6. Beau

Chapter six

Beau

I realize two things immediately when I startle awake.

First, I’m trembling.

And second, I’m soaking wet. My sweats, my T-shirt, the sheets—the whole thing.

The first thing I do is check the meter to get a reading on my blood sugar, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve crashed or it’s high. I feel perfectly fine.

I am perfectly fine. My sugar level is right where it should be.

I lay there for a few seconds, trying to get my bearings. It’s hot, but not soak-the-bed hot. There’s a portable AC unit in the corner, humming away, and this room, unlike the rest of the house, isn’t inferno-level summer hot. Was it a nightmare? Am I sick? Getting sick? Should I get to the hospital immediately?

“Beau?” Ignacia’s sleepy voice saying my name attacks something in my chest that I don’t even understand. She reaches out, and before I can get the hell out of the contact zone, her fingers land lightly on my arm. “Oh my god!” She’s instantly awake when she feels my soaked skin.

She jumps out of the bed and hastily has the light switched on, scalding both our eyes in a hot damn second.

“Ow!” She shields her eyes with a hand over her brow like she just looked at the sun, but she doesn’t turn the lights off.

I blink down at the sheets, seeing dancing white spots. And then, she’s seeing me up close because she rounds the bed that fast . She slams herself down on the edge of the bed, and I have no choice but to make room by scooting back, or her delectable buns will brush against some part of my body. Fuck me. I don’t know if I’ll recover from a full-on ass brush in the middle of the night when I’m half asleep and strangely discomfited.

Or at any other time.

“You’re soaking wet,” she points out, but I’m not going to sarcastically do the no-shit thing since she sounds like she’s one tone on the shrill shriek range less than frantic. “And trembling.”

Fuck, am I still doing that?

“Jesus. I need to get you to a doctor,” she continues.

“I’m fine. It’s just hot.”

“It’s not that hot. Why are you shaking if it’s hot?” Her hand whips out before I can stop her, and it whomps my forehead. “You’re not burning up.”

“Thank you, nurse. I’ve already checked my sugar. I’m fine.”

“Are you coming down with something? Isn’t getting sick worse if you have diabetes?”

The pump is good at reading my blood no matter what’s going on, but force-feeding myself when I’m nauseous or sick as fuck to keep it at a proper level is horrific. At least, it used to be. It hasn’t been shit since I became rich enough to afford a private doctor who could pump anything into me nutrients-wise via an IV drip. I eat healthy, work out, and take a host of vitamins and supplements so that I don’t get sick often. Other than sometimes nearly getting my ass killed via the perks of my job, I’m in impeccable shape.

Her hand snakes out again, and I jerk back so hard that I hit the base of my skull on the tallest fucking metal headboard in history. I blink against the sting and the fact that it sounded like I just gave myself a concussion. I refuse to rub the spot due to showing weakness and all that. I’ve already been humiliated beyond repair tonight.

“Alright then.” Ignacia yanks her hand back and stands up. “Fine. If you don’t want to be touched, I get it. You don’t want to be taken care of. I won’t ask you if you’re alright again. You’re grown enough to figure it out for yourself. Just don’t let your pride get in the way. It would be a real shame if the world were deprived of your wholesome, sweet self.”

She turns and spins to the door, her anger a black cloud trailing behind her, but then she stops with one hand on the frame. When she turns around, unbelievably enough, she looks sorry and guilty. She hangs her head and bites her lip. At the sight of that, my dick springs straight into action, proving to me that, physically, I’m fine.

“That was remarkably rude. I don’t know why I said that. I’ve never implied that someone leaving the world is a good thing.”

“Then you’ve had the pleasure of living a very sheltered life.”

Her eyes flash. Yes, there it is. A hint that there’s something else beyond that wholesome, country-girl exterior. She’s like the perfect apple. Tempting. Tempting to the point of downfall. So red and juicy and sweet, only to reveal an unripe tartness that is enough to sour your stomach right off when the first layer is peeled back.

“Not as sheltered as you might think.”

I don’t think. I know. But she doesn’t need to know that. She can’t know that.

“Well, good for you that you’ve never met someone you’d wish death upon. Congratulations on being a virtual saint.”

“Ugh,” she grunts. “Can you just get up? Take a shower if you like. I don’t think we need a damn contract for that. I’ll change the sheets. As per getting your ass to a hospital if you need it, I trust your judgment. If I hear any weird thumps, I promise to kick down the bathroom door even though it’s solid wood, save you from drowning in the shower, and phone an ambulance.”

