With athletic grace, Beau reaches out to the overstuffed chair next to us and plucks the cream flannel throw off its arm. He shakes it out and tents it over both our shoulders, uniting us in its warmth.
The gesture is so unexpected, so comforting, I have to hold back a sigh. I manage a hoarse Thank you and log into my email and Instagram accounts. Beau opens tabs to the Twitter and Facebook login pages.
“You trust me with this?” he asks, his eyes earnest and open. “Because you can—”
“I trust you.” The words come easily because I have no doubt. I’ve only known Beau for about a month, but somehow he’s here when no one else is, helping me do something I should have done a long time ago.
I give him my usernames and passwords. “But hold on. Don’t log in yet,” I say, trying to think three steps ahead. Beau’s laptop is a new device. “When you log in, it’ll send an email notification here,” I say pointing to my Gmail account.
Beau nods. “Then change your password there first.”
I blow out a breath, wondering if Moira has any two-factor authentication methods set up that I’m not aware of.
I bite my lip and check the time on my laptop taskbar: 10:54. I have six minutes before Moira makes a move on her own.
“What’s most important to you right now?” Beau asks, breaking through my worries.
“Being me. Being real,” I say without hesitation. “That what’s posted on my platforms is authentic and my own.”
Beau’s eyes spark as he looks at me. Whoa. Is that admiration?
I tear my gaze away. I’ve got five minutes now.
“And you’re okay locking her out of this first?” He gestures to the laptops. “The social media stuff first? Not your bank accounts and all the rest.”
I shake my head. “There’s no time. I can’t worry about the money right now. My authenticity and my integrity are more important.”
I look up at him to find that his brown eyes aren’t just sparking now. They’re blazing.
Dear God. I feel the strength of his gaze all the way to my lady parts. Holy Clenching Muscles, Batman!
“Ready?” My mouth is so dry the word is little more than air.
“Whenever you are.” The certainty in his voice gives me courage.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Three minutes.
I change the password on my Gmail. The world doesn’t come crashing down around my ears, but the wind picks up outside and branches of the backyard mimosa tree slap the side of the house.
“Let’s get this done before we lose internet,” Beau says, and we change the passwords on my social media accounts.
Notification emails ping my laptop.
“Now change your bank passwords,” Beau says, pushing his laptop aside and purposefully putting distance between us.
I’m in the middle of setting up new account passwords when my phone rings, and I nearly fall off the couch. Moira’s name flashes across the screen.
“Fuck.” She knows something’s up. What the hell will she do when she realizes she can’t get in? Have I made absolutely sure she can’t get in? The trilling phone crowds the air like a warning siren. “What if I missed something? What if she can still get in?”
“She can’t.”
I stare at the vibrating, bleating phone like it’s a viper.
“But what if she can?” I imagine that slowly sinking into a frozen lake would feel just like this. Panic halves my breath.
“I have an idea.” Beau grabs my phone and—breaking one of the commandments I’ve followed my whole life—declines the call. He taps the camera icon and then wraps an arm around me.
“Wh-What are you doing?” The freezing fear. Beau’s arm around me. Too much stimuli. I can’t compute.
“Helping you shape your narrative,” he says, tapping the screen to flip the camera to selfie mode. “Smile.”
I stare at the image of us on the screen. Soaking wet, Beau and I huddle together under a blanket. His smile is wide, magnetic, and straight-up beautiful. I smile too. Because this is the way forward. This is the first step to claiming my own life.
Beau snaps the picture. Then he taps the Instagram icon. To my relief, it prompts him to log in since I’ve updated the password. A small measure of tension eases. This is what Moira is seeing if she’s trying to log in.
Beau types in the new password. “Want me to caption it?” he offers.
I reach out my hand for the phone. “No. I’ve got it.”
He hands me the phone, and rebellion surges in my veins. “What’s your Insta handle?”
Beau snorts. “I don’t have one.”
