by Lucy Score
“Okay, on three, I’m going to lift you off. Got it?”
She braced her hands against his chest. “Got it.”
“One, two, three.” He lifted her from the hips as if she weighed nothing.
Bristol was able to regain her feet and distract Violet with the important task of finding her bag and the car keys while Beau got up and thought about whatever men think about in situations like that.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” Beau said, running a hand through his thick hair. “Definitely the last time I ever wear sweatpants to practice.”
Bristol couldn’t stop herself from looking down there. “Wow.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth. Had she really just said that out loud? The flush that rose on her cheeks had zero to do with the wind chill or the ice.
“Hey. Eyes up here, Quinn,” Beau ordered.
Bristol spun around to force herself to stop looking at him.
“Hey, Mom! You looked just like an ice skater!” Violet’s applause was muffled by her mittens.
“I didn’t fall!” Bristol carefully eased back around to face Beau. She shot her arms up in victory. “I’m so awesome!”
His grin, quick and sexy, had that warm gooey feeling sliding through her belly again.
“Hey, Beau! Are you hungry?” Violet called from the gate.
“Is ice cold?”
“Yes! Come have dinner with us!”
Bristol and Beau stared at each other for a long time. She was surprised that the heat sparking off of them didn’t melt the ice under the feet.
“Would you like to come to dinner, Beau?” Bristol asked him, keeping her voice low enough that Violet couldn’t overhear.
He nodded, his eyes serious. “Yeah, I would.”
“Are you coming with us, Beau?” Violet demanded.
“That depends—what’s for dinner?”
CHAPTER NINE
They parted ways in the parking lot, and Bristol zipped home to give herself enough time to change clothes and hide any clutter that lurked about the apartment. She hustled Violet inside and sent her on a mission to hide any piles of anything before dashing off into her bedroom to assault her closet.
Bristol settled on a pair of distressed skinny jeans and a button-down flannel. Casual, but cute. She yanked her hair out of its ponytail and ran her fingers through the roots for a little lift and tousle. She slicked on a layer of lip-gloss and deemed herself good to go just in time for Violet’s seventh hunger statement since they left the rink.
“I was going to make tacos. Do you think Beau will like tacos?” she asked Violet, who shrugged helpfully.
“Mom, who doesn’t like tacos?”
“Good point. How much homework do you have?”
“Ummmmm…”
Bristol could tell by the way Violet studiously avoided her gaze while waltzing around the apartment that it wasn’t a light night.
“Go get your books and start working at the table. I’ll start dinner.”
“But, Mom!”
“Nice try. Books, kid.”
While Violet stomped off toward her room lamenting about the unfair life of an eight-year-old, Bristol launched herself into food prep. She’d make chicken and beef tacos in case Beau was a red meat kind of guy. He sure looked like one. Her brain unfailingly revisited the scene on the ice, and Bristol took a steadying breath. What was this feeling? she wondered. And then it hit her. It was feeling. She wasn’t frigidly, fragilely numb. There was a thaw happening inside her, a melting of the ice that had formed on her heart all those months ago.
As she tossed chicken breast with spices, Bristol’s gaze flickered over to the photo of Hope at her college graduation on the wall next to the framed picture of Vi’s preschool graduation. Was she being unfaithful to her grief? Was it too soon to be feeling something happy, something interesting?
Bristol turned on the range and shook her head. If her sister could see her now, Hope would probably slap her upside the head. She knew with certainty that Hope would be hurt by their bottomless devastation. But Bristol—and the rest of the family—seemed to have no idea how to move past the hurt to get somewhere, anywhere else.
Was Beau a catalyst? she wondered. Could having feelings for him open her heart from its hibernation?
Violet stomped back in lugging her backpack.
“History tonight?” Bristol asked sympathetically.
Violet sighed dramatically. “Yeah. Five whole questions to answer. Like anyone even cares what happened a bajillion years ago.” She dropped down into a chair at the dining table and unceremoniously dumped the contents of her backpack.
