The Beau & the Belle
Page 32
She’s holding up today’s paper.
I shake my head. “Most people just look at their phones these days.”
She ignores my taunt and holds it out to me. It’s opened to the society pages, and there in the top left corner is a pixelated black and white photo of Lauren and Preston. Apparently, he took her to a charity dinner the other night on their date. Bet that was fun.
She’s wearing a form-fitting gown. Her hair is pulled back again—tight, boring, not a curl in sight. It doesn’t matter though; even in newsprint, she’s beautiful.
I hand the paper back to my mom.
“And why am I supposed to care?”
Her brows skyrocket all the way up to her hairline. “Want to try that again, young man?”
I drag my hand down my face, feeling like a schmuck for giving her attitude. Even in my 30s, I’m a mama’s boy at heart. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Uh huh, well excuse me for showing you a picture of your old friend. I thought you’d appreciate it. She looks happy.”
Does she?
She isn’t smiling in the photo.
I ask to look at it again and she hands it over. I stare down at their picture for the better part of a minute, trying to convince myself that Lauren belongs with him, and at the end of my deliberations?
I decide there’s no way in hell Lauren is ending up with Preston Westcott.
IT’S BEEN ONE week since Beau’s near-miss-kiss, one week since he started snipping away at my seams. I went home and changed before my date with Preston, partly because I had to—he informed me last minute that we were attending some fancy fundraiser for his father—and partly because I told Beau I would. How pathetic.
I stormed home to my apartment, slipped out of my blouse, rolled those stockings down my legs, and then made myself come twice in the shower.
Just the usual pre-date routine, right?
I hate myself.
I have no more willpower when it comes to Beau than I did at 17. If anything, it’s gotten worse. I now know full well what it feels like to be touched by a man, but I still want to know what it feels like to be touched by him. I judged Preston against him the entire time we were on our date.
I wasn’t lying when I said Preston had changed. He’s grown up, just like we all have. He’s not the same jerk he used to be. Sure, he stills shows signs of having been a little spoiled. He’s flashy: when we were at the fundraiser, he kept kissing me on the cheek, gripping my hand when the cameras were around, telling people I was his girlfriend. Last time I checked, one date does not a relationship make. It was sort of sweet though. The last guy to refer to me as his girlfriend was seven, and he said it right before we were married under the jungle gym in a playground ceremony.
Girlfriend.
I mull the word over in my mind while I finish checking my emails at NOLA. I should care that he’s telling newspapers we’re a couple, but honestly, who even reads those things? I mean, Beau’s article aside, I haven’t read one in about 200 years.
Not to mention, I don’t really have time to care about that right now. I have two dozen work emails waiting to be answered and a subcontractor wrapping up construction for the day. The new shipment of bathroom tile finally arrived and he’s been installing it since this morning. I’ve checked up on him twice, but I’ve purposely avoided going back there for the last few hours. I’m scared to look at the finished product because I don’t want to jinx it.
“Ms. LeBlanc, I’m all done in here,” the subcontractor, Miles, announces. “Want to come have a look?”
I shoot off the email I was finishing and push back from the counter.
There’s a pile of broken tiles on the ground outside the bathroom that I have to step over—not a great sign.
“Was the herringbone pattern a mistake?” I ask just before I step inside and eat my words.
MIRACLES DO HAPPEN!
It looks awesome. Fresh. Clean. White subway tile with dark gray grout. West Elm, meet your southern match.
“Oh my god! It’s perfect!”
Miles nods and assesses his finished work. “I wasn’t sure how it would look, but it’s pretty fancy, kinda modern. Is that the look you were going for?”
I smile. “Exactly.”
I tell him another 100 times how great it looks. I cannot emphasize it enough.
“Finish cleaning up and I’ll cut your final check. Really good job.”
I almost can’t believe it. This business has conditioned me to expect the worst when it comes to construction. Like Pavlov’s dogs, when I hear the sound of renovation, I mindlessly pull out my wallet and start lighting money on fire.
Half an hour later, after I’ve scheduled him to come back and tile the coffee bar’s backsplash, NOLA’s quiet again. I’m back at my computer, anxious to get a few more emails sent off before Preston picks me up for our second date. Yes, date número dos. I’m shocked it’s even happening. He asked at the end of the fundraiser, and I was caught off guard. Even having accepted that Preston has changed, I was ready for his old tendency to lose interest and move on to the next shiny thing.
He must really like me if he’s willing to take me out again.
Now, I don’t know how I feel about it.
