Hopeless (Chestnut Springs, #5)(94)

The vast majority of people in the bar look like deer caught in the headlights. I just ran my truck into them full tilt. There are a couple murmured “sorrys” and the odd clearing of a throat.

I just shake my head and prop my hands on my hips as I peer over at the table that my family just left. Dined and dashed, naturally.

I used to have to pay for those out of pocket.

But ever since “new ownership” took over, we haven’t been on the hook for walkouts. Or, well, I haven’t been. No one in this town would walk away without paying, unless I was their server—then it was a funny joke. I used to hear them laughing about it.

Until “new ownership” banned anyone who left without paying from coming back.

Fuck. Fuck. How long has Beau been looking out for me? And he let all this go unsaid while we …

While I started to feel …

“Beau, you get out too. I need to get back to work,” I whisper as I lift my chin and drop my shoulders.

I’ve held my head high through deeper embarrassments. This will be no different.

“I’m not leaving.” He crosses his arms and stares at me down his straight nose as if it’s some sort of challenge.

But I’m not strong enough to face off with him right now. Not with an audience. Not at all.

My eyes shutter and I suck a deep breath in through my nose as my hands prop on my hips. I press them in on my hip bones to keep them from shaking. “Then I quit.”

His rigid body starts like I’ve hit him. He didn’t see that coming.

I reach back and pull my swipe card for the computer system out of my back pocket and hold it out to him. “Here.”

He looks at the card but doesn’t take it. “Okay, Bailey. I’ll leave.”

“No.” I shake my head rapidly, tears welling, stinging along the sides of my nose as I struggle to keep them from falling. “I need to leave.”

“You can’t quit. I’ll come—”

“I can. And I need to be alone right now more than I need the paycheck.” My voice cracks and I purse my lips together. I shove the card toward him again, silently begging him to take it. The massive diamond ring he gave me sparkles in the warm light from the beautifully updated chandelier above us.

How did I never think more about who the silent investor might be? How did I never question things? How did I not see this?

“Bailey.” My name is a sigh on his lips as his broad shoulders sag in defeat.

An angry whimper lodges in my throat, and I drop the card on the perfectly polished hardwood floor before spinning on my heel and getting the fuck away from Beau.

The fuck away from my fiancé.

The fuck away from my boss.

When I get home …

I shake my head as I walk up the concrete front steps.

When I get to Beau’s house, I walk in the front door, enter the alarm code, swipe my Boler key from where all our keys—his keys—hang. I don’t even bother taking my shoes off as I walk straight through the main living space and out the back door.

He can wash his stupid clean floor with a toothbrush while he thinks about what he’s done, for all I care.

And what he’s done is lie. Lie so deeply, so thoroughly—even if it was well-meaning—he made me believe something was real, and it now feels as though maybe it isn’t. Now it feels like I was just a pawn in some stupid game for him. Like he got home and made my life his new undercover mission.

Except he failed to tell me about it and made me fall in—

“Ugh!” A tear spills down my cheek and I swipe at it angrily as I storm up to my trailer. Key in the lock, I yank the door open and shove myself inside, swiftly bolting the door behind me.

I need to be alone.

I need to think.

And I can’t think in a house where everything reminds me of him. Everything smells like him.

Tears fall freely now, and I don’t bother wiping them away as I plop woodenly down onto the bed at the far end of what used to be my house.

Maybe it’s my house again?

The thought of that, of leaving him, makes me feel like my bones are cracking under the weight of such a heavy burden.

I try to calm my breathing, but it just gets to the point where I feel like I can’t breathe at all.

I’m hurt.

I’m embarrassed.

I feel foolish that I let myself believe someone could love me so honestly.

And yet, I ache for him. I only want him. His arms. His words. His smell.

I know it’s the only thing that will make me feel better, but … I’m furious.

Moments pass and I watch the silent tears land on my jeans, staining the light denim dark as they soak in. The spots start small and seep out into bigger, rounder ones with softer edges.

Suddenly, I hear his panicked voice calling my name from the house. I close my eyes and listen to him.

“Bailey!”

His voice—it hurts. I can sense the pain in it, pain that would match my own if I could even find any words to say.

“Bailey!” He’s in the kitchen now, I can tell by how close he sounds, and I know that hiding from him like this is hurting him. It makes me feel like I could throw up.

But I need this moment. I need this space. This trailer may sit on his land, but it’s still mine. Simple and plain and run-down, but mine.