by Lyla Payne
Mayor Beau catches the direction of my gaze and chuckles, flipping some chicken and then checking on a boiling pot of pasta. “I think you’ll be fine, Graciela. That stuff’s been hanging there all three years I’ve been in the house and hasn’t killed a guest yet.”
The comment makes me wonder how many other girls have sat on this stool, but even though he knows more about my past relationships than I do about his, getting the answer doesn’t appeal to me. While details about exes have never been interesting to me, a little more about his dating history would be welcome information. But kicking loose from warmth of the moment, like an insulting cocoon, sounds like the worst idea ever.
He turns around to grab more items out of the fridge, giving me a nice view of his backside in the process. Jeans so faded the pockets are tearing loose, paired with a soft-looking Gamecocks T-shirt say he took his own advice to keep the evening casual. He’s barefoot, and while I’ve never considered it before now, the sight of him cooking for me this way makes me think I might have a bit of a foot fetish. If I were a different person I’d rip my clothes off and hop on the counter.
His eyebrows pop upward when he turns and catches me staring, those eyes drinking in my expression until they flash with hunger. “Gracie…”
I shake my head, struggling to breathe. “What are you cooking?”
The question lets the air out of the heat between us, enough that it’s not going to ignite right away but not enough for it to vacate the room entirely.
He steps back to the stove, slicing off some butter into the skillet, then adding chunks of garlic and a few tablespoons of lemon juice. Avoiding looking at me. “I hope pasta’s okay. To be honest, my repertoire of recipes isn’t all that vast.”
“It smells good. I think I’m hungry, actually.”
“When’s the last time you ate something?”
It takes me a full minute to figure out it’s Thursday, and another to think back to the last meal I actually sat down and ate. “Tuesday night?”
“For heaven’s sake. Hasn’t anyone been looking out for you?”
“I’m a grown woman, Beau. I can take care of myself. None of us have felt much like eating, I guess, and there’s been plenty to do.”
“I’m aware that you’re a grown woman, Graciela. Trust me. But everyone can use some help now and again.”
I shrug, dismissing the lecture, and he frowns into his melting butter concoction.
“See, watch me.” He clears his throat as though he’s about to give a demonstration in front of the Chamber of Commerce. “Would you please grab some garlic bread from the freezer and pop it in the oven while I finish up the sauce?”
“Sure.” I slide off the stool, slipping off my sandals and leaving them under the bar. Maybe he’s one of those people who doesn’t like shoes in the house but didn’t want to embarrass me.
There are two boxes of bread in the freezer, one with cheese and the other with plain breadsticks. I choose the cheesy option, deciding that I should enjoy this rare and probably never-to-come-again opportunity to need to put on weight instead of the other way around. Once the bread is in the oven I lean back against the counter, watching Beau combine his thin spaghetti noodles with his buttery lemon sauce, chicken, and vegetables. He tosses it together in the bigger pot, then dumps it into a big serving bowl and sets it between the stools.
“Four minutes until the bread’s done,” I tell him.
He’s in front of me then, hands on my waist, before I know what happened. “I think I know how to kill that time,” he murmurs.
His lips brush mine, as soft as ever, but that’s not going to do it for me. For everything Beau has the potential to be in my life, tonight he’s a sexy, welcome distraction. I crush my mouth against his, opening my lips for him, find his tongue hot and willing as it toys with mine. My hands grasp his neck, one sliding higher until it twists in his hair, the combined motion pulling his body tight against mine. It’s hard and hot, molding our hips together, pressing my back into the countertop before he lifts me up by my ass and my feet lock behind his back.
A growl rumbles from his throat, and he nips my bottom lip, diving back in for more. The way he tastes me, as though he’s dying of thirst and I’m the only one who can save him, drips sizzling heat into my belly, spills it down between my legs. I’m lost in the moment, in the feeling of his wanting me, and it’s exactly what I need because there’s no room for anything else in my head.