I fight a smile. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” I mutter. I tap out the caption:
I wouldn’t want to face this storm with anyone else.
I add a few hurricane and Louisiana hashtags, including #truth and #luckygirl, but I could think of a hundred others I’m too chicken to put.
#bestillmyheart
#hesperfect
#isthislove
I post the pic and put down my phone before I do anything stupid. As soon as I set it down, it starts ringing again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
BEAU
Her mom’s calling again, and I can tell it’s eating her up.
“Wanna turn off your phone?” I suggest, but really, I think she should block that bitch.
Iris chews on her bottom lip. “I don’t know. Ghosting her seems wrong.”
I try to keep my face blank. Everything I’ve heard about Iris’s mother rings alarm bells. Controlling. Cruel. Narcissistic. Iris’s decisions today show me that she must know all that, but it’s clear she’s been vulnerable to Moira her whole life. That’s not going to change overnight.
And as much as I want to, I can’t take any of these steps for her. She has to do that herself. I just need to be here to help.
I thank whatever force got me here when I did. God. Ramon. Hurricane Addie. All of the above.
Ten more minutes, and she might have left with Jonathan Reynolds. In my gut, I don’t think Iris would have gone forward with Moira’s scheme to project a relationship with her director, but she might have found herself in a situation she couldn’t control, and I don’t think Reynolds would have been someone she’d have confided in.
But she confided in me. That thought warms like good whiskey. She’s trusted me with this, and I don’t want her to regret it.
“Then don’t ghost her, but I don’t think answering is a good idea either,” I say, hoping she’ll hear me out. “Text her and let her know now’s not a good time.”
She eyes me with indecision, but the phone rings out. My first thought is that this buys her a little time, but Moira just calls right back.
Iris shuts her eyes, looking pained. “She’s not going to stop calling.”
The urge to shield her from this has me shifting in my seat, itching to do something.
“Want me to text for you?”
Her eyes spring open. “What would you say?”
“I’d tell her that you both need time to think and you can talk after the storm.”
Iris pinches her lips together, and her eyes fill. “And then what?”
I have a whole score of ideas, but if I tell Iris what I’m thinking, it might scare her off. “That’s up to you.”
A fat tear spills down one cheek. When she speaks, her voice is shaky and raw. “I think I need a new manager.”
Relief empties my lungs, but instead of cheering, I just nod. “Okay. Who would you pick?” I think this is an innocent, logical question, but Iris’s face crumbles.
“I don’t know,” she squeaks and then sniffles. “It’s always been M-Moira. I have no idea where I’d go. I mean, there’s tons of people in L.A., but I don’t know who to trust.”
Iris covers her face and sobs in her hands. I tuck my arm around her shoulders and pull her into me, her cries killing me.
“I’ll help you,” I promise. I have no idea where I’d even
start, but I’ll figure it out. “You’re not doing this alone.”
Her damn phone keeps ringing like it's possessed. I reach out and silence the thing.
Iris’s breath goes choppy, and she swipes her knuckles beneath her eyes. “I’m s-sorry I’m so pathetic—”
“Hush,” I gently scold, squeezing her tighter. “You’re incredible.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not. I can’t do anything by myself.” Self-condemnations harden her voice. “I can’t even drive.”
“So? A lot of people don’t drive.”
A shudder passes through her. “I don’t drive. I don’t manage my own money. I don’t even work out by myself.”
“Doing everything by yourself isn’t the universal marker of success,” I say.
Her spine stiffens, and she shoots me an accusing look. “This from the guy who built his own house.”
I manage not to chuckle, but I can’t stop the grin. “You’ve accomplished things most people never will.”
In her eyes, despair replaces accusation. “But no one would respect me or take me seriously if they knew how enabled I am.”
With my free hand, I cup her chin. “I respect you, and I take you seriously.”
She blinks up at me, and the sight of her wet lashes makes my heart split down the middle. She’s vulnerable and trusting, and I’d sell my soul before I let anything hurt her.
