Healing Beau (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 6) Read Online Free PDF Page A

something and embarrassed that he’d caught her crying. “Not really.”
    “Early for you. JoNelle is off, but I’ll make you something to eat.” She started to rise.
    “No.” A hot, sick feeling went through him, and for the first time since the accident, he thought of someone other than himself. He knelt in front of her. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
    She shook her head. “Nothing important. Really.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and laughed a watery little laugh. “See? All better.” But two more tears escaped from her almond-shaped eyes. “I don’t cry pretty.”
    She didn’t. She had blotchy cheeks, swollen eyes, and there was a certain amount of snot involved—though he found none of that mattered to him. Her face was too pretty for any of that to make a difference, and the feeling of relief was too strong. Nothing was seriously wrong, or she wouldn’t be trying to laugh. The hot, sick feeling dissipated and was replaced with tender sympathy.
    She swiped at her face with her hand. “If I were like Emory or Abby, I’d have a linen handkerchief.”
    “Yeah?” He smiled at her. “Sounds like a lot of laundry to me.” He rose, went into the dining room, and came back with a cloth napkin. “Still laundry.” He sat beside her, tipped her face up, and wiped her eyes. He put the napkin in her hand, because her nose needed wiping and she would want to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” For the first time in weeks, he felt in control, like he had a purpose in life.
    She discreetly wiped her nose. “It really is stupid.”
    “I doubt that. If it was stupid, someone as sensible as you wouldn’t be crying over it.” Then something unexpected happened. He wanted to kiss her. If she had been anyone but Christian, he would have kissed her and maybe more—though with his back hurt, she might have to be on top.
Stop it! This is your oldest friend—your best friend. And she’s upset. Stop being an ass.
    “Well …” The box had a front-hinged door, but when Christian pulled it open, it came off in her hand. “My grandmother gave me this. It’s a portable writing desk that belonged to her grandmother. My great-great-grandfather brought it back from Europe for her. And I broke it.” Her voice quivered. “I hate myself! All over the world people are sick, starving, and dying. But here I sit crying over a thing.”
    “But it’s your thing and you love it. Let me see.” He took it from her. The hinges were still intact, but the door had splintered right above them. He wiggled the cubbyholes and opened each of the drawers. He was surprised to see that the box was filled with stationary, pens, stamps, and greeting cards. She actually used the box. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. For ten years she had written to him—real letters in the mail, in addition to the emails, texts, and phone calls. He’d never written her—or anybody else—a real letter. “Looks like it’s only the door.” He ran his finger over the jagged, splintered wood. “What happened?”
     “I was getting stamps to mail a few more Christmas cards, and I knocked it off.” She burst into a fresh round of hysteria. “Three generations of Hambrick women have kept it in mint condition, and I ruined it because I’m clumsy!”
    So many men claimed they didn’t know what to do when women cried, but Beau did. He was a fixer and he would fix this. He set the box aside and pulled her head to his shoulder. She smelled like coffee, oranges, and cinnamon—comforting scents. Unfortunately comforting scents could also be sexy—not hot sand, blue water, bikini sexy, but rustic ski lodge, hot buttered rum, warm blanket sexy.
    He forced the thought away and patted her back in a friendly way. “You aren’t clumsy. You’re tired because you work so hard. And it isn’t ruined.”
    She raised her face and met his eyes. “It isn’t?”
    He had no idea if it was or not. “Of