“Would it be terrible of me to cause a very loud noise just to see this door-breaking theory put into action?”

She very nearly laughs. Her lips don’t, but the rest of her does. I can tell she’s holding it back. Also? Fuck me, but my entire being wants to see the bright, sunny happiness unleashed in her. Now that actually makes my stomach churn because what the fuck?

“If I can’t kick it down, I promise to use some random farm implement long forgotten around here that could do the job. Don’t cry wolf, though. You might end up with a pitchfork lodged in you, and then where would we be?”

“Living in a better world if your theory is true,” I answer.

She laces her arms across her chest. “I said I was sorry about that. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why it even came out. It was so wrong.” She hesitates, her pulse leaping at her neck. I watch her jaw get hard, and she drops her arms. She’s gone from sorry to defiant. That’s what my assholery has earned me. “Would it be so wrong if you just fell into a deep coma and slept for a few years instead?”

“You’re asking this of a diabetic?” I fake-gasp.

She flips me a double bird, which straight-up astonishes me. I don’t date, but if I did, I wouldn’t have expected that the familiarity could ratchet up from the first meeting to the second date like this. Not that this is a date. It’s not. This is not how old married couples fight, bantering around insults that are more funny than hurtful because they do love each other fiercely beyond the appearances of continuously wishing that someone would drop dead for not picking up their socks or whatever married people fight about.

I know that’s weak sauce, but whatever.

“Shower. Please. Now?”

I throw back the sheets with a harsh sigh. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll get right on that.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it. Getting woken up in the middle of the darned night isn’t something most people enjoy.”

“That’s why you’ve been replaced by some evil twin?”

“Yeah, exactly.” She waves me off. “You know where the bathroom is. Use the towel hanging there. It’s clean. Do you need a change of clothes?”

“Why?” I gape at her. “Do you keep that in stock?”

“No. I was going to tell you that if you did, just wear the towel to bed or put your suit back on.”

“Good thing I have a few sets in my bag then.” Otherwise, I’d really be shit outta luck.

“Yes, that’s a very good thing. Wearing a towel when you’re that stacked would be a travesty. You’d have to tie me to the bed to keep me from mauling you senseless.”

I am not even going to give that statement the time of day. I might be sweating after some phantom nighttime incident—probably a nightmare I can’t remember, although that hasn’t happened in years—and hearing her say things like that reminds me I’m verging on the last shred of my sanity and the last thread of control. It gives my dick ideas he can’t have. He can’t have any because the day my dick takes over my brain is the day I won’t recognize myself.

Despite being health-conscious and, honestly, a bit of a neat freak when it comes down to it, I haven’t tried many of the crazes, even the scientifically proven ones. I’m not sure how proven the ice baths or cold plunges are, but they’re said to do great things. However, I’ve been in doubt about whether it’s safe for a diabetic to undergo that kind of temperature change, so I immediately passed it off as something I would never do. I also haven’t done any proper research.

Tonight, maybe a cold plunge is exactly what I need. Minus the plunge. And the heart-stopping icy temperatures. I grab my bag from downstairs and head into the bathroom. Then, I hit the shower and crank the water to as cold as it will go. It’s certainly not the temperature of an ice bath, but maybe it will help me focus.

I’m a big guy, and this shower isn’t all that huge, so it concentrates mostly on the center of my back while I stand there with one hand braced against the other side. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to try and remember the nightmare or dream. But I can’t.

This has happened before, at my house. More than once. Except that those times, I always knew I had a dream. I just couldn’t remember it. A few times, I woke up, my heart racing out of control. But I’ve never been soaked in sweat after one.

Regardless, I still feel fine.

Nothing hurts. And nothing feels like it’s going to hurt.

Fucking shit, though. Fuck, goddamn it, fuck.

Having Ignacia see me like that wasn’t okay. Not that I could magic clean sheets onto her bed with her asleep in it, but maybe if she hadn’t woken up, they would have dried out by morning. I’m embarrassed because I’m uncomfortable. It’s like being pantsed at a fucking party full of important, influential people.

After the shower, I throw my spare T-shirt and sweats on. It’s the same outfit as before, just clean and dry. I check my monitor. Still nothing off. I even take my pulse. My heart rate isn’t even elevated.

