Beatty & The Beast

TWENTY: Where the Beauty is Released

The same day, around 6 p.m.

He had been sleeping for a half an hour or so. She wasn't quite sure when he decided to collapse on a couch in one of the several sitting rooms, but she did know he was out like a spent light bulb. He looked dreadfully tired, even in sleep.

Instead of waking him, she sat on the floor in front of the pink antique couch he was sprawled across. With gentle – barely there – brushes, she moved his unruly curls from his eyes to keep them from tickling him.

Even though he was a little sweaty (he had put his soggy T-shirt back on) and flushed, he was still peaceful, at ease. After the day he had, with all the ups and downs and weirdness, she didn't blame him for being wiped out. She was a little exhausted herself.

So despite the fact that he was technically "on the job," she wasn't about to ream him for getting some much deserved shut-eye.

She had avoided him for the rest of the afternoon (after she got him his glass of water) and she had a feeling they both appreciated the distance. Though she would kill for this new awkwardness to progress into acceptance of their obvious tension, she also didn't want to risk anything they had. It would suck to remain in the friend zone, but in the grand scheme of things it meant the world to her too.

If it meant he wouldn't disappear, she'd take anything.

"Is Mr. Beatty not feeling well?"

Andie turned to see little Mrs. Featherstone standing in the doorway.

"No, he's okay," Andie whispered. "I think he was taking a break, probably letting the tile set, and fell asleep."

"I see." Mrs. Featherstone stepped into the room, coming to a stop at the armrest where Keefe's head was laying. With expert eyes she looked the boy over and saw that besides a bit of a flush – thanks to the heat – he seemed to be alright. Her concern faded.

"Sleeping on the job is he?" she said.

Andie was too distracted to catch the smile in her voice. "I'm sure he didn't mean to, he's not the kind to slack off you know." She looked at Keefe instead of Mrs. Featherstone.

"And really, he deserves it," she said, brushing another curl from his forehead. "He barely gets any sleep with all the crap he has to worry about. And it's not as if he hasn't done a huge amount to this house after all – without pay, mind you – I mean, he's probably well past paying his debt. We can't really get mad at him for taking a little nap."

Mrs. Featherstone grinned inwardly. Now that it was brought up, she felt she had a right to speak on the subject.

"That's very interesting." She pulled a red antique chair up to Keefe's armrest and sat down, keeping her back straight. "It would make one wonder why you still have him come over everyday to work – without pay – when he is this tired and 'well past paying his debt'."

Though Mrs. Featherstone's tone was warm and soft, her point was jarring. Andie's thoughts, lost in her Keefe-induced daze, were halted. She looked up at Mrs. Featherstone. She always found comfort in that plain face, this plain woman, but the shame she was hit with overpowered any comfort available.

She hadn't meant to keep him shackled to her house and his debt; it hadn't been a conscious decision or anything. It was more that she had gotten used to him being around. After awhile it didn't feel like she was enslaving him, it was as if he was just hanging out and helping around the house.

He didn't seem to mind it either, which made it easier to get used to.

And yet, maybe somewhere deep down where the selfish and greedy seed of Andréa Donovan still laid, there had been a part of her that had kept him shackled. Wanted him shackled. Not to make him her slave but to keep him there.