What a fucking disaster. I need to get out of sight and get the hell out of here before I find a way to mess up something else.
My mouth opens, an excuse still forming on my lips as I take a step forward, but Delilah has a different idea. Her foot kicks in front of mine and I trip, arms pinwheeling as I lose my balance.
I’m as graceful as a newborn foal on agoodday, but with interference?
The clumsiest.
Beau dives to the rescue, grabbing me by my arms as I crash into his chest, and everything just fuckingstops.
The world around me blurs at the edges, tunnel vision turning everything else into white noise. Electrified blood courses through my veins, branching out in lightning strikes from my toes to my fingertips. Beau’s hands on my skin are tiny conductors, creating static charges everywhere he touches me and drawing that lightning into concentrated bolts.
And my heart, that silly, useless,stupidorgan, plays a wild rhythm on my ribs like a xylophone, each thud a tiny mallet against bone.
“You okay, buddy?” he asks, and even the sound of his voice makes my brain tingle.
My eyes fall to the ground.
To the arrow sticking out of my foot.
My gaze travels up his enormous body to those concerned eyes, deep as ocean waters.
“Uh oh,” I whisper.
Chapter 4
Beau
Some days, everything goes according to plan.
Others, you end up on a frantic last-minute trip to the grocery store because you, Beauford Harris III, have been given the responsibility of baking a cake for your cousin’s birthday.
Throw me in front of a grill with a slab of steaks, and I’m your guy.
Put me in an apron and toss me in the kitchen?
Smoke and charring and a shrieking fire alarm being tossed out the window.
Thanks, Marie Callender’s.
My mother loves to complain about my inability to cook, which is ironic because she was the one who shooed me from the kitchen as a child. It’s not that I don’t love my parents, becauseI do, but I was a surprise baby, long after they’d been told they’d never conceive.
Turns out, I wasn’t menopause, after all.
Older parents mean more financial stability, but by the time I was born, they were both knee-deep in careers and had little patience for a talkative, inquisitive child.
Our relationship has gotten better as I’ve gotten older, but it’s still largely on their terms. Which is why I’m here, searching for a box of cake mix, while being followed by a woman that’s seven layers of crazy, all while she insults the man whose face is crammed against my chest.
Tuesdays, amiright?
“Are you okay?” My hands are still gripping his arms as he steadies himself, dark curls all I can see because he’s staring at the ground. He isn’t a large man, although that’s a relative assessment.
Most people are small compared to me. Corn fed, through and through, with a healthy dose of bacon grease to guarantee my arteries don’t get too cocky.
He finally looks up, and I stare, mesmerized by the pale gray of his eyes. They’re a stunning contrast to his mocha complexion—the color of clouds in a rainy autumn sky. I’ve never seen anything quite like them before. “Oh, uh, yeah,” he stammers, his voice soft and melodic, before his lip pulls up in a lopsided, uncertain grin. “I’m so sorry… I can be a bit clumsy sometimes.”
“Alright, short stack,” the lady beside me interrupts with a sneer, “you got all that attention you were looking for, so why don’t you move along now?”
I scowl but ignore her as he regains his footing. Another of those apologetic smiles quirks his lips as I make sure he’s steady, finally releasing his arms. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
