Chapter Twelve

Beau

I must look crazed, pacing back and forth in front of the hotel like this, but my stomach is churning with worry. There’s nothing in particular to worry about. I keep telling myself that. Annabel wouldn’t have answered if she’d been crushed by the ceiling of her own apartment. What worries me is that she might downplay what happened. If she shows up with so much as a bruise—

I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can guarantee it will be drastic.

Keep it cool. I need to keep it together until she gets here, and even after that, because this should not be such a big deal. But it is. Her voice sounded shaky on the phone, high and nervous. Every nerve is screaming to be near her. A ceiling caving in . . . Jesus.

“Hey.”

I spin around in the middle of the sidewalk. Annabel stands there, a half grin on her face, eyebrows raised. “You’re pacing.”

“Are you all right? Annabel—” I’m not planning ahead when I step toward her and put a hand to her face. Her smooth skin underneath my palms is the only thing on the planet that can loosen the knot of worry behind my rib cage. “Are you all right?”

She sucks in a breath and raises one hand to mine, as if she can’t believe I’m touching her like this. I can’t believe I’m touching her like this. Something about her makes me reckless. This time it feels right. “My apartment caved in!” She chirps the words, bewildered. “A chair fell straight through the ceiling and crushed my coffee table.”

I lift her chin, looking for any marks on her skin. It’s irrational, and I know it. “You weren’t in the living room when it happened?”

“I was asleep.” A laugh tinged with fear bubbles up. “I woke up to the sound of falling plaster.” Annabel’s forehead wrinkles. “Two maintenance guys came in to check that there was nothing wrong with the ceiling. They had a key and everything.”

A hot, wild flush of rage surges through my veins. How could the super give two men a key to an apartment like that? How could he do that without making sure it was empty first? Does the man know what kinds of things can happen given that scenario?

Annabel looks up into my eyes, worry clouding hers. “Your face is red,” she says gently, putting her other hand on top of mine.

I’m in too deep, and I know it. An inch forward, and I could kiss her. I want to kiss her. I want to taste her so badly that my only option is to step away.

So I do, even though it kills me.

“I’m furious.” I try to release some of the anger with a controlled breath but fail miserably, settling instead for running my hands through my hair. “I don’t have any right to be. I know that. But something could have happened to you. Those men—”

It clicks then, and her expression shifts. “I’m okay,” she says slowly, reaching out and putting her hand on my elbow. Her touch is a calm warmth over my angry heat. My shoulders relax. I didn’t even know I was tensing them.

“I have no right to feel this way.”

Annabel steps closer. The scent of her shampoo is carried on the breeze, light and clean. “If it’s worth anything at all, I feel better”—she swallows hard, blushing scarlet—“now that I’m here, with you.” She laughs, squeezing my arm. “It was some crazy stuff, this morning.”

My anger drains out of me then, my heart beating hard into a pale worry. It was so close. Another few feet of weak ceiling. She clearly didn’t consider the apartment before she signed the lease, but I can’t bring myself to be mad at her now.

“I’m glad you’re all right.” I cover her hand with my own. I swore I wouldn’t kiss her. I swore I wouldn’t get in over my head. And I’m not. This is called being a decent human being.

Annabel bites her lip and leans in closer, as if we’re standing out here in the bitter fall and not on a late-summer afternoon. “Don’t worry about me,” she says, the words barely audible over the sound of traffic going by on the street. “But I will admit,” she says, cocking her head to the side, “I like it when you send me text messages.” She takes another long breath. “I have no reason to like you,” she continues. “You’re so . . . serious. But I do, Beau.”

What? What? My heart skips a beat, then two. Flirting at dinner. A few unguarded text messages. And here she is, standing in front of me in broad daylight, jumping in with both feet. The alarm sounds in the back of my mind. Slow down. Slow down. Consider all the possibilities. Make a careful choice, not a dangerously reckless one. Pull away, I tell myself, but instead I find myself leaning in.

Our lips brush against one another—it’s electric—when there’s a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Bennett!” booms a voice from directly behind me. The interruption is like having ice water poured down the back of my neck. “Getting frisky out on the sidewalk! Yes, my man!” Then I’m being pulled, turned around, and yanked into a tight, manly embrace, thumps raining down my back.

It takes me a good while to get out of his grip, pushing back with both hands. “West.” I stare at my best friend, caught somewhere between enraged and delighted. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Surprise!” He holds out his arms like he didn’t tackle me in broad daylight. “It’s time for an Overton reunion! I heard your new hotel is open for business.”

Oh, not this. Not now. Not when I was about to take Annabel inside and personally escort her to a private suite. The possibilities blow away on the breeze. “West, I have—”

“Annabel Forester,” Annabel says, reaching around me to shake West’s hand. “Nice to meet a friend of Beau’s!” Her smile turns from disappointed to genuine. “I’d stay, but I have work.” Then she’s gone in a flash of pink, jogging up the steps of the Pearl.

West looks after her with an assessing grin on his face. “New girlfriend?”

Almost. Then you interrupted. “Stay away from her,” I growl, then cover my burst of possessiveness with a smile. “What’s this about a reunion?”