Wicked Charm(23)

I sink into the chair and rest my bare feet on the edge of the  fireplace. Beau watches me. More than once I see his eyes slip to my  dress.

"You'll have to try the frog legs later. Warm up the butter, they're better that way," I say.

Having eaten quite a few myself, my belly is full to the brim. Nothing  better than a full belly and a hot tea. Well, maybe Beau's eyes are  better. Yes, maybe that.

"What happened last night?" he asks.

I'm partially glad Beau didn't kiss me, as much as I wanted him to then.  Now that I see his den, and his hungry look, I realize there are better  places for a first kiss with him.

"I think we both know what nearly happened," I reply.

"You almost kissed me," he says. "Was that the drink or you?"

"The last one," I admit.

He grins. "Really?"

"Well, you haven't had any more girls here," I retort.

"Is that why, then?" he questions.

"Might have something to do with it."

"Might it also have something to do with the fact that you've been  interested since the first day you saw me on the path?" he asks.

It's a bold thing to say, but he's not wrong.

"It could have a lot to do with a lot of things," I answer.

He sets his tea on a side table and walks to the bookshelf, like he's  searching for something. And I'll be damned if I don't follow.

His impossible shock of dark hair refuses to lie any one way.

"Why do you go through so many girls, Beau?"

It looks as though he's considering not answering me, but then he says,  "I guess I don't ever want to get close to anyone again."

"Did you love a girl once?" I ask.

I hate the thought, but maybe that's why he is the way he is.

"No. Not yet anyway."

His face softens, and I think I might be hearing the truth.

"Who'd you love, then? Who did you love so much that you turned mean  when you lost them?" Because there was someone, of that I'm sure.

He winces. I'm close to his demons. I risk getting closer by threading my fingers through his.

"You can tell me, you know. I won't repeat your secrets."

He takes a deep breath and considers me. "I lost my parents."

So people were right about his parents' passing.

"What happened to them?" Maybe it's rude to ask, but I can't help myself.

I see the slight shift in his expression, one that tells me he might trust me after all.

"One morning, same as every morning, my dad went for a daily run," he  begins. "That was the last time I ever saw him. A car turned a bend. The  driver was distracted with the radio. My dad never stood a chance. His  injuries were too severe, and my mom had to pull the plug."

Beau runs a hand roughly through his hair and looks away from me.

"It was a death sentence for my mom, as well. She died a year later of a  broken heart, though the official report states pneumonia. She was too  lost to grief to ever recover. She didn't sleep right, eat right, and  she got sick. It went to her lungs, and by the time she entered the  hospital, it was too late," he continues, as though determined to get it  all out now and then not talk about it again. "She died a few days  after being admitted. My mom couldn't stand a world without my dad, and I  suppose I never want to love someone that badly. I never want to lose  someone like I lost my parents, because I don't think I could handle it a  third time."         

     



 

He rubs the roughened pad of his thumb over my palm in a slow trance,  not bothering to hide the sadness that gets trapped in the corners of  his eyes.

"So you won't get close to girls now?" I ask.

"To anyone, really. I can't let people in."

"You've let me in."

His gaze narrows. "Have I?"

I'd like to think so. He did just share his parents' story with me. No  one in town or at our school knows what happened, as much as they  speculate, but Beau trusted me, to my astonishment and delight. That  says something.

"Then there's Charlotte. She's the same as me, scared to feel again. But don't ever tell her I told you."

Suddenly, I see Beau and his sister differently. I think of my parents,  of what it'd be like to lose them, and I can hardly stand the thought.

"No wonder you're scared," I whisper.

"I'm not scared," he says. But he's lying.

"Are too. That's why you've never invited me over yourself. Bringing me  here is different than bringing the other girls, isn't it?"

He's quiet, maybe even shocked. Finally, he finds his voice.

"You're right. You're so close now, too close. I've not been able to  stop thinking about you since the day I saw you through the kitchen  window. And then you went off with Brody."

