Beyond Words: The Hutton Family Book 1 Read online

  “Cat…” Nash stepped forward, momentarily holding out his hands until he got a good look at my face. He quickly covered his beans and weenie.

  “Save it, Nash. There’s not one thing you can say that I want to hear. I’ve seen all I need to see.”

  And I had. From a pair of spectacular tatas, to my fiancé’s wilting erection, from the tenderness he afforded her, to the disdain in his eyes when I walked in.

  It was one thing for our relationship to be a little lackluster in the bedroom department. That was inevitable for all relationships, right? It was an entirely different thing for another woman to have an earth-shattering experience in my bed. With my “super dependable” fiancé who never took off work. Unless he was having an illicit affair with someone who still had not stopped shrieking.

  “Oh, stuff a sock in it,” I growled at Camille, still hugging all her clothes to my chest.

  As calmly as I could, because even though I had lost everything today I refused to lose my dignity, I wiggled his ring off my finger and set it on the corner of his dresser. Without another word, I turned on my heel, and walked out of my bedroom, straight down the hallway toward the door. I stopped long enough to grab my purse and my keys, and then hopped into my Jeep, dumping the woman’s clothes on my passenger seat. A few miles down the road, I started to laugh. A few miles after that, I started to cry.

  Chapter Six

  Mr. X

  Sometimes, the biggest events in our life go by and we never notice until we look back on things later. Hindsight and all that. Today was not one of those days. Every instinct I had demanded I pay attention. A rattle in the pit of my stomach. The hair on my neck standing on end. A whisper-shout in my head. Hey, asshole! Pay attention! You’re living through one of those moments you’re always going to remember. From today forward, life would be different. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why. I just knew.

  When I dropped into my favorite seat at my second favorite coffee shop in Galveston and landed right on someone’s worn leather journal, I should have taken the thing straight up to the barista. Flipping through the pages? Reading the words? That was an invasion of privacy, and privacy deserved respect. Personally, I would never forgive someone who intruded on my innermost thoughts and had no room in my life for hypocrisy.

  But I couldn’t resist the feel of the book. The weight of it in my hands. The scent of leather and paper. Judging by the wear and tear on the cover, the worn edges of the pages, this journal had seen a lot of time in someone’s hands. I ran my thumb along the paper and then peeked inside, hoping to find the name of the owner.

  And that was my first mistake. A few words caught my eye, which led to my second mistake. I cracked the book open and started to read…

  …and what I found inside was the most beautiful mind and soul I had ever come across.

  Deep thoughts soared across the page. Lyrical things. Sometimes sorrowful, but more often than not, filled with joy or wonder. Beneath the scarred leather cover, I found a woman who looked at this world as if each day was a gift to be unwrapped and savored. A woman who gave and gave and gave to some selfish bastard who seemed more than happy to keep right on taking, and then she wondered why she never felt fulfilled.

  The more I read, the angrier I got. Whoever this woman was, she deserved to be surrounded by people who recognized her for the miracle she was. And this Nash? He wasn’t appreciating her. He wasn’t taking care of her.

  He was probably cheating on her and she was too honest to recognize the signs. I wished for a way to tell her he was taking advantage. I wanted to protect her. That’s what you did when you found something precious, right? You held it close and kept it away from whatever might destroy it.

  And so, it was my protective streak that led me to my third mistake. Instead of snapping the damn book closed and handing it over to a barista, I pulled out a pencil and wrote my mystery woman a letter. I scrawled down my thoughts, a confusing blend of admiration, lust, and a desire to protect her from that jerk of a fiancé. From her perspective, I realized I would be the jerk. The man who chose to peek at the most intimate parts of who she was, and then had the audacity to comment.

  The desire to know more about her urged me to give her some way to contact me. So I did what any perfectly rational, anonymous stalker would do. I pulled out my phone and hastily created a new email account, which I then jotted down in the journal. I stared at my words, excited at first, but then concern took over.

  The more I thought about how she would see this invasion of privacy, the more I felt like a thief. A traitor. All I wanted to do was reach out and connect with this beautiful soul. In so doing, I painted myself as the kind of man she was already wasting her time with. The kind who took without giving in return. The kind who trampled her needs in favor of his own.

  And so, I made my fourth mistake. Instead of waiting for her to return so I could look her in the eyes and explain what happened, I shoved the journal in between the wall and the seat—hoping it wouldn’t be found by anyone other than my mystery woman—and left.

  Chapter Seven

  from: JournalGirl

  to: Mr. X

  date: July 20, 2018 at 1:17 AM

  subject: Thanks asshole

  I’m just going to jump straight to the point here. What kind of creep reads someone’s journal? I mean seriously? What were you thinking? No one knows about the stuff I write in that book. No one. Not my fiancé. Not my friends. Not my parents. Those words were private. Some of them were immature and selfish. Some of them were nothing but pure emotion, scrawled down in the heat of the moment so I didn’t do something stupid and say them out loud. Some of them were daydreaming nonsense, my idealistic view of the world.

  But here’s the thing, NONE of them were for you.

