Calm down, Josie, she thought, reminding herself that Beau and she were adults now.
Sure, she had flashed back to their high school years with a terrible inward cringe more times than she cared to admit, considering she was now a grown woman and not a love-struck seventeen-year old. But Beau’s life in Los Angeles was so beyond their relatively mundane shared past. He probably didn’t even remember what had happened between them back in high school.
Plus, he’d been badly injured. She still wasn’t clear on all the details, since the Suns had yet to release a statement, other than Beau was suffering from the side effects of a game-related concussion and would be out for the rest of the season. But she guessed he’d most likely be more concerned with recovering from his concussion than reliving his high school memories. Their new servant-employer relationship would be based on the grown-up versions of themselves, she ured herself, and at the very least, civil.
So then why did her heart start beating at what felt like one hundred miles per hour when the limo came to a stop right in front of her? And why did her breath actually catch when Beau Prescott stepped out, without waiting for the driver to come around to open his door?
From the way Mrs. Prescott had made it sound, she’d thought Beau would be a frail and sickly version of the football god she’d last seen at her mother’s funeral, more than a year ago. But no, that wasn’t the case at all. Sure he was dressed in slouchy jeans, Topsiders, and a dark green hoodie, instead of the sharp suits he usually wore when he was off the field. But somehow his leisure outfit still looked like it cost more than her best dress. And even though his thick black hair hung down messy and uncombed almost to his chin, and he was sporting a beard that didn’t look like it had ever seen a pair of trimming scissors, it still wasn’t enough to hide the classic good looks lurking underneath all that unchecked hair.
To Josie’s disappointment Beau still exuded almost hyper-masculinity, he still looked like a football god, and he was still completely mesmerizing. Worst of all, he still put her in mind of a superhero straight out of the comic books she used to read when she was kid, back when she was still silly enough to nurse a secret crush on him.
If anything, he was even more ruggedly, ridiculously handsome—almost too handsome. And the only thing indicating there might be something wrong with him were the designer sunglasses covering his eyes, even though it was overcast outside.
“Why am I still standing here?” Beau asked, his voice cut across the blustery day like a bullhorn. “I thought my mother hired somebody to make sure I wasn’t left standing in the goddamn driveway.”
These words snapped Josie right out of her staring spell. She rushed toward him, getting there just as the driver, a slightly older man with a thick grey mustache, did.
“That’s all right, I’ve got this,” Josie said, taking Beau’s arm before the driver could.
The words were barely out of her mouth before Beau was turning toward her voice, and at the same time, yanking his arm away like he’d just been touched by someone with a contagious disease.
She must have startled him, she realized, kicking herself inwardly. She’d been reading up on tending to the newly blind and more than one source had warned against not announcing yourself before touching a blind person.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Prescott,” she said. “I should have told you I was going to touch you before I did. I didn’t mean to come at you out of the blue like that.”
But he continued to stand there, breathing hard and rough, like a bear who’d been surprised in his cave.
Maybe, Josie thought with another mental kick, he didn’t recognize her voice. It had been years since they’d last seen each other, and they’d only exchanged a few terse words at her mother’s funeral. “It’s all right, Mr. Prescott,” she ured him. “It’s me, Josie Witherspoon.”
“I know who you are,” he answered, like she was nothing less than an idiot for reintroducing herself. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Josie’s eyes widened. “Your mama didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” he asked, between gritted teeth.
He looked so furious Josie actually took a step back before saying, “She hired me to take care of you.”
“She did what?” he yelled.
“She hired me to take care of you…?” Josie repeated slowly. She’d thought the nervous energy from before was bad, but now her heart was beating with the thunder of a million horses in her chest.
This was not good. She hadn’t expected Beau to be this angry about her being here. And now he was yelling at her, which made her as skittish as a foal in fog.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying not to let her mind go to Wayne. “I thought she told you.”
“No, she didn’t ing tell me.” His jaw set and his left hand clenched and unclenched, a move she recognized from his high school days, a sign he was holding his anger in check while figuring out what to do next. “Where’s the guy who drove me here?”
“Right here, sir.” The limo driver stepped up. “My name is Miguel, and I’m at your service,” he said as if it were a first time introduction, and even though he’d probably already told Beau his name when he picked him up at the airport. “What can I do for you?”
“Take me in the house,” Beau bit out.
The driver, who had probably been given instructions to hand Beau over at the front door, looked askance at Josie.
“Okay, I can just lead the way. No problem,” Josie said, scrambling to reconcile this situation with the research she’d done to prepare for her new job as Beau’s caretaker.
“Okay, Mr. Prescott, we’re at the steps now,” she said, as the driver guided Beau toward the front door. “There’s four of them, I’ll count them out for you.”
Beau didn’t answer, so she counted the steps as he and Miguel took them one at a time.
“Now we’re in the foyer,” she said when they got inside. “You want to sit down for a spell? I could bring you something to drink, or some food if you’re hungry.”
“No,” he answered, his voice sharp and hard. “I want to go to my room. Now.”
“All right. That’s totally fine,” she said, throwing Miguel an apologetic look. The poor man had definitely not signed up for this. “If you could just lead him to the big staircase over there.” Then to Beau: “Mr. Prescott, we’re at the big staircase now. Lots of steps, I’ll count them as we go up.”
“No.” His voice was colder than a decade of Northern winters. “No more telling me where I am, no more counting.”
Josie’s face fell. “But the counting is so you can get used to moving around the house on your own,” she said. “Counting the stairs out might seem silly now, but it will help you memorize the numbers when I’m not around.”
“Why’s my mom paying you if you’re not going to be around?” he asked. Then, before she could answer, he waved Miguel forward. “Take me upstairs.”
She thanked Miguel profusely after they’d arrived in Beau’s old room. Another thing her mother had taught her was to be twice as kind to the other help as she was to the Prescotts. “Let me just go get a tip out of the mad money…”
But Miguel shook his head, “No, ma’am, that’s already taken care of,” he answered.
“Oh no, I couldn’t let you leave here without something.”
“Really, it’s all right, ma’am. I was paid a tip in advance.”
“Yes, but—”
“He said it was taken care of, Josie,” Beau said. “Let him go already.”
She pursed her lips, about ready to tell Beau what he could do with his edicts and commands, but then she remembered how much she needed this job and her room with it’s little amenities—like heat and electricity.
“Well, then I hope you know how grateful we are for your istance,” she said to Miguel, pasting a tight-lipped smile on her face. She then decided to wait for the driver to get all the way out the house before she attempted to reason with Beau again.
While she did so, she looked around the room, realizing if Beau could see, this probably would have been the first time he set eyes on his old bedroom since college. Before Wayne had moved Loretta into her own apartment in Birmingham, she had told Josie that Beau never came home after he went pro, preferring to occasionally fly his parents out to visit him in L.A. rather than come back to Alabama.
“Guess he too good for this place now,” her mother had said.
But Josie hadn’t been able to judge him. She’d started staying away from Alabama herself by then, too, mostly at Wayne’s behest. He’d claimed he couldn’t do without her but also that he couldn’t get away from work to go home with her.