There’s a knock on the front door and then it swings open. Preston’s here. Footsteps approach. I hold up my finger. “Hey, just give me one more second to finish this email and then we can head out. I hope you haven’t had dinner yet because I’m starving.”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”
My head jerks up so fast I tweak something in my neck. “Ow. Shit.”
My hand shoots up to soothe it, and I make angry eyes at Beau.
“I thought you were Preston.”
“Hmm, I don’t see the resemblance.”
There’s never been a truer statement.
Preston is to Beau as day is to night. Preston is sunshine and silver spoons. Beau is calloused hands and sooty lashes and…lips so kissable they make me pant.
Today he’s wearing a midnight blue suit. It fits him like the designer sewed him into it this morning. He’s taller than I remember, more imposing. I wonder if his hair is darker than usual or if angels have just started following him around with dramatic backlighting. He’s polished, but approachable. In another life, he should have run for president. I smile at the thought considering it was Mr. Westcott who was the first to tell Beau he should go into politics.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks, stepping closer.
“I’m deciding whether or not you could get 270 electoral votes.”
“What?”
I close my laptop and stand, shoving it into my bag. “Nothing. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see if you were hungry and now that I know you are, you have no excuse to turn me down for dinner.”
Smooth.
“Have you ever been turned down for a date before?”
The question lights a spark deep in his eyes, which means the answer is no.
“It must be tough being so beautiful.” I step closer and brush his cheek with my hand tauntingly.
The contact makes my skin sizzle. I think I have second-degree burns, and the way Beau is looking down at me tells me he feels the heat too. Before I can pull away, his hand circles my wrist in a vice-like grip and then he turns it slowly so my palm is face down. Gently, his mouth descends and he kisses the back of my hand. Beautiful butterflies flap their delicate wings in my abdomen before I clench my abs and drown them in stomach acid.
“Come to dinner with me,” he says again.
Keep it together, Lauren.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
It’s a good question. Isn’t this the exact thing I dreamt about for all those years? The truth is, I’m scared. I’m like a girl in a ghost story, confronted by the phantom of a once-doomed love—of course my first instinct is to run.
“Preston’s coming to—”
His eyes pinch closed for a brief moment and his hand tightens on mine. “Stop the Preston bullshit, Lauren.”
I’ve heard the saying my whole life: you can’t go back home—but what happens when you do? What do you do when the past reaches out and offers you a way back?
I shake my head. “Most people just look at their phones these days.”
She ignores my taunt and holds it out to me. It’s opened to the society pages, and there in the top left corner is a pixelated black and white photo of Lauren and Preston. Apparently, he took her to a charity dinner the other night on their date. Bet that was fun.
She’s wearing a form-fitting gown. Her hair is pulled back again—tight, boring, not a curl in sight. It doesn’t matter though; even in newsprint, she’s beautiful.
I hand the paper back to my mom.
“And why am I supposed to care?”
Her brows skyrocket all the way up to her hairline. “Want to try that again, young man?”
I drag my hand down my face, feeling like a schmuck for giving her attitude. Even in my 30s, I’m a mama’s boy at heart. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Uh huh, well excuse me for showing you a picture of your old friend. I thought you’d appreciate it. She looks happy.”
Does she?
She isn’t smiling in the photo.
I ask to look at it again and she hands it over. I stare down at their picture for the better part of a minute, trying to convince myself that Lauren belongs with him, and at the end of my deliberations?
I decide there’s no way in hell Lauren is ending up with Preston Westcott.
IT’S BEEN ONE week since Beau’s near-miss-kiss, one week since he started snipping away at my seams. I went home and changed before my date with Preston, partly because I had to—he informed me last minute that we were attending some fancy fundraiser for his father—and partly because I told Beau I would. How pathetic.
I stormed home to my apartment, slipped out of my blouse, rolled those stockings down my legs, and then made myself come twice in the shower.
Just the usual pre-date routine, right?
I hate myself.
I have no more willpower when it comes to Beau than I did at 17. If anything, it’s gotten worse. I now know full well what it feels like to be touched by a man, but I still want to know what it feels like to be touched by him. I judged Preston against him the entire time we were on our date.
I wasn’t lying when I said Preston had changed. He’s grown up, just like we all have. He’s not the same jerk he used to be. Sure, he stills shows signs of having been a little spoiled. He’s flashy: when we were at the fundraiser, he kept kissing me on the cheek, gripping my hand when the cameras were around, telling people I was his girlfriend. Last time I checked, one date does not a relationship make. It was sort of sweet though. The last guy to refer to me as his girlfriend was seven, and he said it right before we were married under the jungle gym in a playground ceremony.
