Page 90 of Beau and the Beast

“I banged it hard on the floor, but I’ve had worse,” Beau said.

Wolfram had apologized but he hadn’t asked for forgiveness. And yet he found himself forgiven, against all odds.

“I’d like to take a day off,” Wolfram said abruptly.

Beau searched his eyes but didn’t ask for an explanation. He simply nodded.

“Take whatever time you need. You know where to find me.”

Chapter Seventeen

The staff seemed shakenfor the rest of the day—not that Beau could blame them.

He'd come in and upset the balance of everything.

He felt sullen as he spent the day alone. He'd tried to set up in the living room where he normally did his writing, but there was a tension in the air.

"Boss finally gave you the day off, huh?" Geoffrey said, leaning over the back of the couch with a cup of coffee.

"Well, a day off on the interview portion," Beau explained. "There's still plenty of headway I can make on my own."

And it was true—he had plenty of work to do in between his interviews with Wolfram. He'd begun shaping the narrative of the man’s biography in a way that he was proud of.

Though there were still details that he needed to fill in through more interviews with Wolfram, Beau felt that he was doing a decent job of writing the book, against all odds. The things he’d learned from being a reporter seemed to coalesce with every story that his father had read to him as a child—and even though he’d never tackled writing a piece so long, the words flowed out of him in a way that made perfect sense, that would surely allow his reader to see Wolfram as Beau saw him.

But would it break the curse?

He'd started the project for the money, of course, but the book had swelled to become so much more than that. It was easy to forget what his purpose was there in the penthouse when he spent every day talking to Wolfram as if they were lifelong friends. When he was confronted with a day where he faced no distractions, though, Beau suddenly felt the enormity of the project sag across his shoulders.

What if he handed over the manuscript, if they got it published, if it turned the tide of public opinion about Wolfram and... nothing happened?

He couldn’t let himself think about failure. They had pinned their hopes on him and all that he could do was his best.

It was a relief to know how good Wolfram was—how good theyallwere in the end. He didn’t have to do much to paint them in a positive light. Beau could simply write about what they were like—what Wolfram was like—and people would understand that he wasn’t someone they should hate or fear.

It had been fascinating to see the way that Wolfram had restructured everything so that they were a full time donation machine, seeking out charities and people who needed their help. It really was remarkable, the changes that they had made in the world. But they'd remained anonymous, stayed out of the spotlight.

And if Beau could help turn a spotlight on them, he would do it the best way he knew how.

Maybe this is the book I've been supposed to write all along, he thought.

* * *

Wolfram passed the day alone. He wasn't sure if his decision to send Beau away was a good one or not.

If he had stayed, at least there would've been some distraction from the horrid way that Wolfram felt.

First the dream, then the watch. He'd attacked the person he cared about most and then Violet, his steady ally, had come in and... Well, whathadshe seen? Had she jumped to conclusions?

His silly attraction to Beau was such a problem—and Beau was too innocent, too naive to even pick up on it. He earnestly believed in Wolfram's goodness. No one since his mother had treated Wolfram as if he had any objective goodness to offer the world. Violet and James had an impulse to care for him, that much was true, but they never would have stood up against the beast he'd become that morning, shouted in his face, so confident that he wasgood.

It was madness, the way that Beau trusted him.

He could've probably told Beau the truth about his embarrassing dream and its outcome from the moment he woke up and he wouldn't have given Wolfram a hard time about it.

He would’ve probably helped Wolfram wash the sheets. He wastoogoddamned understanding.

Wolfram didn't deserve him. Beau had made the hours of Wolfram's life into something precious rather than something to be frittered away as fast as possible.

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