“None of us can help how we grew up or who our parents are,” I tell her, wishing I could say this without thinking of my faithless father. “You’re young, and you’re allowed time to figure this out.”
Iris sniffles and manages a small smile. “How old are you? Because you seem to have it all figured out.”
For the first time, I worry she’s going to think I’m too old.
Too old for what, Landry? She’s already turned you down.
I shove the thought aside and brace myself for her response. “Twenty-seven.”
She fast blinks. “That’s all?”
I frown. “What do you mean, that’s all?”
Iris bites down on her rapidly growing smile, her eyes wide with humorous chagrin. “I mean—I mean—That’s exactly what I expected,” she says, clearly fibbing.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Just how old did you think I was?”
She inhales through her nose, eyes still red but tears forgotten, and her comedy-sketch face is back. “Oh, just never mind,” she says, wrinkling her nose and waving a dismissive hand. “What’s age, really? Just a number on a driver’s license.”
“And just what number did you think was on mine?” I ask with mock menace.
Her smile goes insanely wide. I hold my breath so I don’t laugh. “A two-digit number,” she chirps proudly.
Too much. I’m a goner. I laugh like I’m high. This girl. A minute ago, she was crying. Talking shit about herself, echoing what I bet she hears from her mother all the time. Now she’s smiling and making me laugh with her antics. Even after what I know must have been years of taking crap from Moira, her spirit is irrepressible.
I could learn a thing or two from her. About finding joy. About choosing happiness, no matter what life hands you.
“So, you thought I was thirty.”
Her smile is wicked, and she shrugs coyly. “-ish.”
Thirty-ish. “Damn,” I hiss like she’s punched me in the gut.
Still, she thought I was that much older, and she still kissed me. That’s got to be encouraging.
Doesn’t change the fact that she turned your ass down.
I swallow that bitter pill again, but the bastard keeps coming back up.
Her silent phone continues to flash Moira’s name across the screen. Iris hugs herself and nods toward it as though it could bite her.
“Would you text something to her? I’m afraid if I pick up the phone, I’ll cave and just answer it.”
I grab the phone before she changes her mind and tap the custom message icon. When the app opens, I type:
I won’t be answering now. We’ll talk next week.
“What about this?” I show Iris the phone.
Her eyes round. “I’d never be that blunt.” She tips her gaze up at me, beaming. “Send it.”
I do. Five seconds later, Moira calls again. Iris’s smile falters.
“What do you think about blocking her? Just for now?” I float the idea.
Iris sighs, but then she surprises me with a nod. Taking this as permission to do the honors, I tap Moira’s contact and block her. I like the sensation it gives me more than I should.
Iris’s frame relaxes next to me, and I like that even more. “Now what?” she asks.
Before I can form an answer, her phone’s screen lights up with The Juliet Boutique Hotel.
“Ssshit,” Iris curses. “That’s where she’s staying.”
I don’t hesitate to block that number too.
She looks up at me. “You are seriously my hero right now.”
I hold back my grin. Iris could do all of this herself, but I know it’s easier for me. A hell of a lot easier.
“Maybe we should just put my phone on DND. She’ll keep calling.”
An unwelcome thought pops into my head. “Will she come over here?”
Iris shakes her head and gestures toward the windows where the storm blows. “Not in this weather. Moira is afraid of things that she can’t control.”
Classic bully, I resist the urge to say.
“You should see her every time we have an earthquake above a 2.2. She pushes people out of her way to get to the exit,” Iris says with a sour smirk.
I’d love to comment, but I don’t. No need to make Iris any more ashamed of her mother. Thanks to my Dad, I know only too well what it’s like to have a parent who makes you cringe.
“So then the storm buys us a little time,” I say, but even with that, I don’t know how to help her with her search for a manager, and she’ll need someone soon. I don’t know what Moira is really capable of, but I doubt she’s going to take this lying down, and she could do some real damage on her way out. “But I think we need reinforcements.”
