Page 165 of Two-Step
Where are my manners? Probably where my hands itch to be. Down Beau’s pants.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Laird, this is Beau Landry.” I gesture to the man I love who, for some reason, is glaring at me like I just set him on fire. “Beau, this is Laird Sutherland.”
Still steadying me with one hand, Laird offers his other to Beau. “I worrk forr Irris.” He beats hisr’stwice in each word. I’m used to it, but I watch Beau’s eyes narrow.
“Youwhat?”He doesn’t touch Laird’s hand. It’s kind of rude.
“I worrk forr Irris,” Laird says again, not much clearer than the first time. “I’m Rramon’s rreplacement.”
Beau’s eyes flash, and I swear, he does a double-take. Laird. To me. To Laird’s hand on my arm. Back to me.
“You. Work. For. Iris,” Beau says, enunciating each word as though testing the truth of it.
“Yes,” Laird says.
Beau isn’t scowling anymore. “You’re Ramon’s replacement,” he echoes.
“Yes.” He chuckles with what sounds like relief.
“Ramon neglected to mention that,” Beau mutters, and then his hand shoots out and grabs Laird’s. He pumps it hard, beaming now. “Nice to meet you, Laird.”
Ramon?This morning’s phone call with my two best friends takes on a whole new meaning. I gasp. “Oh my God—”
“Yeah.” Beau aims his smile on me.
“You thought—”
“Yeah.” His smile turns bashful. “Serves me right. I should have called. Especially after…”
After ignoring all my calls. It’s my turn to scowl.
“Yeah,” I say, but far less warmly than he just did.
Laird releases my arm. “Irris, if you don’t need anythin—”
“I’m good, Laird,” I clip, never taking my eyes off Beau.
“I’ll be in the ba—”
“Thanks.”
When the giant Scotsman disappears behind the hedges on the side of the house, I take a moment to process the last three minutes.
“You’re here,” I say carefully.
For the record, I want to be thrilled that he’s here. But I’m also seriously pissed at him. And I’m a little miffed with Ramon and Sally. How could they be in on this and say nothing to me? But I’ll have to deal with them later.
“I’m here,” Beau says, grinning.
I blink. The grin is all-powerful. I’ve missed him so much. I blink again just to make sure I’m not imagining this.
But I’m still pissed, and I’ve never imagined that either. This has to be real.
“Whyare you here?” My voice wavers on the question. I grip the edge of the archway for support. I’m afraid of what he’ll say. Seeing him now makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to handle watching him walk away again. He’s carrying a backpack. That’s all. Not even a suitcase. Did he fly five hours across the country for a weekend visit?
If he did—if that’s all we get—would I actually turn him down?
His grin slips. “Was it a mistake to come?”
