Yes. Toss him out. Bolt the door. Call the sheriff.
The words were all right on the tip of Jillian’s tongue, but then Beau pivoted on his good leg to submit to her verdict on his fate, and she couldn’t speak to save her life.
What was this new thing about him? There was infinite patience in his expression, resignation as well as determination, and she had the terrible feeling that if she told him to come back tomorrow each day for the next fifty years, he’d come back tomorrow.
But the one thing he would not do was give up.
This put her in an untenable position, stuck squarely between her need to stay as far away from him as humanly possible, and her conflicting resolve to be brave and not let him turn her into a panic-attack-stricken mess.
Her pride won out in the end, and she shrugged in an Oscar-worthy display of indifference. Keeping her voice strong and audible was much harder.
“If you want to stand there for three minutes and watch me fix lunch for my guests, that’s fine with me. I’ve already said everything I have to say.”
A relieved grin flashed across his face, as brilliant as a streaking comet across the starry night sky. And then he sobered just as Jillian’s knees were weakening to mush. “Thank you.”
Oh, God, this was a mistake.
Already her pulse was flittering again in the telltale skip that told her another panic attack was in her near future, but it was too late to backtrack now. Blanche was moving toward the hall, about to leave them alone together, and there was no way Jillian could weasel out of it without looking like the full-grown, yellow-bellied coward that she was.
“Humph.” Blanche pursed her lips, shot Beau a few more death sparks from her blue eyes and disappeared.
And Jillian faced Beau.
Chapter 6
Breathe, Jill. Breathe.
To give herself something to do while she waited for him to talk, she focused on the dog. “What’s his name?”
“Seinfeld.”
The surprise bubbled up out of her mouth in an unstoppable laugh. Seinfeld. That had been their favorite show a million years ago, when dinosaurs were young and they had a marriage that involved love and fun rather than the endless parade of one heartbreak after the other.
Foolish to the bitter end and beyond, she caught his eye for that one second—oh, man, he was grinning, too—and the laughter was crushed by the sweet ache of nostalgia for things that had probably never been as great as she remembered them anyway.
Turning away from Beau and his furry surrogate, she washed her hands. Forget the dog. If she was determined never to touch Beau again, she damn sure shouldn’t be fawning over his stupid dog.
Seinfeld. Yeah. Right. Like that changed anything.
“What is it, Beau?” Drying her hands, she tried, with increasing frustration, to remember what meal she was supposed to be cooking. It was supper, right? This terrible day had dragged on for so long it had to be suppertime by now, didn’t it? “I have work and—”
“This is a great inn.” Taking baby steps, Beau turned in a loose circle to admire the kitchen and what he could see of the hall beyond. “You’ve worked really hard. I’m proud of you.”
Jillian froze, her hand high overhead, reaching for a copper pan from the rack above the range. Chicken. They were supposed to be baking chicken.
But Beau wasn’t finished reaching inside her and twisting her heart, and the unmistakable light of admiration gleaming in his eyes made everything so much worse. And that was before he spoke again.
“I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do when you set your mind to it.”
Jillian gaped at him, too undone to reply. Though this was the kind of thing he used to say all the time during their early years together, a thousand snide remarks came to mind now.
I couldn’t keep you satisfied in bed, could I?
I couldn’t keep you from screwing other women, could I?
I couldn’t keep our family together.
Oh, yes, she wanted to hurl all that ugliness right in his face, but something stopped her. The touch of God on her shoulder, maybe, or a moment’s grace. It could have been the sudden intrusion of Allegra’s smile and Jillian’s unwavering determination to make things work, as much as she possibly could, with her child’s father.
Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore it.
So she swallowed the nastiness, which felt bitter going down and settled in her belly like a lead cannonball, and said, simply, “Thank you.”
Beau turned those clear hazel eyes on her. “You’re welcome.”
A second was about all she could stand and then she had to look away. Beau waited, saying nothing and kicking her anxiety level even higher.
Why was he here? When would he leave? Desperate for something to do that wouldn’t reveal the relentless shake of her hands, she went to the fridge and pulled out the chicken, which Blanche had put to soak in a bowl of buttermilk.
Chicken…chicken…what’d she do with it now? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. She’d have better luck trying to fillet a bowl of yak brains.
Think, Jill.
She had the pan. She had the chicken. Oh—flour. She needed flour. And then she needed to get a grip. “If that’s all, Beau, I need to—”
On her way to the far cabinet to get a few more ingredients, she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and stopped cold. Underneath the smooth golden tones of his skin, he looked pale and clammy, with a distinct green tinge.
Well, so what?
She tried not to care, but then he gritted his teeth in a discreet cringe and there was no ignoring that.
The man was in pain. Enormous pain. Terrible pain.
“Beau,” she said sharply. God, was that her voice with all that anguish in it? “Sit down. You’re in pain—”
“I’m fine.”
Stubborn idiot. There were times when she was positive mule’s blood ran through his veins.
“—and you probably need your meds.”
Letting his eyes drift closed, as though he could take a quick nap standing up and then commence running a marathon—no problem—he swayed on his feet. “I don’t take any meds.”
He didn’t take—
What?
Screw the chicken. Screw lunch. Aghast, she stalked back to stare him in the eye when she called him what he was—a maniac. She was so furious she really thought she could spit out a nail or two if she put her mind to it.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sweeping her arms wide to encompass every crazy thing he’d done this morning and those he’d been working on for years, she screeched and didn’t care how many paying guests heard. “Trying to win the Martyr of the Year award?”
Those eyes flew open, blazing green now with the fervor of a zealot. “I’m no saint.”
She snorted. “I think we’re all clear on that, thanks. Take your meds, Beau—”
“No.”
“Why not?” Jillian tried to get a grip on her overactive protective gene, but it was impossible when he was so haggard and yet so proud. She could do a lot of things; he was right about that.