Page 46 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
Will we just go about our respective lives on our own time and be Mr. and Mrs. Hammer in public?
Will I find out if he secretly does sleep in socks?
What happens when a goaltender, in all that gear, has to use the bathroom?
Maybe I don’t want to know the answer to that last one. But it also begs another question. If I were wearing a wedding gown with a big hoop skirt like a princess (that’s always been my dream), how would I use the ladies’ room? Maybe I’ll have to rethink my dress situation.
The Knights win, which probably causes me to wake the neighbors when I shout with glee and do a happy dance in the living room.
Juniper and I do our own post-game debrief, discussing some of the highlights, including the left winger’s sneaky pass to the center. I’m starting to understand more about the sport. But let’s be real, most of the time, I’m watching the guy in front of the goal, knowing what he looks like underneath all that equipment. How he moves on the dancefloor and the ice.
How my hand fits around mine like a glove. The flash of his eyes when he looks at me a beat longer than anyone else. How it felt when he pinched my butt.
When Juniper and I get off the phone, I expect to be wired but after my goodnight text with Beau, and my daily dose ofHoney Butter, I fall asleep. I dream that I’m gliding across the ice from the puck’s point of view. As soon as I near the net, I’mcertain to sail through when a heavy stick drops, blocking the goal.
A whispered voice filters into the dream. “Honey Butter.”
I blink a few times as the outline of a large figure takes shape, looming over the bed. Fear courses through me. I scramble and open my mouth to scream when the light blinks on.
“It’s me,” says a man with a splendidly deep voice.
Mewould be Beau.
“What are you doing here? What time is it?”
“Almost sunrise,” he answers simply as if this is totally normal.
Then he extends his hand, drawing me to my feet. He nudges his head toward the door.
When we get to the roof of the building, I’m glad I sleep in socks. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.
The air is brisk, but predawn fresh. A thin line forms along the distant horizon toward the east. Beau positions himself behind me, his front to my back. One arm drapes over my shoulders. The other lengthens along my side and he takes my hand. It’s a reverse kind of hug, warm, and like a nest I never want to leave. I tip my head back against his chest. He smells like crisp northern air and wheat-dried-in-the-sun.
Between that and how thoughtful he is in a quiet way, I’ve never been so happy to wake up early.
The stars above slowly disappear as we watch the sunrise in silence.
Unlike me, Beau isn’t a talker, but I’ve learned more about him these last couple of months than I’ve ever done with guys I’ve dated for similar periods of time.
He’s thoughtful and kind. Not grumpy so much as generous with his attention when it matters. He’s perceptive and powerful. Long and strong. Beau can reach the high shelves.Touch the deepest depths of others that I typically keep hidden—the protected places in my heart.
When we’ve gotten our dose of sunshine, I peel myself out of Beau’s embrace. I start to say, “This was?—”
Then I notice something I’ve never before seen.
The man is smiling.
Beau wears a full-blown reaches-his-eyes grin.
