Page 67 of Hopeless
I tried not to stare at the way his back strained against the T-shirt he still wore from the night before as he bent down and slid his new double-walled socks into his new Blundstones.He expected me to just lay there and listen to him panic?
“I’m not going to stay here.”I lifted my chin, forcing myself to appear prideful in a way that was a complete mismatch for how I felt inside.
And he didn’t even bother glancing at me when he said,“You can stay in the house, or I’ll pay to have your trailer equipped with air conditioning. Your call.”Then he slapped the door frame and left the house.
That was two days ago. Two nights of me waking up at 2:11—exactly—and walking across the hallway. Two nights of me wrapping my hand around his doorknob because I couldn’t handle listening to him shout.
And then stopping.
We made a deal, and I know all about people not respecting your privacy. This last incident wasn’t the first time my brothers ransacked my space searching for something.
For the last two nights, I’ve reminded myself that Beau is a grown-ass man, capable of making grown-up decisions and setting grown-up boundaries.
And my job as a fellow grown-up is to respect those boundaries.
Which is why I go back to my room, pull my pillow over my head and try not to hear him. But it’s impossible. It’s stressful. And even though the heat isn’t keeping me awake anymore, the anxiety of knowing he’sright thereand all alone is worse than sleeping in the Boiler.
I slice through the next lime and cut a line through the middle of the wedge so it can rest on the edge of a cup. I’m just exhausted enough that I don’t stop the knife in time before it continues its motion right over my finger.
“Fuck!” I toss the knife and instantly lift my finger to my mouth.
“You okay?” I can hear the alarm in Beau’s voice as he shoves his stool away and pushes through the small wooden doors that divide the space between patrons and staff. He looms over me and reaches for my wrist, rotating my hand to inspect the damage, which is limited.
“I’m fine.” I try to tug my wrist free. “It’s not the first time I’ve cut myself, and it won’t be the last. Go sit back down.” I yank again, avoiding his gaze as I bring my finger back up to my mouth. As I stem the light trickle of blood, I turn away to grab the first aid kit we store behind the bar.
With it laid out in front of me, I rifle through the contents, looking for the correct Band-Aid size.
“Let me,” Beau says in a soft voice. It’s a fucking punch to the gut. When he’s all stoic and removed, it’s easier to be irritated with him.
I let out a heavy sigh and finally tilt my head, gazing up at him. Genuine concern fills his silver eyes, along with something else. Paired with the way his tongue darts out over his lips, he appears almost nervous.
His gaze searches my face as his hand wraps around my wrist again, this time more gently, guiding my finger from my mouth. It strikes me this might be the first time we’ve made eye contact in the past couple of days.
Since Harvey put the announcement in the paper, all eyes have been on us, but our eyes haven’t been on each other.
I blink away, not wanting to stare for too long. Because if I do, my body will react. I’ll step closer and—
“It doesn’t look too bad.” Beau furrows his brow as he assesses the world’s most inconsequential cut.
“That’s what I told you,” I reply through gritted teeth.
He seems amused by my annoyance, which just annoys me more.
Deft fingers pull the Band-Aid from its wrapper, and he places it with meticulous care. I can’t help but be entranced by him—so big and gruff yet so gentle.
He wraps the sticky ends together and delicately presses my hand between both of his. Making a little Bailey hand sandwich. “There.”
Despite all my self-talk about being an adult, I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, so I mumble, “Thanks,” and turn away to resume work.
He lingers for a moment, then slowly moves away, back to his seat.
Back to his tea.
Back to watching me like a hawk.
And when Gary slurs, “Trouble in paradise?” I reply with a perky, “Never,” and go back to cutting limes. Because after a week spent applying for other jobs, I’m still getting nothing more than a pitying look and a polite, “We’re not hiring right now,” even though the job is listed online.
When we made this bet, I knew my reputation might be beyond saving. I knew that he was wrong and I was right. I knew I’d probably “win”—whatever that means.
