Page 64 of Surly Sheriff
Pointing to his left, he said, “Figured this room would be ideal for your office.” His voice echoed in the empty space.
Rae pushed open the double doors and took one step before reversing out, bumping into him. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s my favorite room. Mrs. Jacobs called it the library.”
Floor-to-ceiling walnut shelves covered the wall on the right, and a matching desk with leather inlay — one of the items he had requested the previous owners leave behind — rested in front of the two windows. The large bay window jutting out onto the front porch offered a perfect spot for a pair of wingbacks. “I can see you working at that desk, tapping away on your laptop.”
She flinched beneath his hold and twisted away from him back into the entry, rubbing her arms.
“Rae?”
Her chest heaved with a heavy exhale. “Let’s carry on.”
Ah. Damn. This was not going well. But he followed her through the entrance to the hallway in the center of the house. Kismet’s barking from somewhere on the upper level drifted down to them.
“Stairs,” he said needlessly, motioning to his left. “Kitchen through there and living room this way.” On the far right of thespacious room was a bay window, the twin to the one in the library, and the wall facing them contained a fireplace flanked by tall windows. “These doors,” he continued, pushing aside the pocket doors on his left, “lead to the dining room.”
He marched into the room, his solid tread on the wooden floor echoing in the empty room. Rae did not follow. He spun around. She stood in the middle of the living room on the ugly mottled brown carpet with her arms tight around her torso.
She looked utterly miserable.
“You hate it,” he stated, his words reverberated around them.
“No,” she cried out. And hung her head, muttering under her breath.
“Talk to me, Raegan.”
She looked up, eyes blazing. “It’s that room,” she yelled, shoving her left arm out.
“The library?”
“Yes!”
He closed the distance between them, stopping one pace from her. “Tell me.”
She blew out a ragged breath. “That’s where … it happened. My grandfather’s li-library. Same type of walnut desk with le-leather inlays.” She swatted at the tears on her cheeks.
Sweet Jesus Christ.
Beau pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. So, so damned sorry.” He rubbed his hands over her back, fighting his own emotions. “I didn’t know.” She fisted his sweatshirt, her breath sawing in and out.
“I’ll sell the house.” There was no way he’d be able to set foot in that room again.
“No.” She pushed against his chest and lifted her head. “I … I need to get past this … this irrational behavior of mine. It’s been seventeen years, Beau.Seventeenyears. I’m thirty. Not thirteen.”
“It’s not irrational, Rae,” he said softly. “You suffered a traumatic event, and when you encounter a reminder, it will trigger you.”
She held his stare for a moment before dropping her eyes. “I guess.” She stomped away. All the way across the dining room to the French doors leading outside. She spun and faced the room, hands to hips. “Tell me your plans.”
“Selling,” he grunted.
“Humor me.”
“What’s the point?”
“Please.”
Maddening woman.
He huffed. “Fine,” he said. “If we reinforce that corner” — he pointed to the area where the kitchen, dining and living rooms joined — “and place a beam across this section” — he pointed to the top of the wall between the kitchen and dining room — “then we can open up the three rooms.”
