Chapter 21

When I get to Beau’s door, I take in a deep breath, then knock firmly three times.

Xena’s barking is the first thing I hear, followed by Beau’s footsteps and attempts to quiet her. The door opens, and Xena rushes my legs, licking the skin she can get to.

“Hey,” Beau says, the tiniest bit breathless. He’s still wearing his cop uniform, but the shirt is unbuttoned all the way down, hanging open to a white tank beneath.

I force my eyes away, but that particular image would be great for the month of August in Heroes of the Month .

“Hi,” I say, reaching down to pet the furball whose paws are on my thighs while I balance the folded towel on my other hand.

“Want to come in?” Beau pulls the door open wider.

“Oh, no,” I hurry to say. That’s kind of the opposite direction I want things to go—even though he’s not asking in that way.

He glances over his shoulder, looking apprehensive.

“Oh my gosh,” I say softly. “Are you…with someone?”

“What? No. I’ve just got something on the stove, and I’m kind of worried it’s going to burn.”

“Oh, shoot. Yeah, go ahead.”

“Just come in.”

I hesitate, but I need to talk to him, and his house is as good as anywhere, I guess. “Okay.” I follow him in, Xena panting happily beside me as her nails tap on the hardwood floor.

I let my eyes wander a bit as I follow Beau toward the kitchen. The house vibe is sort of sophisticated nautical, with navy blue walls, hardwood floors, and both metal and wood accents sprinkled throughout. It’s all high end, and the rooms are much bigger than Grams’s. It’s also very tidy.

Is there anything more attractive than a man who keeps a clean house?

How about a half-dressed cop who keeps a clean house?

What am I saying? Maybe Beau’s a complete slob, and Tristan’s the one who picks up around here. Yeah. That’s gotta be it.

“Have a seat.” Beau pulls out one of the barstools, then hurries over to the stove to stir something. Whatever it is, it smells divine. I’m thinking alfredo sauce, since I can see another pot of pasta on the back burner, a wooden spoon lying across the open top as the water boils.

“I’ll just set your towel over here.” I drape it over the back of one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. “Sorry. I probably should’ve washed it.”

Beau glances at me with a smile. “It’s no problem. Can I get you a drink? We’ve got…” He goes over to the fridge and opens it. “Coke Zero, water, and what looks like some of Tristan’s leftover protein shake.”

“Coke Zero would be great,” I say, sitting on the barstool. I probably should’ve refused a drink. This is a ten-minute conversation, max.

He slides the can across the counter like a practiced bartender, then turns back to the stove, humming what sounds suspiciously like “Gangsta’s Paradise” as he uses the wooden spoon to take out a piece of pasta.

Cupping a hand beneath to catch any water, he blows on it gently, then brings it over and puts it in front of me.

“What, me?” I ask, like it’s unclear what he’s expecting.

“Yes, you. Although Xena will gladly step in if needed. She just doesn’t have a very developed palate to let me know if the pasta is done. ”

I try to eat the pasta off the spoon as gracefully as possible and with minimal slurping.

Beau watches as I chew, and whether it’s the way he looks at me or the heat of multiple pots and pans on the stove, it suddenly feels extremely warm in here.

“It’s good,” I say.

He smiles and turns back to the stove. Taking the kitchen towel hanging over the oven handle, he grabs the sides of the pasta pot with it and moves it to the sink to drain. Once the pasta pot is back on the stove, he tosses the towel over his shoulder. Yet another great shot for Heroes of the Month . Maybe that’s what I should do with all the footage I’ll have of Beau—make and sell a calendar. A little side hustle.

He grabs two pasta bowls from the cupboard.

“Oh,” I say, “you don’t need to get one for me.”

“It’s for Xena,” he says.

I open my mouth to pull out my foot, but he winks. “I’m kidding. It’s for you.”

He’s the worst. And yet the best. “Thanks, but I shouldn’t stay. Got lots to pack.” Lie. I’m done packing except for the things I have to wait until tomorrow for. But I need to get out of here. It’s like he was expecting me tonight and is determined to distract me from my purpose with his sexy, undone cop cooking show. “I just wanted to touch base on the footage I’ve got and what you’d like for me to do with it.”

He doesn’t put the second bowl away. He tips the pasta pot until a cascade of steaming, delicious carbs falls into one and then the other.

I clear my throat to drown out the sound of my stomach, but my eyes are transfixed by the mouthwatering sauce he’s drizzling over the pasta. “I can put them in a folder in the cloud to share with you, or…”

He grabs a covered plate I hadn’t noticed and brings it over, pulling off the cover to reveal thinly cut grilled chicken breast. “Would you like chicken with your pasta?”

“Yes,” I respond automatically, salivating. “Wait. No. I’m not staying. Beau, are you even listening to me?”

“Nope,” he says. “It’s hot in here, right?” He walks past the table and pulls open the glass sliding door. Then he shrugs off his uniform shirt and slings it over the nearest chair back, leaving him in his tank top.

Suddenly, I’m feeling a whole different type of heat and hunger.

He walks back to the island I’m sitting at and takes the bowls over to the table.

“Beau,” I say.

“Hm?” He’s busy getting forks and knives, which he sets on the proper sides of the plates.

This man vexes me greatly.

I stand up and walk over to him, grabbing his wrists. “Beau.”

His eyes fix on mine.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, so there are things we need to discuss.”

He looks at me for a few seconds, and his gaze dips to my lips.

I swallow. He’s going to kiss me again. And I’m totally going to let him. Not just let him. My hands will be on those bare shoulders and sliding up into that hair in two seconds flat.

I await my fate, resigned. And a little impatient.

“Fine,” he finally says. “But we’ll discuss it after eating.”

I sigh and let go of him. I’m not going to fight him on this. A girl’s gotta eat, after all.

