Hopeless (Chestnut Springs, #5)(41)

16


Bailey


Beau: Back door is open, sugar.



I regret running away. I hate being so stubborn.

If I were smarter than I am stubborn, I’d be in Beau’s blissfully cool house, sleeping like a baby. Instead, I’m in the Boiler. I can’t sleep, I’m restless, and I hate my life. My skin is damp and clammy, and my internal temperature gauge is totally shot. I’m not sure I’ll ever be cool again.

Sure, we get hot spells on the prairies during the summer. But this? This is next-level.

“Fuck it!” Even though I’m beyond tired and barely want to move, I flip myself out of bed and put on the tiniest pieces of clothing I own, planning to go for a swim. Again.

Agitation lines my every movement as I step barefoot down the narrow hallway of my trailer.

Living in a trailer might make me sound like trash, but the fact of the matter is I take a lot of pride in this trailer. I’ve lovingly cut and glued black-and-white checkerboard linoleum to the floor and repainted all the cabinets, even sewn my window coverings to match.

It’s mine, and I made it into one of those that belongs on Pinterest. I’ll never get rid of it.

One day, I’ll have a cute house and I’ll still spend weekends and vacations traveling in this thing. Maybe I’ll even be able to afford an exterior paint job and air conditioning for it in the future.

As it stands, for the few days of truly sweltering heat we get, I can’t justify it.

I shove the door open and let my eyes flutter shut, waiting for a gust of cooler air. But it never comes. That fresh mountain air I know and love is staying up between the peaks, letting us all suffer down here on the prairies with oppressive nights.

“Uhhh,” I moan, but it borders on a cry as I flop down on the spot, feet propped on the metal step of my trailer.

I’m so miserable I could cry.

I sit with my head in my hands, and I think.

I trust Beau, and I know he won’t hurt me. He likes to joke around—that’s just how he is—and I don’t feel threatened by him at all.

So why am I so averse to going into his house?

Because you know you’ll never want to leave.

My brain is a smug little bitch, throwing that in my face.

I peek up at the impressive house. It’s beautiful and truly unlike any house I’ve ever seen. For me, where I’m from, it looks like it belongs in a movie. It looks like the type of house I’d close my eyes and envision myself in when my reality became too much to bear.

Where there’d be some cute, wholesome boy hosting a party. Our eyes would meet from across the room. We’d be high school sweethearts, and he’d whisk me away from my shitty life.

Then the sound of my dad’s drunken shouting would filter in, and I’d get up and prop a chair under my door.

Fantasy and reality, so close yet still so far apart.

Yet here is that house, that man. They’re right there. And they’re real.

And here I am, trying to convince myself I don’t deserve them.

Teenage me would be horrified.

I guess it’s with her in mind that I get up off the step. Teenage Bailey would have run to him days and days ago. She was a romantic at heart.

Young adult Bailey? She’s not convinced the back door is open.

But when I try the latch, it clicks, and the door gives way to a rush of blissfully cool air. I sigh and let the flow pull me into the space.

As I stand here, I feel a bit like I’m intruding. After all, I ran away from him today to hide in my trailer.

He just stood there, chuckling.

Fucking dick.

I shut the door behind me, wondering what I’m supposed to do now. Should I call him? Text him? Just shout his name?

It doesn’t matter. I know he won’t mind.

My gaze lingers on the black leather sectional in the living room that overlooks the riverbank. The thought of laying myself out on cool leather and drifting off is too tempting to resist.

So that’s what I do. I plop myself down like a tired burglar. In my tiny cotton shorts and loose crop top, the chilled leather on bare skin is heaven. I’d lay myself out naked if I thought no one was here. I’m at the point where I’d happily lie on the floor just to take my temperature down.

I sigh and stare at the vaulted ceiling with a skylight, so different from the top of my trailer. The light above the stove in the open-concept kitchen is on, which means it’s not as dark in here as you might hope.

But I don’t care.

As long as it doesn’t feel like a frying pan, I’m happy. A simple girl with simple needs.

When I start to doze off, I hear feet padding against the polished concrete floors. Casual and unhurried—unlike my heart rate, which is through the fucking roof.

He whistles a tune, and I debate whether I should sit up and announce myself. That seems like the least weird thing to do, but as I settle on it and sit up, I freeze.

My gaze has just cleared the back of the couch and landed on Naked Beau.

Fully naked.

Head-to-toe naked.

He’s whistling and gazing into the fridge. The door covers his head and shoulders but leaves every other inch of his side profile bare.

Narrow waist, round ass—

My eyes go wide when they land on his dick. It’s like a porn dick. But flaccid. I stare, trying to figure out if it’s just the angle or if it’s the fact I haven’t seen a penis in real life. Maybe the scale is different.