The Beau & the Belle
Page 31
Right now, morning sunlight spills in and the easel closest to where we stand almost looks like it has a spotlight on it. I wonder if Mrs. LeBlanc was working on this one before brunch.
It’s positioned right where my old couch used to be. I step closer and peer out the window into the back yard. The water ripples on the surface of the pool, the wind picking up and jostling the leaves on the oak trees. I glance up and there’s Lauren’s old bedroom window, soft white curtain and all.
“You used to leave the curtain open,” I mention impulsively.
She stays quiet for a second like she’s soaking in what that means, that sometimes I’d look up and try to find her, just like she used to look down and find me.
“Did you ever see anything?”
I smile and turn away from the window.
“I was a perfect gentleman.”
“You were,” she insists.
“Almost always.”
Once, I saw her changing into her pajamas. It was purely by accident. I was in the middle of studying. I got up to grab some water and on my way back to the couch, I caught light and movement out of the corner of my eye. Heavy clouds had rolled in and darkened the landscape, and her bedroom lights silhouetted her in the window. Her back was to me, and before I had a chance to process what I was seeing, she tugged her t-shirt off over her head. I remember my hand tightened on my glass as her pale pink sports bra followed. Naked from her hips up. Almost against my will, I was transfixed by the bright portraiture effect the window created. I focused on the smooth expanse of skin that stretched from the nape of her neck to the delicate curve of her hips. I stood, mesmerized before reality slapped me back into the moment. Lauren. Their daughter. Underage. I whipped around and refocused on my law textbook, refusing to give another thought to what had just happened, to the lust I’d just felt for a girl I had no business thinking about.
“Sometimes I’d forget to close the blinds, since I was used to the apartment being vacant,” she says quietly. “But other times, I’d leave them open…on purpose.”
Her confession is so dirty, so unlike the image I had of her back then.
I wait for her to work up the courage to meet my eye, and when she does, I reward her with honesty of my own. “I’m surprised. I thought of you as such a good girl.”
She snorts. “I was, believe me.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugs. “Just in comparison to the other girls my age. They were way more experienced. Rose was already fooling around and having sex. Meanwhile, I didn’t have my first kiss until I was 17.”
She’s talking about us, the kiss we shared in this apartment. She was so bold, crossing the room and pressing her lips to mine. I could have stopped it; I could have taken it further. Instead, I let it happen, a passive participant. I let her press up on her toes and brush her body against mine, justifying it all because technically, I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t let her see how turned on I was from nothing—our lips barely brushing together. She was so sweet, but dangerous. Her lips tasted like cherry lip balm.
“Though that was hardly a kiss,” she says with a laugh, turning to look out the window.
“You’re right.” I take a step toward her and her attention whips back to me as I approach. “You were so mad when I didn’t kiss you back. It was kind of adorable.”
She frowns. “I wasn’t trying to be adorable. I was trying to seduce you.”
I take another step closer and my finger catches the silky bow of her blouse.
“Wh—what are you doing?” she asks, trying to take a step back.
My hand wraps around her waist and I keep her there, pressed against me.
“Why don’t you try again.”
As much as things have changed, I’m struck by how they’ve stayed the same. Deep down, a part of her still thinks she’s the timid girl next door, playing dress-up in a fancy blouse and delicate stockings—but she’s a woman now, and she doesn’t have to try to be seductive. She just is.
She swallows and her gaze is on my lips. She looks away, but then a moment later, her eyes slide right back to where they were. There is a hunger there, and I want to cultivate it. Maybe I want to twist this little bow around my finger and bring her closer to me, inch by inch. Her hip brushes mine. Her heels—the stilts she put on to impress me—make it so her head comes up to my chin. I’d still have to bend to capture her mouth, and a part of me aches to do it. I could drag my hand up her back until it electrifies the nape of her neck, lace my fingers through her hair and force her head to tip back. Her lips look so soft, barely parted as she inhales a shaky breath. I can feel her trembling even now, just imagining it.
Her body language urges me to kiss her. Everything inside of her is screaming for me to end her misery. I lower my head another inch, and she inhales in preparation.
Another inch closer, and then I smile.
“I’d hate to get between you and Preston. When is your date?”
Her eyes pinch and she draws a clarifying breath. Her hands come up to my chest to push me away. I don’t let her. When she opens her eyes again, there’s no hunger there. Fury dominates.
“Tonight.”
“Are you going to wear this?”
She sneers. “What do you care?”
“I’d prefer if you changed.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you wore it for me, not for him.”
Her eyes flick sideways for a fraction of a second, and I know I’m right.
