Chapter 153

Beast poured two glasses of red wine and set them on the table with a pair of linen napkins and cutlery. The microwave at last beeped and Beast set before Beau a steaming bowl of stew. The steam brought rich, savory notes to Beau’s nose: garlic and thyme, burgundy wine, the earthy aroma of mushrooms, which Beau now noticed several different varieties floating in the thick, luscious sauce.

The two men tucked into the stew and ate in companionable silence. Beau thought about how he had once read that a relationship was not measured so much by what one person had to say to another, but in how comfortable each person could be with quiet, with simply being together.

Beau knew they had a lot to talk about, but he didn’t want to press. He made certain to look over at Beast, to meet his eyes as they ate, demonstrating to the man how little difference his deformity made.

“This is delicious.”

“I like to cook. I like to feed people. But it’s been a long time, since—” Beast’s gaze looked faraway, at the night pressing against the glass of the big window over the sink.

Beau sipped his wine. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said, quietly. “But I hope you know you can.” He gave Beast a very pointed stare. “I’d like to know more about you.”

Beast nodded, a smile playing about his lips.

Beau was just about finished with stew and emboldened by his third glass of red, a very good French burgundy, when he said, “I don’t want to call you Beast. That’s not fair. Beasts are cruel, cunning, predators, vicious. You are none of those things. In fact, from my few days here, I can already see you are the exact opposite of all of them.” Beau smiled and he could see the intensity of Beast’s gaze. Was he surprised? He hoped he was grateful—and would see what Beau was getting ready to request as the first step onto a bridge, a bridge toward each other.

He hoped he would not seem patronizing.

But he had to ask. “So what is your name?” As he asked the question, he realized he had never told Beast what people called him. What, he wondered, did Beast call him in his own mind? Boy? “I guess before you tell me, I should have the courtesy to tell you who I am.” He paused and said, “Beau. It’s short for Beauregard. My mother was from the south, you understand.” He grinned.

Beast grinned back. He took a sip of wine. “My mother was from the north, Montreal by way of Nice. French through and through. You sure you want to know my name? Knowing may open a door, may make it harder for you to leave, as you soon will. It might be easier if you think you stayed with a beast in the mountains, who was nice enough to help you get better when you needed it.”

“I want to know who you are.”

“Jeanne-Marie.”

“That’s a lovely name. A lovely name for a lovely man.”

Jeanne-Marie cast his gaze down at his empty bowl. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because,” Jeanne-Marie looked up at him, then and Beau could see his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Because we both know I am about as far from lovely as you can get.” He stood and began hurriedly gathering the bowls, cutlery, and glasses. He took them to the sink where he began rinsing them. Without looking at Beau, he said, “I know you’re grateful. You don’t have to overdo it.”

Beau sat, stunned. He wondered how the conversation had taken such a devastating turn in such a short time, with the utterance of only a few words. He meant what he had said.

He got up and crossed the room, stood behind Jeanne-Marie before doing something that would either rend them apart or bring them closer. But Beau had never been one to shy away from a challenge, so he moved forward, until the front of his body aligned with Jeanne-Marie’s back.

And then he wrapped his arms around him.

At first, Jeanne-Marie stiffened, his entire torso tightening with what Beau thought had to be tension. Where Beau’s hand rested on Jeanne-Marie’s chest, he could feel the hammering of the man’s heart.

Then, Jeanne-Marie, gently, tried to move away, to free himself from Beau’s hug. He struggled a bit to free himself, but Beau refused to let go.

Beau gently kissed the scarred neck.

“Don’t do this,” Jeanne-Marie whispered. “Don’t do this to yourself. It’s disgusting.” His words came out choked, a whisper. Beau could feel the tremors—sobs—coursing through Jeanne-Marie.