  I can’t say no one knows that stuff about me anymore because you do. An utter stranger. A selfish jerk. A cocky asshole.

  And to make it worse, you decide to comment??

  You’d trace your fingers along my body?? Oh yeah?? What right do you have to say something like that to someone you don’t know? Are you seriously so conceited that you think you’d have me writhing and screaming your name? You say you’re not a fool, but hello! I’d say doing what you did would fit right into the foolish category, wouldn’t you?

  Although, here I am, sending the email you requested. So maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge…

  Maybe you have more figured out than I give you credit for…

  You were right, by the way. Nash really IS a fool. A complete and utter jerk-face and he’s the reason I’m drunk right now, which is the reason I’m even writing this email in the first place…because liquid courage for the win! And in case you didn’t notice, this is a brand-spanking new email address because DUH. What woman in her right mind would email a stranger using her real address?

  And in case you didn’t read the ‘from’ line, it says GET OVER YOURSELF.

  The last thing I needed today was you. Like, the complete and utter last thing.

  You’re in my head now and I’m not sure I want you there. And my whole world got turned upside down and I have no idea what I’m going to do, but every time I close my eyes, I see you. And I don’t even know what you look like! So, it’s just your words that I see and somehow that’s worse because what you said meant something to me.

  So, thanks for that.

  I need to get my thoughts out of my head before they drive me crazy, but I can’t even open my journal because you’re there, too. The one place I could go and say the stuff no one needed to hear. The one place I was free to vent and get all the noise out of my head—and believe me, I really need to clear the noise after today. Well, now it’s totally contaminated because I flip to the first blank page and there YOU are. What right do you have to say those things about me?

  You can’t see it, but I’m flipping you the bird right now. And I’m pouring myself another drink. So, I ho
pe you’re happy. Because I sure as hell am not.

  * * *

  from: Mr. X

  to: JournalGirl

  date: July 20, 2018 at 1:30 AM

  subject: RE: Thanks asshole

  Am I happy? Yes.

  Not because you’re unhappy. Not because your world is upside down. Not because Nash is a fool—though I stand by my original statement there.

  No, I’m happy because you emailed me.

  I didn’t think you would.

  I haven’t stopped thinking about you.

  I know it was wrong to read your journal. I know it and I own it, but cut a man some slack here. If you’d opened that book and found you inside, you’d have read it, too. Anyone would have. You’re captivating. Who wouldn’t get a taste of you and want more?

  I am, after all, only human. A mere mortal. It would take someone far better than me to find the person I discovered between those pages and then just walk away.

  My biggest regret is that I didn’t take the time to cherish each and every word the way it was meant to be cherished. I skimmed, flying through the pages because the more I got, the more I wanted, and I devoured your words like a greedy little boy.

  If I had it to do over again, I’d savor each and every page.

  I’d read and reread it all until I knew all of you.

  And when you got back to the coffee shop, I’d still be there, waiting…

  …for you.

  * * *

  Cat

  I trembled as I read his words, wanting to be mad at him, but the fire had almost burned itself out. He seemed so genuine. So kind. And as maddening as his invasion of privacy was, it was hard to stay mad at someone who looked at the purest version of me and decided he needed more.

  But then again, anyone could be whatever they wanted on the internet. Just because he spoke poetry with his fingers didn’t mean he wasn’t another selfish asshole waiting to take advantage of me. Maybe he was a pervert. Maybe he did this kind of stuff all the time, and when he succeeded in getting some poor woman to reach out to him, he wheedled his way into her life, then managed to abduct her. Rape. Murder. Who knew what else? The world was full of crazy people willing to do awful things to strangers. Hell, the world was full of crazy people willing to do awful things to the people they loved. Case in point? Nash.

  What was this stranger doing up at one thirty in the morning on a week day, anyway? I had every excuse to be awake. No job. No fiancé. No way to sleep in my own bed.

  This guy? This Mr. X? What were his excuses for being nocturnal? My guess, they were pretty much in line with mine. No job. No commitments. Probably lived in his mother’s basement as he waited for his next victim.

  But man, he really knew how to say exactly what I needed to hear…

  “Earth to Kitty Cat.” Chris sat forward and waved a hand in my face. “You in there? Ready for a refill?” He lifted his empty margarita glass and rattled the ice against the sides.

  “No thanks. I’m good. Just got a refill.” I locked my phone and flopped back into the chair. “I mean, I’m not good. I’m jobless. Houseless. My fiancé is a cheat. I have no idea what to do next.”

  “Tell me about it.” Chris sighed dramatically, as if losing his job held as much merit as me losing my job, my fiancé, my home, and my privacy. Though, he didn’t know about Mr. X and the journal. After everything that happened, I had to keep that one nugget to myself. Besides, how could I explain the fact that I was oddly touched and that, despite my best interest, I had responded to a man who might be a serial killer.

  I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. “You know what?” I asked, peeking through my fingers.

  “What’s that, babycakes?” Chris pursed his lips and did everything but bat his eyelashes as he slid off the couch and ambled into the kitchen for a refill.

  “I am good. Sure, I lost a lot of stuff. And yes, the winds of change are definitely a-blowin.’ But the job wasn’t that great. The house felt like a museum. And the jerk-face?”

