“Now, Beau,” his mother said. “Don’t do anything rash…”
“I’ll take care of it,” Beau repeated.
Then he said, “End call.” But he kept the phone gripped tight in his hand even after he heard the phone click off.
Josie had called his mother behind his back, to tell on him like he was a toddler she couldn’t control. But he wasn’t a toddler. He was a grown man. And before Josie left for the night, she’d know that.
CHAPTER 8
JOSIE DEBATED WHETHER TO REMIND BEAU she wouldn’t be around that evening as she walked up the stairs with his dinner tray. On one hand, her mother had always done the Prescotts the courtesy of letting them know when she was leaving the house, especially if it was for more than the couple of hours it took to run her weekly errands.
On the other hand, her heart was still in a permanent state of cringe since the call with his mother.
It couldn’t have gone worse. First she’d stuttered through her request for more money, not being nearly as diplomatic as she would have liked as she explained the situation. Then Mrs. Prescott had responded in a way that made her feel like the lowest form of dirt, reminding her that there were many “illegals,” she could hire for less money and that Loretta had never complained about Beau even when he was an unruly four year old and prone to throwing back-to-back temper tantrums.
She hadn’t known how to explain that dealing with adult Beau was worse than dealing with a four year old. Four year olds didn’t make your job harder just for the hell of it. Four year olds didn’t snap at you whenever you tried to help them. And most of all, four year olds didn’t look like Beau Prescott.
When she’d dropped off a snack for him and Mac earlier that afternoon, she’d found him doing chin-ups with weights strapped around his ankles, and she literally stopped and stared. He was working out in a ratty, gray college t-shirt with “Bama” written across the front in tall, crimson letters. It had become so thin over the years that it clung to his sweaty body and made her wonder what it would feel like to reach underneath and feel those muscles, warm beneath her hands…
But then Mac had snapped her out of her trance by telling her to just set the tray of hummus and pita bread she was carrying on a foldout table in the corner of the room.
She had no business thinking of Beau Prescott like that, especially after what happened between them twelve years ago. If sleeping with the high school quarterback had blown up in her face, sleeping with the thirty-three-year-old version would surely be nothing short of a nuclear disaster.
What was wrong with her? She’d loved Wayne to a fault, had done everything to try to be the perfect wife for him. But she’d never been that sexually attracted to him, even in the beginning before he showed his true colors. However, Beau had not bothered to pretend to be anything less than a complete jerk, and here she was fantasizing about him.
To her great relief, Beau wasn’t engaged in any embarrassing phone calls when she arrived at his bedroom door that evening. But to her surprise, he also wasn’t at his usual place in the bay window. He was already seated at the table, as if he’d been waiting for her. However, he didn’t say one word, not even to acknowledge her presence in the room.
A little unsettled, she put the tray down in front of him. “I’ll be back in a little bit to take away your empties.”
She turned to leave, but he said, “Hold on, this is a sandwich.”
She reluctantly turned around. “Actually it’s a southwestern chicken panini. It’s real good. I had it myself for dinner before I came up.”
He picked up the sandwich like it was a dead rat she’d put on his plate. “You’re trying to serve me a sandwich. For dinner.” He felt around the rest of his plate. “And a couple of pickles.”
Josie bit her lip and looked to the right. The truth was she had purposefully chosen a dish that tasted good, fit within his dietary restrictions, and would be easy to clean up if he decided to flip his tray again.
He tossed the sandwich back on the plate. “Get me a big plate of that pasta you made yesterday and a bowl of that lentil soup from lunch.”
She opened her mouth to say she wasn’t a short order cook, and that his parents had never made her mother swap out a meal. But in the end, she clamped her lips together forcing her tongue to stay put.
She needed this job, she reminded herself as she walked back down the stairs and reheated the leftovers from last night. She needed this job bad, she told herself again as she came back into Beau’s room with the new tray of food.
But she stopped short when she saw that the original meal she’d brought Beau was already gone with nothing but a few crumbs to suggest it had ever been there in the first place.
“You ate it,” she said. “Does that mean I should take this food back downstairs?”
“Put down the tray,” he said, his voice flat.
She did as he asked, sliding the new tray in front of him after gathering up the old tray. “I’ll be back to pick up the rest of the dishes,” she said, as she turned away to leave the room again.
But she wasn’t even to the door when she heard the scrape of the silver tray being flipped over, followed by a couple of hard thunks and the clanging of the tray hitting the floor.
And despite growing up the daughter of a consummate servant, and everything she had put up with while married to Wayne… She. Just. Snapped.
“No!” she said, dropping her own tray and turning on him. “No, you do not get to do this to me, you spoiled little rich boy!”
“I’m not a boy!” he roared, coming out of his seat. “I’m a grown man. But if you treat me like a little boy, whining to my mom behind my back, that’s what you’re going to get!”
Josie’s eyes widened. This was about her asking his mama for a raise? “I only went to her because she’s the one in charge of my checks, and I told her the truth. I’m not getting paid enough to put up with your bull hockey!”
Josie was so angry, she bent down, scooped up a handful of the fettuccine, and threw it at him, catching him across the face with noodles, ham, and low-fat cream sauce. It was hands down the most satisfying thing she’d done in years. So she scooped up some more and threw that at him, too.
“I don’t care how insulted you feel about me telling your mama the doggone truth! You’re not the king of Alabama and you need to realize that when you make a mess, other people have to clean it up!”