Bristol diced onions and tomatoes in silence. She knew better than to try to talk Violet out of her funks. It was better to acknowledge the feelings and then let Violet work them out. Unless of course she was being a grumpy punk, in which case Bristol was more than happy to step in.
It was a benefit of being a young-ish mom, she thought. She was close enough to really get that the big things in Violet’s life really were the big things. A lost balloon, an unkind friend on the playground, those were the equivalents of lost jobs and breakups in adulthood. And if Violet could trust Bristol to be there for her now, she could keep on trusting her when the upsets got bigger.
When she’d found out she was pregnant at twenty, she’d panicked. She had a plan, and a baby didn’t fit into that plan, not then at least. Neither had a hasty marriage. But thanks to the support of her family, Bristol had managed to graduate on time with a degree in business management. Hope had given up her summers at eighteen and nineteen and taken care of her beautiful baby niece while Bristol went to school and Nolan worked odd jobs. Savannah, who’d been working her way through law school, had sent Bristol a small check every week to “help out with necessities.” And everywhere else, Bob and Mary Quinn had stepped up.
She’d graduated exhausted but proud and vowed that she would never give a one of them reason to regret their support. She glanced over at Violet hunched over her books, a frown on her pretty face, and wondered if her daughter knew how loved she had been from the very first moment.
Bristol browned the ground beef in one pan while the chicken sizzled in a second. She ran a knife through the fresh cilantro and dragged sour cream, cheeses, and salsa from the fridge.
“What the hell am I going to do for dessert?” she muttered.
“Hot chocolate, duh!” Violet said, looking up from her homework.
“Vi, if I haven’t said it enough today, you’re a genius,” Bristol said, air-fiving her daughter from the kitchen.
Violet reluctantly raised her hand for the five. “You know, Janessa Mingle’s mom does her homework for her,” she began, blue eyes big and hopeful.
“Janessa Mingle’s mom isn’t concerned about Janessa growing up to be a self-sufficient adult. She’s worried about Janessa being an eight-year-old with straight A’s.”
A knock at the door cut off their routine argument. Janessa also had her own cell phone, a purple canopy bed, and two hamsters. It was hard not being Janessa.
Bristol brushed her hands over her jeans and hauled ass down the hall. She pulled open the door and felt her heart skip seeing Beau on her doorstep.
He’d changed into jeans and an expensive-looking sweater that might be cashmere. Casual, but upscale. The look suited him.
“I had no idea you lived above the restaurant,” Beau said when she ushered him inside. “I thought you had me pick you up here because you were working. This place is amazing.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking his coat and tucking it into the hall closet. “This is home. I can’t beat the commute.”
“Do you slide down the bannister when you’re running late?”
“All the time.” She grinned up at him and just enjoyed the feel of having him in her space.
“I brought this for you,” he said, holding out a bottle of wine.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she began.
He reached over
and squished her cheeks with one hand. “That’s very nice of you, Beau. Thank you,” he said in a falsetto tone, making her mouth work like a guppy.
Bristol rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Beau,” she repeated.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his fingers lingering on her jaw.
“Hi, Beau!” Violet rocketed down the hallway to greet him.
“Hey, Vi,” Beau greeted her with enthusiasm so sincere Bristol felt her heart do a little flip-flop. Get a hold of yourself, Quinn. He’s here for tacos, not a lifetime together.
“Hey, Violet, would you mind giving Beau the grand tour while I finish dinner?”
“Sure! Come on, Beau. I’ll show you my room!” Violet grabbed his arm and started dragging him down the hallway toward her door.
Bristol winked at him as she headed back to the kitchen. She always enjoyed watching people experience her place for the first time. It was such an eclectic space with the sky-high ceilings and the scarred floors, the timeworn brick and the exposed ducting. It didn’t suit everyone’s tastes. There was no formal dining room, no wall-to-wall carpeting. But the sheer amount of space, the hours of natural light that the arched windows let in, made up for the lack of conventionality.
