Babysitting the Billionaire(11)

She pulled the rolling chair next to him out, trying to ever-so-subtly move it a little farther from him and that aura of masculine despair. But since the aura filled the room, it was rather a lame gesture. She sat down and opened her mouth to say—what?

“Just sit. And drink.”

May pulled out her phone. “Just texting Sadie that she doesn’t need to come back.”

He grunted. “Understatement.”

Sadie’s reply was almost immediate: Buy food, booze, anything. Fdn will reimburse. Or we will.

Kurck’s face was too still. If he wasn’t pouring, lifting, and sipping heartily of the margaritas, she’d have thought him an automaton.

“Want some salt with that?”

His fist smashed down on the table. The pitcher, now ice only, jumped. May’s glass tipped, and before she could catch it, spilled toward her lap.

She pushed the chair back, rolling into the back wall, and stood up. Beau lifted his hand over her still-spinning glass and smashed his palm onto it. May closed her eyes, praying it was safety glass.

She opened them again. No blood. But he wasn’t done. He tipped the last of the margarita from his glass onto his tongue, and then threw the glass at the table. This time, the glass splintered. May put her hand out to shield her eyes.

“I told you not to talk. Now look what you’ve done.”

May had never seen anyone go from cold to red-hot in zero seconds. She swallowed her heart back into her chest and did not look at him.

“May. Look at me.” His voice was at the regular timbre again.

She shuddered. “I think it’s time the bear was fed. Eat here or...”

“Let’s get out of here.”

****

She took him to Ben’s Chili Bowl, the alcohol-soppingist food she could think of. Then they walked, and walked, and walked. He said very little, but whenever she made a gesture toward leaving him, he grumbled and rumbled, and she was afraid he would cry, and they’d all end up at the hospital. So they walked. The mild night, gorgeous with moonlight, made the raw pain on his face, so poorly hidden, look macabre.

Finally, they reached the dusty edges of the Mall, and May heard the nearby church bells toll.

“Midnight, Mr. Kurck. We should get you home. Work in an hour, you know.” Men liked to work their feelings out, right? And he surely loved his work.

“Fuck them,” he said. “If I go to work now, I’ll just fire them all.”

Out of options, footsore, and brain-sore, May stepped off the path and dropped to a seat on the grass.

“You’ll stain your slacks.”

She stretched her legs out. If she’d known she was going to be hiking the entire length of DC, she’d have worn the slingbacks, not these open-toed monstrosities.

Beau took a few steps, saw she wasn’t following, and came back. He circled her. “You need your rest,” he said. “We should get a cab.” He pulled her to her feet and back the half-block to

Independence Avenue

.

She told the driver to drop her off first, and then take the gentleman to his hotel. The driver looked his commiseration with Beau, as if he was sorry the gentleman wasn’t getting to first base tonight. Looking out the side window, May rolled her eyes.

“Do you promise to go straight to the hotel and nowhere else until I get there at eight? You have your leftovers, here, and plenty of coffee in the room.”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” he said, petulance dripping from his voice.

“I apologize. You’ll do it?”

“Aye-aye.”

Not five minutes later, the taxi slowed in front of her row of brownstones behind

DuPont Circle

. She took Beau’s cold hand in hers. “I wish I could make it better,” she said, and was surprised to realize she really did. “See you tomorrow.”

She’d forgotten to leave the porch light on, so the taxi waited until she got her keys out and door unlocked. It was at the corner before she’d closed it again. She rested her forehead on the painted wood. What a day.

She kicked her shoes off and dragged herself to the bathroom, undoing her belted dress as she walked. Dropping them and her underthings in the hamper behind the bathroom door, she picked up her two-piece pajamas and headed for the shower. Ten minutes of hot water running over her head, her shoulders, her back, washed much of her tension away. It wasn’t even her tension, she realized. It was for him.

How she felt for him. She’d never changed her life so totally to impress someone else. He’d made so much of himself. And for what? He wasn’t doing it for the intrinsic joy of it. Or was he? Could a person truly be as successful as he was solely to please another? An imaginary other, in this case.