Back to Me (Book Three ✓)

epilogue

EMMA

Legs tucked beneath my body on the sofa, I scan my latest manuscript, too preoccupied with Beau's grumbling in the kitchen to absorb any of the words in front of me.

A couple of loud bangs and clangs later and I've lost any shred of concentration I might have had to start off with.

Placing the pages aside, I make my way into the kitchen for a better look, popping myself onto the island so that I can watch Beau work on our refrigerator.

We've been lucky so far, not needing to replace anything in the lake house yet. That is, until our fridge gave out on us overnight, leaving us to find soiled milk and meat this morning, the smell already stinking up the house.

"Fuck!" Beau mutters, a loud, metallic, ringing sound accompanying the curse.

I let a laugh escape me and soon enough, the mussed dark hair comes from behind the appliance, a famous Beau scowl over his face.

"Something funny, Em?" He raises a brow, wiping an oily hand across his forehead and leaving a dark stain over his tan skin.

"You, fixing a fridge." I shrug, holding out my arms for a hug. Beau leans in, careful not to stain my clothes, and I continue tentatively, "It's very funny. Why don't we just call someone? There are guys that do this all day, you know. They'd know what's wrong."

Just like that, Beau lets me go, a stubborn frown on his lips, his tone exasperated, frustrated even, but still playful. "I don't need help fixing the damn fridge, Emma. Maybe what I need is some peace and quiet-"

A rush of wind gusts through the front entryway and into the kitchen, ruffling untouched instruction manuals across the island as Maggie storms inside, swinging the door so hard into the wall that the slam vibrates through the floorboards. I jump in place, locking eyes with Beau immediately.

"Mags?" He calls.

I rush into the living room, my voice competing with his. "Maggie?"

Instead of facing us, she continues stomping up the stairs, her heavy, black boots making the sound echo even louder. We follow to the bottom of the stairs, and for what seems like the millionth time this week, I am struck at how grown up she's looking. 

And how moody she's being.

"Hey, Mags!" Beau shouts, patience already running thin today because our kitchen appliance is getting the better of him. "We're talking to you."

Reluctantly, Maggie pivots on her foot at the top of the stairs, turning to face us with her jaw set defiantly and lips pursed. I'd bet any money that she rolled her eyes before turning around, one of Beau's habits I'd have preferred she didn't learn but was ultimately inevitable.

"What?" Her voice is as sour as her pinched expression, the dark liner too heavy around her light green eyes, but somehow still not as deeply black as her hair, hanging in front of her face.

"Well, Christ, Mags." Beau leans against the banister, tucking a dirty rag into his back pocket. "Are you okay?"

Maggie's eyes drift towards the ceiling and it's work to suppress a smirk. Beau hates it when she rolls her eyes at him, the irony completely lost on him. I hate it too, but it's always comical to watch Beau arguing with himself, even if in the form of a teenage girl.

"What do you mean, Dad?"

Incredulously, Beau raises his eyebrows at our daughter. "What do you mean, what do I mean? You just shook the whole damn house, what're you pissed off about?"