Hopeless (Chestnut Springs Book 5)

Bailey goes rigid when Summer cracks her joke and stands for a hug.

She was right. I should have prepped them. I should have prepped her.

When we’re alone together, things feel easy. Natural.

I didn’t feel the need to prepare. But I’ve spent a lifetime going undercover, playing a part, diving headfirst into danger.

Bailey has spent a lifetime flying under the radar and hoping no one notices her. So when she makes the move toward Summer, I know it’s time to let her go. If she’d stayed frozen to the spot, I’d have kept her right where she is. Summer has that effect on people, though. Sweet and warm and welcoming.

She wraps Bailey in her arms and grins at me over her shoulder. Then Bailey gets lost in a swarm of hugs and back pats, handshakes, and congratulations.

I swear everyone is happier for her than they are for me.

Jasper, my best friend, my brother from another mother, stares at me with furrowed brows while everyone else swarms us.

Deep down, I knew he’d be the hardest sell; he knows me too well. But I also know if he can’t be sold, he’ll be a vault. He and I have been too close for too long. If anything, he’ll understand what I’m doing here and why I’m doing it.

I don’t know a single person who guards his peace quite like Jasper.

Cade steps up, tugging me into a rough hug. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s a little choked up. “Was gonna give you shit for no-showing on me today when we had fences down and broken waterers. But if you were celebrating this, I’ll let it slide. Back to reality tomorrow, though.”

I grunt, slap his back, and roll my eyes. Only Cade, the grumpy workaholic, could turn congratulations into both a scolding and a reality check. “Fucking buzzkill,” I grumble back at him, laughing when I see his lips twitch.

“Beau-Beau!” Rhett moves in front of me, a shit-eating grin on his scruffy face, long brown hair dusting his shoulders. “Is this why you keep taking off on us? To hide away with the missus?”

I scrub at my beard. I knew my brothers would razz me, and I knew Rhett would be the worst after all the shit I’ve given him over the years. Fake hitting on his girl, ditching him at the scene of a crime, tattling on him every time he gets into trouble.

Yeah, his eyes are alight with all the possibilities for payback right now.

However, it’s Bailey who throws me under the bus. She has my head spinning like a top when from beside me she says, “Yeah, Beau-Beau likes to sit at my bar and watch me work all night.”

Rhett’s eyes glimmer even more with delight. I didn’t think it was possible, but here we are. He grins at Bailey, who wears a tentative smile and a light blush. The soft summer breeze moves her hair, stray strands whipping against the deep tan on her cheeks.

“That’s fucking adorable,” my brother says, disbelief seeping into his tone as he glances between us.

I reach for her hand without even thinking. And it’s not for show. Or not in the way I thought it would be. It’s not like I feel the need to convince my family I like Bailey—I already do like Bailey.

I want to show her off. I want to prove to her that life can be a little lighter than what she’s experienced. That not everyone looks at her and sees what she thinks they do.

I squeeze once, twice, and when she finally tilts her head my way, it’s with a saucy expression on her face. A look she’s comfortable giving me. Because I’m not sure what she expected. Everyone to freak out? Be mean? Call her trash and try to rescue me from her?

No, that’s not my family.

“God, look at you two. How did I miss this? Bailey’s been our server at The Railspur for the last couple of years now.” Rhett still can’t get over it.

Jasper takes a swig of his beer and regards me carefully. Not judgmentally, as if he’s trying to work things out. “Well, he has always jumped to her defense,” he says. “And he stood at her bar for your entire wedding reception.” I think that might be as much as I’ll get from him tonight. I can tell he’s suspicious.

Rhett’s brows furrow at me. “You did? I didn’t even notice. You’ve been such a grumpy bitch lately, kinda got used to ignoring you. But, dang, I did not see this coming.”

Summer elbows Rhett and gives him a scolding, wide-eyed warning, signaling him to be quiet. It’s a prime example of how everyone has been walking on eggshells around me. Treating me like I might break if they nudge me too hard.

The ribbing feels good.

“What?” Rhett gives his wife the same look back. “He has been a grumpy bitch. And now he rolls in all surprise we’re Beau-Bailey now! Sue me for not seeing this coming.”

Bailey giggles and coughs to cover it.

