Page 1 of Beau's Beloved

1

SAM

“What in the world?” I muttered when, less than five minutes after I fluffed my pillow and climbed into bed, I heard a loud knock at my door. Several knocks, in fact. Actually, more like pounding.

I picked up the fancy cast-iron omelet pan I’d been given as a gift but hadn’t used once, except as a weapon. Not that I’d used it for that, either.

“Go away, or I’ll call the cops,” I shouted.

“Sam, it’s me. Open the door. It’s bloody cold out here.”

“Argh,” I growled. I set the pan down, then momentarily reconsidered. If I did hit Beau with it, maybe he’d learn not to show up again in the middle of the night.

I should tell him I was already in bed, but that wouldn’t deter him. Maybe if I said I was sick. No, that wouldn’t thwart him, either.

Under normal circumstances, I’d consider following through with my threat and actually call the local sheriff. However, Beau’s mother had died a few days ago—on Christmas—and, according to him, he needed his best friend.Me.

More likely, I was the only friend who would let him in after midnight; therefore, I’d been promoted to “best” status. If only it came with a salary. Then everything I put up with might be worth it.

I looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t mean that,” I said in case there was a high power who’d read my thoughts.

“Sam? Open the door!”

I scowled, flipped the deadbolt, and unlocked the rest of the devices I’d felt necessary to install as a woman living alone.

“Hi, Beau,” I sighed as much as said when he swept past me.

“Who were you talking to?” He looked around my one-room-plus-kitchen-and-bath apartment, then back at me.

“No one,” I snapped. “I was in bed.Asleep.”

Mostpeople would apologize for waking me. Not Beau, though. Instead, he asked me if I wanted anything to drink after he’d gone into my kitchen to look for something for himself.

There should be a picture of him in the dictionary next to the word “entitled.” Maybe I’d draw one in and show it to him.

“Did you not hear me say I was in bed?” I motioned to where Wanda, my cat, lay snuggled in the blankets like I wished I was.

He pulled one of the two stools sitting near the kitchen counter out and took a seat, then motioned to the other. When I bought them, I’d thought long and hard about purchasing more than one, especially with how expensive they were. At the time, I told myself I might have visitors occasionally, so why not splurge? Now, I regretted it.

Rather than sitting on the bed, which would only make me want to crawl under the covers more than I was already longing to, I sat next to him.

Space was tight, so he shifted my stool until I faced him, then put his long legs on either side of mine.

He held out the glass of wine he’d poured. “You didn’t answer when I asked if you wanted some. We can share.”

“No, thanks.” I covered my mouth when I yawned. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Why be polite when he never was? “I’m really tired, Beau.”

“Sleep,” he said, motioning to the pull-out couch that served as my bed.

“I will as soon as you leave.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve nodded off when I was here.”

“Whyareyou here, Beau?”

The playful look that had been on his face since he walked in quickly morphed into one of sadness. “Can’t sleep.”

I got it. I really did. In the weeks following my mom’s death, I hadn’t been able to sleep, either.

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