When I exit the bathroom, Ignacia isn’t in her bedroom. I hear her moving downstairs, opening the damn door and closing it again. Then, she starts talking to someone.

In the middle of the night.

Maybe it’s my internal danger meter going off, trying to save me, but halfway into charging down the stairs like I’m going to have a coronary, I relax when I hear her say something about Mama. Her cat. She let the cat in, and now she’s talking to it. Alright, fair enough. It’s not someone coming to kill me because she found out who I really am and that I’m onto her, and the game is up.

Downstairs, she looks sweet and comfy in an old-fashioned floral granny robe that goes past her knees and has a full lace and quilting going on with the fabric. Despite a shadow under each eye because she’s tired, she looks dewy and beautiful. It’s just my fucking luck that I’d come here and find the world’s most naturally beautiful and alluring woman. It makes it hard to focus.

For the love of crawfish, it doesn’t. I’m good. I will not be swayed by this woman’s sensual charms.

The cat dances around her feet happily as she moves to the fridge. She pulls out the milk, which I’m about to tell her not to give the cat, but she sets the carton by the kettle, reaches into the cupboard, and takes down a small packet for the cat.

Onto the plate, the mystery paste goes. The cat likes it. She goes wild, meowing and purring while she eats, which sounds hilariously wild.

I almost find myself wanting to laugh, damn it.

Instead, I grunt so Ignacia knows I’m there. I don’t want to jumpscare her, such that she goes through the kitchen window. She turns, and her nightgown billows around her like a magic floral bag that does evil things to my dick. Who knew granny clothing was basically a magic boner arrow getting shot straight into my junk?

“Are you feeling better?” she asks.

In reply, I grunt, “I was never not feeling fine.”

She decides to accept my bullshit answer. She motions to the wall. The living room is on the other side. “Do you want to sit in the rocking chair? I just got this mix that’s supposed to replace coffee and tea. It’s all full of nutrients and whatnot. I could make some.”

“What flavor is it?” I ask warily.

“Chai.”

For the love of good fucking fuck. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Do you want some water?”

“Had my fill in the shower.”

“You stood under the spray with your mouth open and drank it?”

“No, I drink by osmosis,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

She claps her hands like I’m not the world’s biggest douchebag. “Amazing!” She’s not osmosing my assholery and letting it get to her, which is even more amazing. “I’m going to make a cup for myself. Let me know if you change your mind.”

I go to the living room, humoring her because I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to talk about whatever happened up there or whatever happened to me in the barn or why I keep getting ripped the fuck open and having all my personal shit spill out. This is not a thing. And it’s not going to be a thing again. I said that the last time, yet look at me now. Sitting in a rocking chair in the middle of the night, surly as fuck, because honestly? I’m unnerved. I shook myself up. I don’t like not knowing what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t like the fact that as soon as Ignacia woke up and panicked over it and tried to make sure I wasn’t having a medical emergency, it felt like she cared . That’s what’s still bothering me.

The problem with ice is that it sometimes thaws. Even just a little is too much. It’s too much in the wild. It’s too much inside me. If I were younger and had a few lesser brain cells, I’d file it under the stupid #nofuckingway bullshit, but I’m not younger, and unfortunately, I’ve always been too smart for my own good, and there’s no way I’m ever using a hashtag, even a mental one.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blur rushes across the room and jumps onto my lap.

Absolute Unit Cat immediately starts treating me like I’m a living bowl of carbohydrates and punches dough on my legs. She circles a few times, puts her paws out, and promptly fills the room with the loudest cat snores I have ever heard.

All in the span of a few minutes.

I’m practically paralyzed. I don’t know what the procedure is for this. I don’t even like cats, but pushing off a sleeping animal, all warm and trusting and soft and still sleep-purring, feels wrong, even if she smells like a strange combination of liver and fish. It feels like something only an extremely cold-hearted bastard would do, and I don’t know if my levels are currently up to their regular standard.

Worse yet, Ignacia walks in with one foul-smelling brew in her right hand and a glass of water in her left and sees me getting all soft and mushy about the beast.

“Here.” She tiptoes in like she doesn’t want to wake up the cat and hands me the water. “Just in case drinking by osmosis didn’t leave you fully hydrated, you might want to top up the old-fashioned way.”