Then the timer goes off, a loud, insistent beep that urges another growl from Beau—more annoyed than impatient and needy this time. We break apart, and he grabs the tray of bread from the oven while I wait for the kitchen to reemerge from the hazy mist hovering around the edges of my vision.
My legs are numb but manage to deliver me back to my stool. I use a pair of tongs to scatter the pasta into the two waiting bowls, and then Beau sits next to me with a plate of garlic bread and a bottle of wine. My stomach growls, which is odd because I can’t feel anything except a rampant need to keep touching the man beside me, to let him make me feel good instead of bad.
The silence between us is different, as though there are things we’d both like to say but are keeping to ourselves. I need to eat, though, and the food is hot.
He chuckles the second time my stomach protests how empty it is, pouring generous amounts of wine into both glasses. “Let’s not argue with your stomach, no matter how much I’d like to.”
“I normally wouldn’t argue, but…”
His hand covers mine, and I look up to find desire, heady and strong, oozing from his gorgeous eyes. “That isn’t why I invited you over tonight, Graciela. Not that I’m complaining.”
“I know. It’s just…nice. To not think about everything else.”
“I don’t mind being a distraction when you need it, but I hope that’s not all I am to you.”
“No.” I pick up my fork, ignoring the way it shakes in my hand. “I don’t know what you are, Beau, or what I want you to be, or what I can handle. But you’re not only one thing to me. I like having you in my life.”
“That’s a good start.” He smiles, and the air between us relaxes, as though it exhales, too. “Now, eat.”
The pasta is delicious, with flavors that wake up my mouth in a different way, and I feel better—stronger—almost as soon as it hits my belly. We eat in silence for a while, but when I take a break for a few sips of wine, he asks about the e-mails I sent the professors.
“I never heard back from the guy at Clemson, but the local history guy at UNC Wilmington, Dr. Flannigan, said he would do some checking for me. He hasn’t called yet, but it’s only been about a week.”
“Has Anne been around?”
“Yes, but not as often, and she hasn’t been demanding at all.”
“She’s waited over two centuries. I’m sure she’s smart enough to know a couple more weeks aren’t going to matter.”
“Yeah.” I think about what Gramps said before he died. I haven’t told anyone, or thought about it much at all, but now I realize that I should be looking into my own family tree. If it’s true that we’re descended from Anne—and Jack Jr.—then the answers to the Mary Read question might be closer than I think.
“What is it? You’re a million miles away right now.” He reaches over and swipes the corner of my lips. It takes everything in my willpower not to lick his finger.
“Gramps told me that my grandmother is descended from Anne Bonny.”
“What? How could he know that when her survival after Port Royal has always been in question?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t have time to say any more about it, but it makes sense that Anne confided in her son, and he in his children, and so on. Oral history seems more likely than written in this case.” I pause, crunching a bite of garlic bread. “And it explains why she’s so intent on haunting me for the rest of my natural born days. Or longer.”
“That’s true. And it’s not like Gramps would make that up. But your mother never said anything?”
“No. But her death was sudden. I could ask Aunt Karen, I guess.”
I wipe the last bite of bread through the remainder of my lemon-butter sauce, then hop off my stool. Beau starts to get up, leaving five bites of pasta on his plate, but I shake my head. “I can rinse my plate. You finish.”
He’s done eating by the time I have my plate, the skillets, and the pot rinsed and settled in the dishwasher. Beau adds his to the mix, a thoughtful expression his face. “Is Amelia your only cousin?”
“Yes. She had a younger brother, but he was hit by a car on his bike when he was five.”
“And your mother and Karen don’t have brothers?”
“No. Grams had a couple of miscarriages, and a toddler that drowned in the river.” His questions give me pause. It is weird that there aren’t any boys in our family. “I’ve never thought about it before, but there aren’t any boys descended from Grams’s side of the family.”
“Agreed. I’m not sure it means anything, but it’s definitely intriguing. Would you like coffee?”
