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Then his gaze drops to my mouth, and he mutters, “Come here.”
Oh boy. I’m in trouble. Like, catastrophic, legs-just-turned-into-noodles trouble.
Because the way he says it? All low and raspy, like it’s not a request but a need? My heart flatlines. My spine liquefies. My self-control packs a bag and peaces out.
I mean, come on.
Come here?
Sir, I will come there, I will live there, I will build a damn house there.
He reaches for me again, mouth slanting over mine like he’s starving. Yeah. I’m feral. I’m gone. I’m his.
thirty-seven
. . .
Whitley
As much as I want to hop straight into bed with him, I know that’s not the responsible thing to do.
Ugh. Adulting.
We’re on my couch now, bodies angled toward each other. I keep tracing the edge of my thumbnail with my finger, trying to gather the nerve. We’ve crossed some heavy ground tonight, but this thing between us is too real for half-truths or dancing around the hard stuff.
He’s sitting back against the cushions, legs spread wide, his hand draped loosely over the back of the couch. His other hand rests on his thigh. A lock of dark hair has fallen across his forehead, softening the hard lines of his face. It makes him look younger. Less guarded. My fingers actually twitch with the urge to reach out and push it back, to comb through the thick strands.
I can picture it clearly—me shifting closer, straddling his lap, sliding my hands into his hair, and tugging just enough to make him hiss. Or even better—dropping down between his knees, right into the space he’s left open.
Heat floods my body so fast I have to press my thighs together. I drag in a breath and force my gaze back to his face instead of the broad stretch of his chest, the solid line of his shoulders, the space between his legs that is way too inviting.
We need to talk.
“Beau?”
His head tips. “Mm?”
“I could help with your mom, you know.”
He stiffens.
“I mean…” I pause, forcing my voice to stay soft. “I mainly work with children, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have experience with adults, too. I’ve worked with families and parents on an array of topics, from grief to bipolar disorder.” I tuck my feet under me and lean closer. “I’ve done art therapy programs specifically for patients with mood disorders. I’ve seen how much it can help.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing, weighing my words against some invisible scale. Then that flicker of hope softens his expression.
“You’d do that?” His voice is low, almost cautious. Does he really think I’d say no?
“Of course I would. I’d love to. And it’s your mom, Beau. Why wouldn’t I want to help?”
He lets out a slow breath. Then, with that signature Beau grit, he mutters, “You’re too fucking good for this world, Whitley.”
I roll my eyes, deflecting the compliment because I’m getting dangerously close to crying again. “Beau, I’m literally sitting here thinking about how I could climb you like a tree instead of having this very mature, adult conversation. I’m not that good.”
He barks out a laugh. A real one that starts deep in his chest and breaks free before he can stop it. His whole face transforms, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’m serious, though,” I tell him. “You don’t have to do it all yourself.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand is still stretched along the back of the couch behind my head, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his palm. Slowly, his fingers slip into my hair as he holds my gaze.