Bristol couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. And maybe someday it would feel like home again.
––—
“This is my closet. There’s a bunch of clothes in there. And this is where I keep most of my games,” Violet said, pointing at a bookcase. “Have you ever played Mud Battle?”
Beau didn’t have a chance to answer before she was scrambling up onto the shelf like a ladder to reach for one of the game boxes.
“Whoa there, short stack,” he said making a grab for her when the bookcase swayed. Violet giggled when he plucked her off the shelf with one arm and steadied the bookcase with the other. “Let’s go see if your mom has a drill and some screws.”
They started down the hallway, and Violet pointed at the closed door on the left. “That’s my mom’s room. It’s really nice. It has a h-u-u-u-ge bath tub.”
Beau didn’t need that information. Not after their “moment” on the ice. Anything involving a naked Bristol should be strictly off limits. “How about this room?” he asked, pointing at the next door.
Violet’s face fell. “Oh, that’s my Aunt Hope’s room. She’s not alive anymore.”
“I’m sorry. She lived with you?”
“You’re sorry she lived with us?” Violet frowned in confusion.
“No,” Beau smiled. “I’m sorry your aunt isn’t here anymore.” Her slim shoulders were slumped, and Beau felt like the ultimate ass.
“Yeah, me too,” she sighed.
“She was pretty great, huh?”
“She was kind of the best. She had curly hair, and she made really good popcorn.”
“That sounds like the best,” he agreed.
They entered the large space at the end of the hall that smelled like spices and meats and baking taco shells. “Mom, Beau wants a screw.”
The spatula in Bristol’s hand fell to the floor.
“A drill and screws,” he corrected. “For the bookcase in short stack’s room.”
Bristol blinked. “Those screws. Right. Um, here.” She handed him a fresh spatula. “Make sure this doesn’t burn, and I’ll be back.” She dashed out of the kitchen, and Violet dragged a schoolbook over to the island.
Beau grabbed the dishtowel off the counter, threw it over his shoulder and stirred the chicken with finesse.
“Homework?” he asked.
“History,” she sighed with all the regret that a person of her worldly experience could muster.
“Not your favorite subject?”
“I like science and gym and lunch and art.”
Beau turned down the flames on the burners and pulled the taco shells out of the oven. “History was my favorite class. Besides gym.”
“Are you serious?” Violet looked as though she was trying to decide if he was lying to her. “Who cares about old people who did old stuff?”
“Short stack, history is all the stuff that came before us. Think about it, if it weren’t for history, none of us would be here. This building wouldn’t even be here. Where does your mom keep the thing that opens the wine?”
Violet pointed to a drawer. “So, old stuff is important?”
“You tell me,” he said, turning the corkscrew. “You live in this cool building. It’s old. Some people don’t have all these big windows and these high ceilings. Some people can’t ride their scooters around their living rooms.”
She still looked skeptical. “See, when you care about history, you care about the people who made it. The person who built this building. The general who led troops into battle. The first people who climbed a mountain. Whoever invented hockey.”
“Someone invented hockey?” The realization dawned bright in those blue eyes.
“Someone invented everything or discovered it,” he said, opening cabinets until he found the wine glasses. He pulled two down and filled them. Then he took a third one and filled it with water before sliding it across the counter to Violet.
“Wow, you really like history,” Violet said, picking up her glass with delight.
“I really like people.”
“Found it!” Bristol returned lugging a green plastic tote. She hefted it onto the counter and yanked off the lid. Beau hazarded a look inside and raised an eyebrow. Inside was a tangle of handheld tools and miscellaneous tool-related accessories.
“What?” Bristol asked, daring him to criticize. “This is Pops’ tool tote. We put him to work when he visits, don’t we Vi?”
“We used to use Mr. Maybry next door at the hardware store,” Violet put in. “But then they closed it. I miss Mr. Maybry. He used to bring me lollipops.”