I take my seat and start twisting the pasta on my fork. “Does sending you a folder of the files work?”

“ After eating,” he repeats.

“You drive a hard bargain,” I say as I put my forkful of alfredo in my mouth. Gosh, that’s good. “I thought cops survived on donuts and coffee.”

“I’m just part-time,” he explains.

“For now.”

Twenty minutes later, our plates are clean, our sodas are empty, and we’ve both got smiles on our faces. His gaze meets mine, and he sighs. “Right. I know. Time to talk. Let me just rinse the dishes.”

Ugh. The man cleans up right after he eats. No days-old, crusty plates in the sink, no cereal so soggy and saturated it’s unrecognizable. The sink is, in fact, pristine. So, it’s not just Tristan keeping this house in order.

“We can talk while we do dishes,” I say. “I’ll scrub, you rinse.”

“Guests don’t do dishes at my house.” He hip-checks me away from the sink. My heel catches on the floor mat, and he grabs my wrist, pulling me back toward him.

Just like that, the mood shifts, and I forget to breathe. Beau smells like home-cooked food, but behind it is his cologne, which smells like last night, which feels like…

His grip on my wrist relaxes, and his hand moves to the small of my back, his lips drawing nearer and nearer. I put my palm on his chest to use as a buffer, but it’s the wrong move. It acts more like a magnet, drawing me closer.

I shut my eyes and force myself to think of Grams. Kissing Beau one night is one thing. It could be considered a mistake, a fit of madness. It’s an error in judgment that could be fairly easily combatted with a good PR campaign. Kissing him two nights in a row?

That’s the start of a habit.

But my, what a habit.

“Beau.” I pull away. “I can’t.”

His gaze settles on me. “Why not?”

Never has a better question been asked. As I look into his warm, brown eyes, I have no answer. Why can’t I let myself get lost in this man’s lips and arms? He can cook, clean, move furniture, handle a group of crazy drunk frat boys. And man, can he kiss.

“I’m leaving,” I say lamely.

But it’s a solid excuse. Physical distance of the two-thousand-mile variety is fairly unsurmountable when it comes to something like kissing. But what’s the implication that comes along with those words? That my leaving is the only thing keeping me from letting Beau put those beautiful lips on mine? “Also,” I add, “I’m pretty sure I hate you.”

There. That should cover all the bases.

Beau’s mouth quirks up at one edge, and I shut my eyes because his smile does me in every time. “Right,” he says, his voice still soft and low. “Forgot about that minor detail. Well, Gemma Girl, can I offer you some advice?”

I nod my head quickly. I will take anything right now that might help me keep my head on straight and my mouth three Bibles’-width away from his.

“Watch your step,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Because if you put so much as a toe out of line between now and your flight tomorrow, you’ll be waving to your airplane from a pair of handcuffs in my holding cell, and you can kiss LA goodbye.”

“Threats,” I say. “Nice, Officer.”

“Hey, I could keep you here already, you know. You’ve been stealing from my yard, remember? I could press charges. So be on your best behavior.”

All I can do is nod.

His eyes search mine, and some of the humor seeps away. “I’m gonna miss you, Gemma.”

I have no response. If he kissed me right now, I would let him.

But he doesn’t. He lets me go and steps back.

And suddenly, he’s doing the dishes. Water off the back. “Are you really going to make me go through all those videos and pictures of myself?”

Better you than me . I let out a slow breath in an attempt to lower my heartrate, then walk around the island and sit on a barstool. It’s a much safer distance. “What’s the other option?”

He shrugs. “I was hoping you might be able to help me with putting it together. It feels…weird to make a presentation about myself.”

“But…I’m leaving,” I say. “And then I’ll be busy catching up with work.” And trying not to think about you.

“Right. Okay, then. Send me the folder. Maybe I’ll get Tristan to go through them.”

I narrow my eyes. “You really don’t want to go through them, do you?”

“I’d rather hang out with your frat boy neighbors for a week.”

“Whoa. That seems extreme. But okay. Well…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ll put on my big-boy pants and get it done.”

I nod, but part of me feels I’m leaving too many loose ends in Sunset Harbor. The house stuff isn’t squared away, Grams’s knee and hip are still an issue—not to mention her future at Seaside Oasis in general—and apparently, I’m kind of leaving Beau hanging.

But I need to get back to my job. To my real life.

“I should get going,” I say.

He dries his hands on a towel. “I’ll walk you out.” Xena follows along at Beau’s heels, as if she heard the word “walk” and is so ready.

At the door, I bend down to say bye to her. Anything to delay the other goodbye. “I’ll miss you, Xena,” I say, snuggling up to her soft pillow of fur as she licks my cheek.

I stretch it out as long as possible, then get to my feet, facing Beau. His arms are folded across his chest in a way that puts his biceps on very unnecessary display.

“Thanks for your help with Grams,” I say. “I wish I could promise she won’t do anything else crazy, but?—”

“I’ve got it, Gemma,” Beau says. “I’ll take care of her.”

Those words bring a lump into my throat, so I just nod and try to will away the gathering tears. I guess I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to leave her again. “Oh, and about last night…” My cheeks start to burn, but I forge ahead. “If you could just…not say anything to anyone…”

Beau’s brows hitch up. “You’re afraid I’m going to kiss and tell?”

“I have no idea how gossip gets around this island, but it does, okay? We both know that. I’m just trying to prevent World War III.”

“Really valiant of you. Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

I nod, but part of me wonders why he won’t tell anyone. Not even Tristan? Does that mean it’s something he does on the regular—kissing women secretly?

Stop, Gemma .

“Goodnight and goodbye, Beau,” I say.

“Goodnight, Gemma.”

With a last rub for Xena, I head back to Grams’s house for my last and final sleep in my childhood home.