Girlfriend.
I mull the word over in my mind while I finish checking my emails at NOLA. I should care that he’s telling newspapers we’re a couple, but honestly, who even reads those things? I mean, Beau’s article aside, I haven’t read one in about 200 years.
Not to mention, I don’t really have time to care about that right now. I have two dozen work emails waiting to be answered and a subcontractor wrapping up construction for the day. The new shipment of bathroom tile finally arrived and he’s been installing it since this morning. I’ve checked up on him twice, but I’ve purposely avoided going back there for the last few hours. I’m scared to look at the finished product because I don’t want to jinx it.
“Ms. LeBlanc, I’m all done in here,” the subcontractor, Miles, announces. “Want to come have a look?”
I shoot off the email I was finishing and push back from the counter.
There’s a pile of broken tiles on the ground outside the bathroom that I have to step over—not a great sign.
“Was the herringbone pattern a mistake?” I ask just before I step inside and eat my words.
MIRACLES DO HAPPEN!
It looks awesome. Fresh. Clean. White subway tile with dark gray grout. West Elm, meet your southern match.
“Oh my god! It’s perfect!”
Miles nods and assesses his finished work. “I wasn’t sure how it would look, but it’s pretty fancy, kinda modern. Is that the look you were going for?”
I smile. “Exactly.”
I tell him another 100 times how great it looks. I cannot emphasize it enough.
“Finish cleaning up and I’ll cut your final check. Really good job.”
I almost can’t believe it. This business has conditioned me to expect the worst when it comes to construction. Like Pavlov’s dogs, when I hear the sound of renovation, I mindlessly pull out my wallet and start lighting money on fire.
Half an hour later, after I’ve scheduled him to come back and tile the coffee bar’s backsplash, NOLA’s quiet again. I’m back at my computer, anxious to get a few more emails sent off before Preston picks me up for our second date. Yes, date número dos. I’m shocked it’s even happening. He asked at the end of the fundraiser, and I was caught off guard. Even having accepted that Preston has changed, I was ready for his old tendency to lose interest and move on to the next shiny thing.
He must really like me if he’s willing to take me out again.
Now, I don’t know how I feel about it.
There’s a knock on the front door and then it swings open. Preston’s here. Footsteps approach. I hold up my finger. “Hey, just give me one more second to finish this email and then we can head out. I hope you haven’t had dinner yet because I’m starving.”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”
My head jerks up so fast I tweak something in my neck. “Ow. Shit.”
My hand shoots up to soothe it, and I make angry eyes at Beau.
“I thought you were Preston.”
“Hmm, I don’t see the resemblance.”
There’s never been a truer statement.
Preston is to Beau as day is to night. Preston is sunshine and silver spoons. Beau is calloused hands and sooty lashes and…lips so kissable they make me pant.
Today he’s wearing a midnight blue suit. It fits him like the designer sewed him into it this morning. He’s taller than I remember, more imposing. I wonder if his hair is darker than usual or if angels have just started following him around with dramatic backlighting. He’s polished, but approachable. In another life, he should have run for president. I smile at the thought considering it was Mr. Westcott who was the first to tell Beau he should go into politics.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks, stepping closer.
“I’m deciding whether or not you could get 270 electoral votes.”
“What?”
I close my laptop and stand, shoving it into my bag. “Nothing. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see if you were hungry and now that I know you are, you have no excuse to turn me down for dinner.”
Smooth.
“Have you ever been turned down for a date before?”
The question lights a spark deep in his eyes, which means the answer is no.
“It must be tough being so beautiful.” I step closer and brush his cheek with my hand tauntingly.
The contact makes my skin sizzle. I think I have second-degree burns, and the way Beau is looking down at me tells me he feels the heat too. Before I can pull away, his hand circles my wrist in a vice-like grip and then he turns it slowly so my palm is face down. Gently, his mouth descends and he kisses the back of my hand. Beautiful butterflies flap their delicate wings in my abdomen before I clench my abs and drown them in stomach acid.
“Come to dinner with me,” he says again.
Keep it together, Lauren.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
It’s a good question. Isn’t this the exact thing I dreamt about for all those years? The truth is, I’m scared. I’m like a girl in a ghost story, confronted by the phantom of a once-doomed love—of course my first instinct is to run.
“Preston’s coming to—”
His eyes pinch closed for a brief moment and his hand tightens on mine. “Stop the Preston bullshit, Lauren.”
I’ve heard the saying my whole life: you can’t go back home—but what happens when you do? What do you do when the past reaches out and offers you a way back?