“That was a hardware store next door?” Beau asked, handing Bristol a glass of wine.
“The Pollard family owned it for something like seventy years, but when the last owner passed away this summer, none of the kids or grandkids were interested in running it, and they couldn’t come to an agreement about selling it. So it sits empty, and poor Mr. Maybry is still out of work,” Bristol explained, peeking over Violet’s shoulder to check her daughter’s work.
“Well, it looks like everything here is done,” Beau said, turning off the burners. “Time to eat?”
––—
They ate tacos and talked hockey. And Bristol plotted her move.
She’d made up her mind when she’d walked into her kitchen and seen Beau making himself at home, finishing dinner, and chatting with Violet about the importance of history.
He fit. He fit in her home, in her life, and she was going to seduce him. Bristol felt almost silly planning a fling. By definition, a fling was temporary. Compatibility wasn’t a necessity. Hell, it wasn’t even a requirement. But Bristol didn’t see the point in letting someone into her bed if she wouldn’t enjoy them in her life.
And Beau fit. His temporary status in Hope Falls took him off the table for a long-term relationship, so a fling it would be. She hoped it would be a bit flingier than the only other short-term affair she’d attempted. That had been the captain of her college’s swim team, and they’d ended up dating seriously, getting pregnant her junior year, and then married.
As far as flings went, Nolan had been a failure. But Beau? He was perfect fling material. She eyed him over her wineglass and when his gaze met hers, she felt a spark of excitement zing up her spine.
Perfect fling material.
––—
He ate six tacos as much out of genuine enjoyment as to entertain Violet. And when they were finished eating, he gave Bristol a crash course in the positions of a hockey team using salt and pepper shakers and a plethora of dinner table items.
“See, you want your fastest right-handed player up on right wing because they’ll have the best chance at scoring,” he explained.
“Okay, that actually makes sense,” Bristol admitted.
“You’ll figure this out,” he promised. And she would. She was smart and determined, an unbeatable combination in an opponent and a sexy one in an attraction.
“Vi, let’s finish up this homework now so you can relax before bed,” Bristol suggested.
Violet grumbled but took her plate into the kitchen where she loaded it into the dishwasher.
“I’ll take care of the shelves,” Beau volunteered, following Violet’s lead and clearing the remaining dishes. He loaded up the dishwasher and headed back the hallway to Violet’s room.
It really seemed like a haven for a well-rounded eight-year-old. The walls that were drywall were painted a pale lavender, and there was a thick multi-colored rug that covered most of the floor. There were Legos scattered on the floor and a desk stacked with books, some kind of terrarium, and a microscope. Stuffed animals were spilling out of bins and buckets intended to organize chaos. The white dresser looked like it was exploding with kid clothes.
Beau made quick work of securing the shelves to the wall, and once he was satisfied that the bookcase wouldn’t topple over and crush Violet, he took a moment to reorganize the tool tote. Pops would thank him later.
A framed picture on Violet’s nightstand caught his eye. Bristol and Violet each had an arm looped around the neck of another woman, their cheeks pressing tight against hers. She was young with springy brown curls and Bristol’s high cheekbones and the same exotic tilt to her eyes. She grinned at the camera as if in mid-laugh. He could feel the vitality.
Hope. The picture they’d run with her obituary no more captured the essence of the woman—taken too soon when her car hit a patch of ice—than the text did. But in this picture, Beau could sense the life of the woman who had given him a gift so precious. He’d never be able to thank her, but there were others that he could thank.
“That’s my sister Hope,” Bristol said. She straightened away from the doorway and joined him.
He handed her the picture. “Pretty like her sister,” he commented. There was no dimple when Bristol’s lips curved in a sad smile.
“She was the good one,” she said, returning the picture to its home angled toward Violet’s bed. “Vanna’s the smart one, I’m the steady one, and Hope was the good one.”