“Let me go.”
I arch a brow and the ultimatum is clear: I’ll let go of you if you promise to wear something else.
She looks away and lifts her chin. “Fine.”
I step back, and she uses the opportunity to skate around me and yank open the apartment door. I swear under my breath and drag a hand down my face, disappointed in my behavior. She may be older, but all things considered, we’re hardly on an even playing field. I asked her out and she said no—it’s as simple as that.
Unfortunately, I’ve never been good at giving up on something I want.
LATER THAT WEEK, I head out to visit my mom. The place is long overdue for some routine TLC, so I’ve been doing odd jobs every chance I get. The deck needs to be fixed up, and the roof is leaking. There’s enough to do that I should hire a crew to make the repairs, but I won’t. I’m not comfortable sending strangers out when my mom lives alone, and besides, I sit behind a desk under fluorescent lights all week. I like coming out here and using my hands, breaking a sweat; it’s good for the soul. I brought Russ out here with me one time and I swear he shed a tear when he got a splinter. Some people aren’t cut out for manual labor.
“Do you want some iced tea?” my mom calls from the deck.
I use my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. “How exactly are you going to get it to me?”
I’m up on the roof, replacing shingles.
She shrugs her shoulders. “Don’t forget, I used to be a waitress before I had you. I may be old, but I could probably still skip up that ladder holding a platter of drinks in each hand.”
I laugh and nod, adjusting the baseball hat on my head. There’s sweat dripping down my spine. The sun arcs high in the sky and even though it’s February, I’m only in jeans and a t-shirt. Later when I’m back home, I’ll turn my shower to the hottest setting and let it beat down on me, washing away the dirt and grime of the day.
I stay up on that roof all afternoon, hammering away and thinking. Every shingle I replace brings me a little more clarity about my situation with Lauren—at least that’s what I think at the time. When I make my way down the ladder and find my glass of iced tea waiting for me at the bottom, I realize I’m no closer to figuring out what sort of game Lauren is playing. I know there’s an attraction there. I can feel it, as clearly as a gust of wind rattling through the trees. She might have grown up, but those damn eyes are just as communicative as they’ve always been. She wanted me to kiss her in that apartment. Hell, she wanted me to do a lot more than that, and yet she’s fighting it.
Why?
“Have you seen this yet?” my mom asks, pushing open the screen door and stepping out onto the porch.
It’s positioned right where my old couch used to be. I step closer and peer out the window into the back yard. The water ripples on the surface of the pool, the wind picking up and jostling the leaves on the oak trees. I glance up and there’s Lauren’s old bedroom window, soft white curtain and all.
“You used to leave the curtain open,” I mention impulsively.
She stays quiet for a second like she’s soaking in what that means, that sometimes I’d look up and try to find her, just like she used to look down and find me.
“Did you ever see anything?”
I smile and turn away from the window.
“I was a perfect gentleman.”
“You were,” she insists.
“Almost always.”
Once, I saw her changing into her pajamas. It was purely by accident. I was in the middle of studying. I got up to grab some water and on my way back to the couch, I caught light and movement out of the corner of my eye. Heavy clouds had rolled in and darkened the landscape, and her bedroom lights silhouetted her in the window. Her back was to me, and before I had a chance to process what I was seeing, she tugged her t-shirt off over her head. I remember my hand tightened on my glass as her pale pink sports bra followed. Naked from her hips up. Almost against my will, I was transfixed by the bright portraiture effect the window created. I focused on the smooth expanse of skin that stretched from the nape of her neck to the delicate curve of her hips. I stood, mesmerized before reality slapped me back into the moment. Lauren. Their daughter. Underage. I whipped around and refocused on my law textbook, refusing to give another thought to what had just happened, to the lust I’d just felt for a girl I had no business thinking about.
“Sometimes I’d forget to close the blinds, since I was used to the apartment being vacant,” she says quietly. “But other times, I’d leave them open…on purpose.”
Her confession is so dirty, so unlike the image I had of her back then.
I wait for her to work up the courage to meet my eye, and when she does, I reward her with honesty of my own. “I’m surprised. I thought of you as such a good girl.”
She snorts. “I was, believe me.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugs. “Just in comparison to the other girls my age. They were way more experienced. Rose was already fooling around and having sex. Meanwhile, I didn’t have my first kiss until I was 17.”
