of Mica. He pats my dog’s head and runs a hand down his back. It looks like it feels good, and I scold myself for being jealous.
“Are you worried about the storm?”
“Maybe.”
Beau scratches behind Mica’s ears. Mica’s mouth parts gently, and he pants little wispy dog breaths before sighing audibly. By proxy, I sink a little deeper into the cushioned couch, easier now that Beau is nearby.
“We should do something to distract you.”
I blink, trying to school my expression to something believably neutral. Suggestions stampede to mind. I can imagine countless ways I’d like to distract myself with Beau. “Like what?” My words are innocent, but my voice comes out a little throaty.
Beau shrugs. “Teach me something.”
“Wh-hat?” Again, I don’t know what I expect him to say, but it’s not this.
“I teach you stuff four nights a week,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You teach me something now.”
A choppy, uncertain laugh leaves me. “I-I don’t know how to do anything.”
His brows become a flat line. “You’re a famous actor. You know how to do everything. You at least know how to pretend to do everything.”
I laugh.
He waits.
I gulp.
“First of all, I’m not really famous.”
Beau rolls his eyes. “Please. Strangers recognized you in the hospital the day we met. You have a Wikipedia page. That counts as famous.”
“You looked me up on Wikipedia?”
“Irrelevant,” Beau says, mouth twitching. “Suffice it to say you know enough about things I don’t to teach me something.”
My face heats. “Have you seen the show?” I hate how my heartbeat becomes an attention-seeking brat in my chest.
Do I want him to have seen the show? Yes. Yes, I do. But only if he liked it. If he saw it and thought it was dumb, I might burn to ash.
“Also irrelevant.” That’s a yes, but his expression gives away nothing, and it freaks me out. “Besides, I don’t own a television.”
“It’s streaming,” I mutter, sure he’s avoiding telling me he thinks my show sucks. And why wouldn’t he? He’s smart, cultured, world-travelled. And so serious. The show’s target audience was girls aged twelve to seventeen.
“Teach me something,” he says again. And now the look in his eyes reveals a hunger. A need. My bratty heart beats faster.
I swallow. “I could teach you how to make a fake wound using coffee grounds, glue, and face paint,” I say, shrugging. “Not very useful.”
Beau shakes his head. “I don’t care about useful. I want memorable.” The corners of his mouth turn down when he says this, his eyes clasped to mine.
He wants memorable.
I go very still, drinking him in. Is Beau asking to make a memory with me? Something to keep? To hold onto? Pain squeezes my unruly heart.
If he is, I don’t want it to be a memory of how to make a wound.
If he’s asking for a memory, I want it to be something that feels good. I want to remember it too. And I want to remember touching him.
“Do you ever get headaches?” I ask.
Surprise flits over his gaze. “Sometimes. If I’ve been grading too long or I go a day without coffee.”
I smile, loving the image of him bent over a stack of French tests, frowning down at his students’ poor conjugation, an empty coffee mug beside him.
“Have you ever tried acupressure to relieve your headaches?” I ask, my voice coming out somehow soft and rough at the same time.
He blinks twice. “No… You?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “My stylist on the show used to have to pull my hair in a tight bun whenever Raven Blackwell had to wear this ceremonial headdress—” I wave my hand to scatter the image of me in a crazy bandeau. I hope he never Googles that image. “Anyway, the bun and the costume were really uncomfortable, and I used to get these tension headaches, and my stylist showed me how to ease them with acupressure.”
I half-expect him to snicker and make fun, but his hungry look only intensifies. “Show me.”
His gaze makes my throat go dry. I swallow again. “T-turn around.” I shift in my seat and nudge Mica with my knee. He huffs in irritation and jumps off the couch, removing the barrier between us.
“Okay,” he mutters. I could be wrong, but Beau’s throat might be as dry as mine. He turns, giving me his back. He’s in a dark gray T-shirt and black athletic shorts, probably to keep cool if we lose power, but his attire is absolute crap at keeping me cool. The cotton of his