  Chris poked his head around the corner. “Good riddance, right?”

  “Exactly. Good riddance.” I gave a decisive nod, sloshing margarita onto my jeans. “This is my chance for a fresh start. Shed my old skin. Step out of whatever rut I’ve dug for myself and make things interesting again.” I smiled as I spoke, and then frowned when I realized how much I sounded like my mom. Not that there was anything wrong with sounding like Mom. She was happy. Perpetually. But I just wasn’t sure she was the parent I wanted to model myself after considering she gave up her home, and, well, me, to roam the world in a broken-down RV.

  “Have you heard from the asshole yet?” Chris asked. Neither one of us had spoken his name since I arrived at Chris’ apartment. My cheating jerk of an ex-fiancé would be forever nameless.

  “I think we said everything we needed to say to each other when I went back to talk to him.” I grimaced, remembering the scene when I finally stopped crying and turned the Jeep around. Nash was seething, pacing the house in a pair of PJ pants. He pounced on me the minute I walked through the door. Apparently, his affair was my fault. I had been spinning my wheels, going nowhere. I was a boat anchor tied around his waist, dragging him down and that woman was his lifeline. He was embarrassed of me and was sure my father was, too. When people at work asked him what I did for a living, he couldn’t bring himself to admit I was a masseuse. Nash Addington was too big a deal to be engaged to someone who shared genes with a woman who lived in an RV.

  “So…really though. What are you going to do?” Chris grazed his shoulder against the doorway on his way through and took a few stumbling steps before collapsing back on his zebra-print couch. “I mean, you’re welcome to crash here for as long as you want, but I’m a terrible roommate and this couch is a back problem waiting to happen.” He smirked at me over his glass, then downed half the drink in one swallow. That was the beauty of being a bodybuilder, I guess. More mass meant more margaritas.

  “Well, when you put it like that…” I grinned at my friend and then sighed. It was a good question. What was I going to do? I hadn’t told my dad yet, though I doubted he would be ready to open his home to me, even though he had more than enough space. He based his whole parenting ideology on tough love and had made it crystal clear that the moment I moved out, I was out for good. My mom, on the other hand, would be sure to offer me a place to stay, though I didn’t know where I’d sleep in that battered RV of hers.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do,” Chris said. “You’re going to get your happy ass into the kitchen, make yourself another margarita, and then drink until you can’t see straight. We’ll solve the rest of your problems in the morning.”

  His statement made me think of Mr. X promising to solve my physical problem, but I quickly buried the thought in a dark corner in the back of my mind. The last thing I needed was another man, taking up my energy, especially when it would be better spent on me.

  “In the morning, huh? Just like that, we’re going to make everything all better?”

  “Oh, Kitty Cat.” Chris winked and tossed his head as if he had long, flowing hair instead of a deep purple crewcut. “Never underestimate the power of too much tequila and a shitty night’s sleep.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lucas

  The Hutton Hotel—or The Hut, as we called it—started as my childhood home, a sprawling colonial style house on the beach with more rooms than we had family members. The extra space disquieted Mom, a woman with a heart big enough to love the whole world and the brains to know a business opportunity when she saw one. It didn’t take long for the extra rooms to become a bed and breakfast, and for the five blonde children, nut-brown from the Florida sun, well-mannered and polite, to become a selling point to repeat customers.

  Soon, the waitlist for a room stretched on for months and Dad, with Mom’s quiet urging, bought a few acres next door and built a series of bungalows to accommodat
e more visitors. We all helped, or at least he let us think we were part of the process as we handed him hammers and nails. The five of us stood around, staring at the plans with our hands on our hips, too young to appreciate the skill with which our father worked. The bungalows were a hit and the next time we expanded, Dad hired contractors to do the work. The buildings got bigger, the staff got larger, and the Hutton kids grew up.

  Mom’s desire to heal the world led her to look into health and wellness and Dad’s desire to build an empire led him to find ways to monetize Mom’s dream. We had cooks that prepared nutritious feasts complete with organic and sustainably grown food. We had masseuses and yoga and meditation nooks with expansive views of the ocean. We had parasailing for the adventurous and soft music for those who needed a quiet place to remember how to breathe.

  Our family donated to charities. Built libraries. People didn’t just love to stay with us, they loved to work for us, too.

  For a heartbeat of time, it was magical.

  The memories I had of the early years were covered in sunlight and laughter. We had purpose, even in our childhood. Mom taught us to serve others and Dad taught us how, with enough grit, we could turn a handful of raw materials and a dream into reality

  Then Dad started to drink and the magic faded, as it tends to do. As children, we didn’t understand. We spent nights whispering, trying to discover what we might have done to make him so unhappy. Looking back, I wondered if maybe Dad wasn’t cut out to share his life with so many strangers coming in and out of his home. I had come to suspect that his dedication to Mom’s dream was his downfall, though no one, not even the man himself, understood it at the time. Had we known, we’d have stopped. Closed the hotel. Found a new way to make our mark. Huttons stood by each other, which made it all the more difficult when we decided to leave.