I’m kind of tired but shake my head no. Bad breath. He doesn’t make any for himself, either, and tips his head toward the doorway. “Would you like to stay awhile?”
“Sure.”
He leads me down the hall, into a study that’s as immaculate and masculine as the kitchen. Bookshelves cover the walls, heavy with spines of all sizes and colors. Some are faded and others are bright, embossed words begging to be touched, but I refrain. For today.
A gigantic television and sound system dominate the space, complemented by luxurious, deep-brown leather theater seating that begs for a good snuggle. A desk takes up the space under the big bay window, but it’s too tidy to double as Beau’s home office. It’s likely for guests, whoever they may be, and the total effect of the room tugs my eyebrows toward my hairline.
“Wow. And you came to Gramps’s to watch baseball games?”
“There’s something to be said for excellent company.” He sits and pats the space next to him.
My body obeys without asking me first, and I’m curled up into his side, head on his shoulder, a moment later. He’s strong but soft, the way the angles of his face are gentled by his eyes and how the edges of his personality soften around his willingness to be open and sweet.
An arm snakes around my waist and pulls me tight against him, and the slight weight of his chin on top of my head makes me feel cared for, which is not something I’m used to, or even anything I think I want. I want to take care of me. My body ignores the panic in my brain, shushing the need to analyze, and snuggles closer. The spicy scent of his cologne, the clean smell of his shampoo, wind around me, and I breathe in. Breathe out.
Beau flicks on the television with his other hand, flipping channels lazily. It feels strangely as though we’ve done this a million times before, as though it’s not the first time we’ve really been alone together. The Braves game flashes on the screen, but he passes it without pause, allowing me to keep my shit together a little longer.
I’m sure there will come a time when the sight of their blue and red uniforms on the field won’t hurt my soul, but that day is not today.
My insides rumble and toss, like the sea before a storm. There are flashes of lust and waves of hot desire, but they’re tempered by the pulling tide of exhaustion that’s plagued me for days, even before Gramps left us. In the kitchen, when I almost jumped him on the countertop, I’d thought to use him to distract me from my pain. Now, touching him gives me a release from the grief without forcing me to pretend it’s not there.
Not quite as easy, but it’s more honest. If Beau and I are going to move from friends that sometimes kiss into more, into the bedroom—and we want it to mean more than comfort or a distraction—tonight isn’t the night.
He seems reconciled to that fact, too, settling on the History Channel and pushing farther back into the cushions. “Have you had a chance to talk to Amelia?”
“No. She’s going to stay overnight, though, so I’m hoping to when I get home, or in the morning. I want to be able to talk about all of this Anne stuff with her, and I’m worried about what’s going on in her life.”
“What happened before between the two of you isn’t important. I mean, it is, but you know…maybe focus on how you can repair your relationship going forward.” Beau’s fingers trail up and down my arm, leaving electricity and goose bumps in their wake. “I saw her face today, Gracie. She misses you as much as you miss her.”
“Maybe.” I had the same feeling, that the emptiness between us begged to be filled with laughter and secrets, but if I’m stubborn, there needs to be a different word altogether for my cousin. “I’m going to try.”
Sleep almost catches me half a dozen times before I sit up and stretch, admitting that as safe and content as I am right now, it’s time to leave. “Thank you for listening, and for making me feel better.”
His palm caresses my cheek, sweet and full of fire, as he pulls my lips against his. The kiss stays somewhere between the simmering heat of the hospital and the clawing bonfire we ignited in the kitchen. There’s need, evident in the way neither of us pulls back, our tongues not content unless they’re exploring each other, and the certainty that this is a preview excites me like nothing else.
“Thank you for letting me, Graciela Harper,” he murmurs as we pull back. Beau stands in a little bit of a rush, making me think his brain keeps wandering to what might happen between us the next time, too, and then reaches down to pull me to my feet. “I’m happy to oblige anytime.”