Iris blinks. “What do you mean?”
“You should call Ramon.”
As soon as I speak his name, it—along with the goofiest picture of Iris’s PA in an Aquaman costume—lights up her phone.
Eyes wide, Iris rips the phone from me and taps the speaker icon.
“Ray?” she asks, sounding keyed up.
“Good God, Iris, what have you done? Moira is losing her shit. She won’t stop calling, and Sally just showed me your Insta. Holy fuck, chica! Professor Dance Pants looks hot all wet like that.”
Iris chokes. “Um, Ray—”
“Oh crap. Am I on speaker?” Ramon’s question hangs in the air. I watch amusement dance over Iris’s features.
“Um… Maybe?” she squeaks.
Silence.
“And Professor Dance Pants?” Ramon asks, irritation eeking into his voice.
“Is right here,” I answer, trying to keep the amusement from mine.
“Great. Warn me next time, would ya, Iris?” Ramon mutters something indecipherable. “Now, tell me what’s going on. And, like a good friend, I’m warning you that I’m putting you on speaker so Sally can listen in.”
Iris beams. “Hey, Sal.”
“Hey, honey. What’s up? Things sound kinda crazy down there.”
Iris licks her lips, bracing herself to dive in. “I’m firing Moira.”
Her friends’ surprised shouts and cheers make us both jump. But Iris’s relieved laughter soon follows.
“About fuckin’ time,” Ramon utters at the same time Sally sighs, “Thank God.”
Iris fills them in on the events of the last hour, including her refusal to stay with Jonathan and the blocking of her social media accounts.
“What do you need from me?” Ramon asks.
Iris’s uncertain gaze latches with mine. “I don’t even know where to start, but Ray, you know Moira. She's going
to make trouble.” Her frown tells me this is one thing she’s sure about. “She might even try to take what’s mine.”
Ramon snorts. “You’re going to need to sue her if she does.”
“She’s going to need a lawyer first,” I chime in. “We’re about to go dark over here. We might keep cell service, but it’ll be spotty, and we’re definitely going to lose power. Can y’all help us out from there?”
“You got it,” Ramon answers with confidence.
“And can you make up a list of potential managers for me to interview?” Iris asks meekly, as if she’s asking too much. The guy works for her, for Christ’s sake. I won’t mention that he’s left her here to fend for herself. The fact that he’s not here dealing with this storm could be to her advantage.
I can practically hear the grin in Ramon’s voice. “I already have a few in mind. I’ll email you a list ASAP.”
Iris sags with relief. “Oh, thank you, Ray. That’s huge.”
And then her phone beeps with another Juliet ID. Moira must have found a different line.
“Dammit,” Iris groans. “She’s never going to stop.”
I’ve had enough of this, and she doesn’t need any more. “Let’s put your phone on DND. Ray, if you need to reach Iris, use my number. Moira doesn’t have that one.”
“Good idea,” Ramon agrees.
Iris says nothing, but the look of awe she’s giving me might just make me swell with pride.
“Hey.” Sally’s concerned voice comes over the line. “The Weather Channel just said that Addie’s a Category 2 now. Are you guys going to be okay?”
Iris’s hazel eyes search mine.
“We’ll be fine.” Iris is still in the curve of my arm. I squeeze her gently. I don’t want her to be afraid, but there are some things we need to do before it gets rough. “We just need to take care of a few things.”
“So do we,” Ramon says, businesslike. “Try to check in every few hours to let us know you’re okay.”
“We will,” Iris promises.
“Iris?” Sally calls, emotion in her voice.
Iris sits up straighter, her whole attention aimed at the phone like a satellite dish. “Yeah?”
“I’m so glad you’re doing this and letting me help.” Her words are rough with feeling, and I see the impact they have on the woman in my arms.
Two-Step Page 24