shared the same incredible genes. Was she as beautiful as her music? As imposing as Lucas? As genuine as Wyatt?

  Wyatt picked up a paper from the coffee table. I recognized the resume I cobbled together using Chris’ laptop before I left Galveston. He studied it, his brow furrowed. “No home address?”

  “I’m new to the area.” I explained the Nash situation, being honest without going into too much detail. “I’m staying with my Mom until I find an apartment and she doesn’t exactly have an address.”

  My answer confused him, as it should. I painted a verbal picture of my mother’s free spirit, the RV she called home, and my desire to know I was gainfully employed before I signed a lease anywhere else. Wyatt listened carefully and without judgement. He asked questions about my previous employment, about my training and licensing, and about my plans for the future. The interview felt like a conversation between friends and Wyatt see
med pleased with my answers.

  “Wyatt?” Lucas stepped into the room. His gaze fell on mine and my body went on high alert, butterflies in stomach, heart pounding, chest heaving. I purposefully looked away to break the spell, but it didn’t work. His mere presence interrupted the flow of blood to my brain. “Mom needs you in the office,” Lucas continued, oblivious to my reaction. “Think I can finish this up for you?”

  “All that’s left is the tour.” Wyatt stood. “I suppose even you could handle that.” He paused next to Lucas on his way out of the room and engaged him in quiet conversation, presumably about me. When they finished, Wyatt lifted a hand in my direction, apologized for the interruption, and disappeared from view.

  While I melted into a puddle of intimidation and lust, Lucas explained the set-up of the hotel. Some of the guestrooms were here in the house, but the majority of the guests stayed in bungalows that stretched along the beach. “My brothers and I helped build the first bungalows, though as The Hut grew in popularity, Dad hired a contractor to construct the rest.”

  As he explained the history of the hotel, I fell in love with the idea of a family working and growing together. I wondered about the rest of the Huttons, but Lucas guided the conversation to other things and the time to ask was gone. He spoke with soft confidence and I wondered about the warrior I thought I saw when I first walked into the office.

  Our gazes kept locking and my body kept rioting. I had to keep reminding myself that this was more than a conversation with an interesting stranger. This was a job interview and I’d be smart to remember that.

  Outside of running my own wellness spa, I couldn’t ask for a more perfect job. The Hutton Hotel boasted open air massage stations overlooking the water. Top end essential oils. Training in the latest and greatest techniques if I was so inclined.