“Beau-Bailey.” My dad laughs, stepping close to sling an arm over my shoulders. Everyone watches him with bated breath. He has a knack for saying inappropriate shit at the most awkward times. I suppose it’s part of his charm. “Sounds like a Disney movie about two golden retrievers who fall in love. Happy for you, son.”

Jasper holds a fist over his mouth, and Willa bites furiously at her lips, trying not to laugh.

“Sorry, what was that, Dad?” I choke out.

“Beau and Bailey. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re nice names, but together they sound like good pet names. If you have a kid, let’s avoid naming it Comet, yeah?”

I groan and tip my head back. Compared to my brothers, I’m rarely on the receiving end of the Harvey ridiculousness they get.

I’m about to apologize to Bailey, but she laughs.

Not fake awkward laughter. Laughter the way it sounds when Gary says something stupid to her. Laughter the way it sounds when I test the waters with a ridiculous nickname.

Then she steps into my side and buries her head against my ribs. Like she feels at home with me.

People crack jokes around us, and their attention shifts. We’re still standing in the middle of the deck, but people seem to be retreating to their corners, back to their conversations. They’re settling back into the pre-dinner vibe as if nothing out of the ordinary happened here tonight.

I suppose if Winter can announce her baby daddy at dinner, this might not seem so interesting after all.

When I curl an arm around Bailey’s petite frame, her doll-like face tips up to mine. Eyes round, lashes long, lips distractingly plush. “Did I do okay?” she whispers, hand fisting the back of my shirt.

I lean down over her, granting us some privacy. She doesn’t pull away. Our eyes lock, breaths intertwined. My muscles bunch as I force myself to resist lifting her up and carrying her the hell out of here to have her all to myself.

“You were perfect.” Our lips graze—barely a touch—as the words leave my mouth. I move mere inches to the left, pressing a very real kiss to the corner of her mouth, missing her lips entirely.

Some people might consider it a mistake.

Some people can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.

But I did it on purpose. I did it to plant a seed.

I did it because I don’t think I want the first time we kiss to be fake.

“What are you doing?”

My head snaps toward Bailey’s trailer as I drop to sit on the steps that lead off my back porch and down to the river. “Sitting on my deck.” I don’t need the sun to be out to know from here that she just rolled her eyes at me. “How about you?”

She hikes a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s hot in the Boiler tonight.”

I snort. The Boiler. “Cute play on Boler. My house has air conditioning.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” she volleys back.

I guess me sitting on my back porch in the middle of the night makes it obvious. But I don’t add that the second my clock flicks over to 2:11, my body violently wrenches itself from sleep.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Are we just going to yell at each other from across the yard?” I prop my elbows on my knees, my body looking more casual than how I feel inside. “Seems kinda weird for an engaged couple.”

She snorts this time, then stands and pads across the dew-soaked grass toward me. I watch her feet, the way they roll against the ground. The red polish on her toes. The smooth skin that flows up over toned calves.

I’m still staring at her feet when she plops down beside me. “It’s rude to stare, Beau-Beau.”

My lips curve as I lift my gaze up to hers. “A man can stare at his fiancée, can’t he, sugar tits?”

Her hand darts up to tuck the curtain of dark hair behind her ear. “Fake fiancée,” she clarifies, glancing down at my feet.

All I respond with is a low hum. I don’t know Bailey all that well, but I know the agreement we reached. Still, I find myself agitated by the word fake.

But I’m easily agitated these days.

Sleep would help.

“Can I touch them?”

I start, yanked out of my spiraling train of thought. “Touch what?”

Bailey juts her chin at the step below us. “Your feet.”

I gaze down. Next to each other, my feet look so fucked-up where hers are so … perfect. Aesthetically, I don’t care. Kinda figured being a soldier would scar me along the way.

It’s the contrast that strikes me, though. And it’s more than just our skin.

“You want to touch them?”

“Yeah.” Her dainty fingers brush over the tops of her own feet, and it’s like she’s too nervous to even look at me. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in her head. What she keeps locked up tight, followed by the things she blurts out.

“Okay.”

It takes her a few beats to gather the courage, and I wonder if she’ll back down. Decide they’re gross. Laugh and tell me she was just kidding.

But she doesn’t.

Her left hand moves off her foot and hovers over mine before the pad of her finger trails over the raised ridges and puckered skin. Hunched over, she traces the scars—every line, every divot.