She hands me the glass, and then the confounding, infuriating, and shocking woman gets on her knees with her mug clutched in both hands and looks at me with huge sky-blue eyes. “Beau, I’m worried. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. This isn’t a medical emergency.”

“But what about the rest of you?”

“Is this really about the night sweats? Last time I checked, it does happen to lots of people. Many, many people, actually.”

She shakes her head, and I don’t know how she does it, but it’s like those blues are boring a hole straight through my brain. “You’re here, and you’re doing this hot bedding thing. You wanted more nights, but then you act like you don’t want them. Actually, you act like you’d rather take a lighter to your own sack as a very high-risk new way to manscape than be here.”

I haven’t even taken a sip of water, and yet I still very nearly spit it out. “Not my kink.” I’m going for casual, but I fail miserably. If we’re going to continually joke about sex, I might as well pretend I’m not at all affected by it. Because I’m not. I’m not affected. That would imply I’m capable of feelings and emotions, and alright, so it might technically be true, but the term technically is a long stretch.

“I think you’re not okay on the inside. And maybe it’s manifesting on the outside.”

“I think that’s not a real medical diagnosis,” I respond.

“Damn it.” Her jaw locks up, and she instantly turns into an avenging, war-like goddess. At the sight, my body wakes up from its self-induced slumber really fast. It’s only a vibration that rips through me, but it’s more than enough. “I don’t have to be a doctor to tell you that I think your heart’s a mess.”

“What heart?” I grunt.

“Beau.” I can’t take her saying my name like that. She’s touching my ankle now. My bare fucking ankle. A chill sweeps through me.

“Alright.” If you give people brutal honesty, it’s usually enough to shut them down as well as shut them up. “It’s as good as it’ll ever be, and I mean that in every sense. I get yearly checkups done, and they’re quite extensive. I take good care of myself. I eat well and exercise. In the other sense, I’ve gone to enough therapy to keep me moving forward, but it’s already been established that I’ll always be an asshole.”

“How has that been established?”

I snicker. “I blackmailed my sperm donors, aka my birth parents, for hush money.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t make you an ongoing asshole.”

“There’s a reason the term ‘rich asshole’ exists. Money corrupts people.”

“There’s a reason the term ‘asshole’ exists because anyone can be one.” Her hand briefly brushes along the top of my foot like she’s going to stroke my toes. It’s singlehandedly the most erotic thing anyone has ever done, and it’s not even my kink. I don’t have a specific kink.

Thankfully, the cat on my lap lets out a nocturnal fart that is both loud and pungent .

We both freeze. I’m scared to laugh because that would involve opening my mouth to inhale. I can’t believe that just happened. It’s eyewatering.

“Wow,” Ignacia gasps, breaking the silence first. I’m afraid to look at her. I don’t want to bust a gut hard enough to eject this beast from my lap because I might get some claws in things I really don’t want them in. She’s on my lap, after all. “I’m glad that was loud because you might have blamed me.” She tries to fan the stink away from herself.

The action makes me look at her, and when I see her eyes are watering, that’s all it takes. I’m going to laugh. I’m going to, and it’s going to be a great roar, and my dick is going to be eviscerated by Absolute Unit Cat’s murder mittens.

Maybe I wished too hard for a distraction. I already know I’m off my game, but clearly, I have no idea just how much until I hear footsteps outside. On the porch. A knock follows.

At four in the morning.

“Let me.” I’m up so fast that the cat tumbles off. I don’t even look behind me, but I do hear the angry, miffed hiss. “Whoever’s out there at this hour isn’t normal.” I’m in full protection mode. Whoever and whatever is out there is going to have to get through me first, and even out of my work clothes, I’m large enough and mean enough, plus trained enough to give the impression that the act of doing so would really suck.

I’m still far too off and not myself. Like an imbecile, I thought that when I went to the door and pulled it open, Ignacia would stay the hell away, safely inside.

That’s not what happens.

I hear her whimper of agony right behind me as a blond, athletic douchebag comes into view. From the photos, I know exactly who this piece of shit is, and already I’d like to acquaint him with my fist to his nose and rearrange his impeccable Grecian features just for ever existing.

And for ever touching the woman behind me. He dared, and right now, I’m in full Neanderthal mode. I’m not stopping for a second to reason how wrong that is. There’s a good chance this fuck is walking out of here with a very botched nose job if he so much as breathes in Ignacia’s direction.

Even if they were once in a relationship.