He reaches for the nape of my neck and cups it gently.

"I can't promise to give you myself, the real me. And I can't promise to  give you what you need or deserve, but I also can't stop wanting you."

All I can think about is his hand on my neck and his breath on my face.

"Promise me you'll try. That's all I ask."

My stomach feels as though it's been filled with moths beating their  wings in sync with the pounding of my heart. I can taste the excitement  in the air, his confession hanging between us.

Beau places his other hand on the shelf beside my head, clenching it tightly.

"Can't you see that I'm trying to hold up a wall all on my own?" His  eyes convey the warning he speaks. "This is my defense, Willow. This is  all I have left. If I let it down … what then?"

I take a deep breath and exhale each word slowly. "Then you have a chance to feel something real."

"Pain is real. Grief, too." His jaw clenches with the effort to hold himself together.

I wonder how heavy the wall must be and how long he's been holding it alone.

I nod. "You're right. But sometimes letting go is the best feeling of all."

"I'm not ready." He removes his hand from the shelf and runs his fingers through my hair.

I inhale sharply.

"Then at least create a crack big enough for me to slip through," I  whisper. "Try to let me see the real you. I think … I think I have  already … in pieces. Let me have more. Try, Beau. Promise you'll give it a  shot. There's nothing here for me if you refuse to let me in."

"Fine," he agrees. "I swear."

And then, finally, his lips press onto mine. Softly at first, giving me time to change my mind. But that's not going to happen.

I drown in Beau's taste and kiss him back, harder than I intend, but I can't help it.

I run my fingers down his arms. His skin is hot, hot, hot, so hot. His  hands travel to my hips. I break away for a moment, just to see his  eyes. There is something dangerous about them. A wild abandon. Part  happiness, part dragging me back. He kisses me again.

I can't think. I ache where his fingers make contact, like a scorching blueprint of his touch.

"Don't stop kissing me," he says. "Don't ever stop kissing me."

So I don't.

Maybe I've gone mad because it almost feels like too much. Way too much.  He kisses me to the depths of the sea. He reaches into my soul, I swear  he does. And maybe that's what Gran meant all along, but I don't care. I  really don't.

I kiss him more. His hands slip to my legs, to the hem of my dress. His  fingers are on a course to a place where no one has been, and that's  what finally snaps me out of it.

"Beau," I say, half dazed. "I have to go."

Even though I want nothing more than to stay here.

"You have to-" He pulls back, looking incredulous. As though he can't be  persuaded to believe what I've just said. "You have to what?"

"I have to go," I whisper. "It's late."

I kiss him one more time. Okay, three more times. And then I walk away  on wobbly legs, back to the property dividing line and into the house  across from the boy who finally let down his defenses.         

     



 





22


Beau

I don't worry the next day at school when I find Willow leaning against a  locker, talking to Brody. Because I did what she asked: I tore down my  walls for her. We have something good. And besides, Brody could never  kiss her like I do. She could never want him like she wants me. So, with  no doubt on my mind, I slink up to her side and wrap an arm around her  waist. I kiss her right on the lips. In front of the school. In front of  Brody. In front of my sister, no less. Willow kisses me back.

I pull away a moment later.

"Beau Cadwell," she says, flustered.

"Later." I wink and walk down the hall.

 …

"Grandpa, are you all right?" I ask, watching the way he limps to the chair. He never used to limp, did he?

"Just my hip," he says, shooing off my unease.

"Should we just skip it tonight?" Charlotte asks.

Her eyebrows pinch together, as though she's concerned. I hold my breath  and silently hope that Grandpa won't call off our hunt. We haven't  looked for the intruder for several days, and that's too long for my  liking.

"Don't be ridiculous," Grandpa says.

I exhale and pack our sandwiches. It's a relief to have another chance  to attempt to clear my name, to rid the swamp of a killer, to keep  trespassers off our property.