She doesn’t seem at all put off. In fact, she seems almost entranced.

I hiss when she hits a tender spot.

“I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

“Got rubbed there,” I bite out, annoyed because doing the things I used to has become a different sort of challenge.

She leans down, peering closer, hand drawn away. “Rubbed how?”

My jaw works. “When I couldn’t sleep the other night, I just stuffed my bare feet into my sneakers like I would have before the injuries. But everything chafes and rubs now. They were already sore from wearing dress shoes at the wedding. Can’t even wear sandals. Walking through the water didn’t help.”

“That sucks,” Bailey replies matter-of-factly.

I almost want to laugh. It does suck. And it’s refreshing to have someone admit that rather than tell me it will get better. Or tell me how sorry they are.

Little things she does—without even trying—make me feel like it’s okay to not be okay in her presence.

“Yeah.” I don’t want to be a martyr. I know things could be worse. But admitting this sucks feels good. Being allowed to admit it sucks without everyone rushing to patch me up is a weight off my shoulders.

A second and third finger join in her exploration of my damage. What I’d normally register as a slight touch feels electric. The newly healed skin is more sensitive, and I know she’s not trying, but the sensation of someone touching me in a way that isn’t medical has my dick swelling.

“Have you ever had a threesome?”

Yep. That’ll do it.

A strangled noise lodges in my throat, and she finally turns her face up to mine. She is so damn pretty, eyes twinkling in the dark, the warm light of the back porch shining on her dark hair.

“What?” I ask.

Her fingers pause as I stare back at her. “A threesome. Sex with two other people. Have you ever had one?”

“I know what a threesome is, Bailey. I’m having trouble figuring out why this moment is connected to that thought for you.”

Her eyes blink down to her hand. “The three fingers, I guess?”

“Three fingers on melted skin made you think about a threesome. Life is certainly never boring in your head, is it?”

“Well, no. I was thinking about sex.” When she blurts the last part out, she finally looks a little embarrassed. But not that embarrassed.

“You were touching my feet … and thinking about sex?” Disbelief bleeds into every syllable. She’s the most entertaining blend of innocent and curious.

“Yeah. I mean,”—her head wobbles—“to be fair, I think about sex a lot.”

I scrub a hand over my face, covering my eyes. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

She scoffs playfully as she traces my feet again, not the least bit uncomfortable touching me. “Don’t be such a prude, Beau.”

A laugh lurches from my chest. God, I am so unprepared for this woman. “I just don’t know how I ended up engaged to a girl with a foot fetish who blurts out personal sex questions at the drop of a hat.”

“Well, you are my fiancé. Maybe I should ask another guy instead,” she muses, the tips of her fingers now twirling over my skin as though dancing across the scar tissue.

Jealousy hits me hard and fast. I have no right to it. I can’t rationalize it. All I know is I don’t want her sharing moments like this—quiet and unfiltered, safe and trusting—with some other jackass.

I want to be the only jackass who gets this version of her.

“I’ve never had a threesome, Bailey,” I grit out as I push to stand, needing to put some space between us before I do something stupid.

Her gaze follows, brown eyes staring up at me like I’m the moon in the night sky. “Why not?”

Bailey, sitting at my feet, full attention turned my way, is doing nothing to stop my hard-on from making an appearance.

“Not a big fan of sharing something once I decide it’s mine.”

Her lips part.

And fuck. I should stop, but the side of me that sees danger and runs straight toward it has made an appearance tonight.

So I reach out and run my palm over her silky hair, cupping her head. “I’ll start leaving the back door unlocked for when you decide you want to find out if I’m a prude or not.”

Her eyes widen, and I can’t help but imagine this is how she’d look as I slid my dick into her pretty mouth.

I was the one who told her we wouldn’t have sex, and it’s taken only a few days for me to be fighting off the thought of it. After a quick shake to clear my head, I turn away. Hand burning, feet tingling, dick rock fucking hard.

“What if I just come in for the air conditioning?” Her voice is smooth, surer than it has any right to be after what I just said to her.

I laugh, but it lacks humor. There’s an edge to it.

A promise.

I don’t bother looking back at her when I say, “Sure, Bailey. Call it whatever you want.”