She’s talking about us, the kiss we shared in this apartment. She was so bold, crossing the room and pressing her lips to mine. I could have stopped it; I could have taken it further. Instead, I let it happen, a passive participant. I let her press up on her toes and brush her body against mine, justifying it all because technically, I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t let her see how turned on I was from nothing—our lips barely brushing together. She was so sweet, but dangerous. Her lips tasted like cherry lip balm.
“Though that was hardly a kiss,” she says with a laugh, turning to look out the window.
“You’re right.” I take a step toward her and her attention whips back to me as I approach. “You were so mad when I didn’t kiss you back. It was kind of adorable.”
She frowns. “I wasn’t trying to be adorable. I was trying to seduce you.”
I take another step closer and my finger catches the silky bow of her blouse.
“Wh—what are you doing?” she asks, trying to take a step back.
My hand wraps around her waist and I keep her there, pressed against me.
“Why don’t you try again.”
As much as things have changed, I’m struck by how they’ve stayed the same. Deep down, a part of her still thinks she’s the timid girl next door, playing dress-up in a fancy blouse and delicate stockings—but she’s a woman now, and she doesn’t have to try to be seductive. She just is.
She swallows and her gaze is on my lips. She looks away, but then a moment later, her eyes slide right back to where they were. There is a hunger there, and I want to cultivate it. Maybe I want to twist this little bow around my finger and bring her closer to me, inch by inch. Her hip brushes mine. Her heels—the stilts she put on to impress me—make it so her head comes up to my chin. I’d still have to bend to capture her mouth, and a part of me aches to do it. I could drag my hand up her back until it electrifies the nape of her neck, lace my fingers through her hair and force her head to tip back. Her lips look so soft, barely parted as she inhales a shaky breath. I can feel her trembling even now, just imagining it.
Her body language urges me to kiss her. Everything inside of her is screaming for me to end her misery. I lower my head another inch, and she inhales in preparation.
Another inch closer, and then I smile.
“I’d hate to get between you and Preston. When is your date?”
Her eyes pinch and she draws a clarifying breath. Her hands come up to my chest to push me away. I don’t let her. When she opens her eyes again, there’s no hunger there. Fury dominates.
“Tonight.”
“Are you going to wear this?”
She sneers. “What do you care?”
“I’d prefer if you changed.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you wore it for me, not for him.”
Her eyes flick sideways for a fraction of a second, and I know I’m right.
“Let me go.”
I arch a brow and the ultimatum is clear: I’ll let go of you if you promise to wear something else.
She looks away and lifts her chin. “Fine.”
I step back, and she uses the opportunity to skate around me and yank open the apartment door. I swear under my breath and drag a hand down my face, disappointed in my behavior. She may be older, but all things considered, we’re hardly on an even playing field. I asked her out and she said no—it’s as simple as that.
Unfortunately, I’ve never been good at giving up on something I want.
LATER THAT WEEK, I head out to visit my mom. The place is long overdue for some routine TLC, so I’ve been doing odd jobs every chance I get. The deck needs to be fixed up, and the roof is leaking. There’s enough to do that I should hire a crew to make the repairs, but I won’t. I’m not comfortable sending strangers out when my mom lives alone, and besides, I sit behind a desk under fluorescent lights all week. I like coming out here and using my hands, breaking a sweat; it’s good for the soul. I brought Russ out here with me one time and I swear he shed a tear when he got a splinter. Some people aren’t cut out for manual labor.
“Do you want some iced tea?” my mom calls from the deck.
I use my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. “How exactly are you going to get it to me?”
I’m up on the roof, replacing shingles.
She shrugs her shoulders. “Don’t forget, I used to be a waitress before I had you. I may be old, but I could probably still skip up that ladder holding a platter of drinks in each hand.”
I laugh and nod, adjusting the baseball hat on my head. There’s sweat dripping down my spine. The sun arcs high in the sky and even though it’s February, I’m only in jeans and a t-shirt. Later when I’m back home, I’ll turn my shower to the hottest setting and let it beat down on me, washing away the dirt and grime of the day.
I stay up on that roof all afternoon, hammering away and thinking. Every shingle I replace brings me a little more clarity about my situation with Lauren—at least that’s what I think at the time. When I make my way down the ladder and find my glass of iced tea waiting for me at the bottom, I realize I’m no closer to figuring out what sort of game Lauren is playing. I know there’s an attraction there. I can feel it, as clearly as a gust of wind rattling through the trees. She might have grown up, but those damn eyes are just as communicative as they’ve always been. She wanted me to kiss her in that apartment. Hell, she wanted me to do a lot more than that, and yet she’s fighting it.
Why?
“Have you seen this yet?” my mom asks, pushing open the screen door and stepping out onto the porch.
