Page 68 of Hopeless
But winning has never felt worse. Because I know my place in Chestnut Springs, and spending time pretending it’s at Beau Eaton’s side just makes it hurt more.
The quiet buzz of my phone vibrating beside my mattress wakes me.
It’s 2:00 a.m. and the urge to shut my phone down, roll over, and go back to sleep is strong. But the extra eleven minutes won’t make a difference. No matter how I spin it, I’ll be tired tomorrow.
It’s agonizing to hear Beau struggle only a few feet from where I’m lying.
At 2:11, we’re both haunted. Me, by the way I felt captured in his hold, coming apart above him while he whispered my name against my hair. Him by … well, I’m not entirely sure. But I can guess.
Either way, I want to rewrite 2:11 into something different for us. We’re stuck together in this little arrangement, and it doesn’t need to be this awkward.
Or maybe it’s just me being awkward because I can’t masturbate without thinking of that night.
“Okay,” I grumble to myself and shake away the arousal that sweeps through me every time I recall the way he gripped my hair while he kneaded my ass. I’ve never felt soneeded. “Let’s do this.”
I roll from my bed, grab the bag I set near the door, and pad across the hallway, checking my watch.
2:02.
I knock on his door firmly but with a measured pace, wanting to wake him up while avoiding any sense of urgency that will freak him out. Beau doesn’t need any extra freaking out—he already does that on his own.
It occurred to me today, as he tended to my finger and then sat vigil while I finished out my shift, that he’s become hyper-fixated on taking care of me.
But who is taking care of him?
I hear rustling and knock again.
2:03.
“Beau, get up.” I keep my voice light and airy.
“Bailey?” He’s up and at the door like a shot, ripping it open. My mouth goes dry when he towers over me, wearing nothing but his boxers.
I secretly hoped he’d be naked again. No one has ever looked as good naked as Beau Eaton.
“What’s wrong?” His hand lands on my shoulder, drawing me close as he leans out the door and checks both directions of the hallway, assessing for danger.
I place a gentle palm against his chest and give it a reassuring pat. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
His chin drops now as he looks me over. “Go where?”
“Swimming.”
His face scrunches in confusion, hand still branding me where his fingers curl over onto my back. “What time is it?”
I check my watch. Again. “It’s 2:04.”
“Why would I want to go swimming now?”
My head tilts as I consider what to say to him next. “Because it seems a lot more fun than hitting 2:11 and screaming in your bed. For both of us.”
His hand drops from my shoulder and his eyes trace my features in the darkened hallway. His gaze is steely in both color and intensity, more than I can withstand.
I turn and wave a hand over my shoulder. “Let’s go, soldier. I’m not even planning on wearing a bathing suit.”
19
Beau
