Page 86 of Beautiful Beast

“I’m not your boyfriend.”

But he is, whether he realizes and accepts it or not.

When I stand up and wiggle out of my clothes, Adam hisses a breath through his teeth while his gaze rakes up and down my bikini-clad body.

“With views like this one, I guess that I can consider the whole boyfriend thing.”

I laugh and take a moment to ogle him right back. The black swim trunks low on his hips, the massive bulge, the sexy tattoos all over his gloriously bronzed skin.

Everything about him is absolute perfection.

“All I needed to do was strip?” I ask.

“What can I say? Guess I’m easy to please.”

“I bought something for you.”

I root through my purse and find the paper bag buried at the bottom. He takes it from my outstretched hand and I hold my breath watching him open it.

His expression is unreadable as he turns the small plastic container over and over in his hands. But when he looks up, there’s anger flashing in his blue eyes.

And there’s something else, too.

Something that is the equivalent of a punch to the gut.

Sadness.

“What is this?” he asks.

He knows how to read, so he must really be asking why I got it for him. And suddenly, I forget every word in the English language and am fumbling to try and make things right.

To make him smile.

“You… I was… just trying to… I wanted to help.”

He gently sets the tube down on the table and sits at the edge of a lounger with his head in his hands.

Shit.

I tentatively join him on the chair, but when I touch his shoulder, he flinches like I electrocuted him. I pull my hands back onto my lap even though all I want to do is wrap myself around him and make him forget the last five minutes.

“Growing up, I struggled with self-worth,” Adam says softly. “My father was a monster, as you know. But hitting me wasn’t even the worst of what he did. His words were brutal and made me feel like an incompetent, worthless human being.”

I can completely relate because my mother was the same way, and any time my father showed up, he was worse. She hated that I looked like a young version of her and constantly said that I stole her beauty, ruined her life, and that she couldn’t wait for me to leave home.

“I lived in a house where my male role model constantly told me I wasn’t enough. Wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t smart enough. Wasn’t strong or brave enough. Would never amount to anything,” Adam continues. “I went to prep school, so everyone was either rich or on a scholarship, so nothing about me really stood out. We were all pedigree breeds, or else pretending to be.”

And the only thing that ever stood out about me was how I look, even though I desperately wanted someone – anyone – to notice that I was smart. That’s why earning a scholarship and my Master’s degree meant so damn much to me.

“In college, things were different. There were lots of girls trying to get their Mrs. Degrees.” He meets my eyes and must notice the confusion. “Climb the social and financial ladder to marry a rich, connected guy. I was never accepted or desired for any reason other than money and the lifestyle my last name offers.”

“Your abs might also have something to do with it,” I joke, desperately wanting to lighten the mood and make him laugh.

It doesn’t work.

“I never cared about any of that shit,” Adam says. “I’ve never cared about how someone looks or how much money they have. And you weren’t supposed to care either.”

“Oh, Adam.”

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