I can’t help it. He’s too adorable, too unsure of the moment, and I wrap my arms around his neck and drag him close for another kiss. Our lips are like magnets, and I’m powerless to pull away after one or two. It’s been years since I’ve had so much fun kissing someone—David wasn’t interested in affection that didn’t end in bed, and it’s strange but I hadn’t thought to miss it. As though maybe making out with no other end had to be left behind in my youth, like everything else worth keeping.
If nothing else, coming back to Heron Creek has shown me that I don’t have to grow up until I’m ready, not on the inside, and also that there are things about my past that deserve to be cherished. Repeated. The time with Gramps was too short, but still a reminder of how I’d been once, what I’d dreamed. How I’d loved.
Beau nips my bottom lip and eases back, his eyes hungry on mine. “If you’re going, you’d better go.”
“Agreed.”
He swats my butt as I leave the room, and along with showing me an endearing playful side, leaves me wondering if he might be a little demanding in the bedroom. The idea sends a million shivers of expectation down my spine; the image of him in control does delicious things to my body.
I don’t have a ton of experience in the area—Will and I both bumbled along during our first time and most times afterward, and in my memory the sex is sweet and filled with laughter. A one-night stand that is more hazy than anything, and then David. Sex with him had been perfunctory at best and felt like obligation more than fun.
A sidelong glance at Beau as he walks me out the front door leaves me hot all over and sure that something different, new—and yes, better—waits beneath his polished exterior. It makes me smile, and I have a sense that it’s a little bit wicked.
He groans, his eyes hungry on my face. “Good night, Gracie.”
“Good night, Mr. Mayor.”
My step is lighter on the way home than it had been on the way to his house, and I think again that maybe, just maybe, my future in Heron Creek could be as wonderful as my past.
Chapter Nineteen
It’s not that late when I get home, a little before midnight, but the lights are off. Nothing but dark silence greets me at the front door, not even Anne. We’ve been going to bed early, and clearly the events of the past couple of weeks have taken toll on my aunt and uncle. I decide to change into pajamas before confronting Amelia but stop and stare at the sight of her slight form curled under th
e covers on my bed.
She’s breathing deep, on the side of the bed nearest the windows—that’s always been her side—but she’s not asleep. We’ve spent way too many nights pretending to snooze away before sneaking out to meet Will and Mel for her to fool me, but I let her fake it while I swap my jeans for shorts and wash my face.
In bed next to her, the comforter tucked under my chin, the way to start the conversation slides through my fingers like river water. My soul remains calm from the evening at Beau’s, though, and his advice to not rehash the past rings in my ears. There’s no way to change what tore us apart. I can’t take back the way I feel about Jake—wouldn’t, even if I could—but maybe there’s a way for me to keep my cousin, regardless of who she’s married to. Her betrayal, the fact that she believed him and cut me loose, left me dangling in the wind that became a gale when my mother died, a hurricane when my relationship imploded, still cuts like a hot knife through butter.
But if I can find the way to forgiveness, maybe there’s a way to keep her.
It’s not ideal, not what we planned, but after the past five years of silence, the thought of even being able to share her makes my heart hurt. Hope is as painful as anything else, in the right dosage.
“Millie, are you awake?”
No response breaks the night’s quiet, but I wait her out. She’s deciding, and if she suspects I’m aware she’s been awake this whole time she’ll just get stubborn. Other than marrying Jacob Middleton, my cousin has never made a rash decision in her life. To my surprise—shock, even—her shoulders start to tremble. A small whimper, then a sniffle convinces me she’s crying, but I still can’t believe it.
“What is it? You can tell me anything, I swear.” I put a hand on her bare arm, hesitant, terrified she’ll shrink away.
She doesn’t, but a little laugh joins her soft tears. “You sound exactly like you did when we were twelve and you begged for ten minutes straight for all the details of my first kiss.”
“Maybe things haven’t changed as much as we think.”