The Beau & the Belle
Page 33
“It’s getting silly.”
His accusation makes my back stiffen. The old Lauren was silly, but now I’m a hardened New Yorker. I once survived a four-day snowstorm by eating my way through canned goods. I ate Chef Boyardee with chopsticks and nursed my last bottle of wine before the weather finally broke. I dug my way out of my apartment with a spoon.
Maybe I’ve been viewing Beau through rose-colored contact lenses, struck blind to his domineering possessiveness. I work up a long monologue, outlining all the reasons I am NOT silly just because I’m not throwing myself at him, but Preston arrives and saves me the trouble.
He walks into NOLA with pep in his step and a smile on his face. I think he’s even whistling, but the second he sees Beau holding my hand, his smile drops.
“Lauren?”
His tone holds all the dramatic effect of a scorned lover. It’s like he just caught Beau mid-thrust. I want to roll my eyes.
“Hi Preston. You remember Beau?”
My hand is set free as Beau turns to assess Preston. It’s so strange to see them in the same room after all this time. I used to assume Preston didn’t hold a candle to Beau solely because he was younger, just a teenager like me. Now, the theory is dead.
“Beau, yes. It’s good to see you,” Preston says with a fake smile. “You used to rent that apartment from Lou’s parents, right?”
For the record, Preston has never once called me Lou.
Beau nods and extends his hand. “Good memory. You’re Mayor Westcott’s son.”
On the surface, hands are shaking and smiles are spreading, but I know it’s all for show. The nature channel could dub an educational voiceover on top of the footage: Watch as the two rutting males suppress their aggression in an elaborate show, vying to impress the lone female with their respective mastery of emotional restraint.
“How’ve you been?” Preston asks, assessing Beau with a cool once-over before he takes a step toward me. Beau doesn’t move, so I’m semi-squashed between them. I worry a bizarro threesome is about to break out, featuring only biting and Greco-Roman wrestling.
“Could I just—”
My question gets cut off.
“I thought you should know that I just asked Lauren out on a date,” Beau says casually.
Wait, what? Is that allowed?
Preston is just as confused as I am. His brows are at his hairline, his smooth jaw half open.
“I turned him down!” I say in a rush.
Then, because he deserves it, I shove Beau in the shoulder. Because of our size difference, he stays put and I’m thrown off balance. What kind of psycho just announces something like that? What is Preston supposed to do now? Shake his hand and congratulate him?
I whip my gaze to Preston and pray he doesn’t allow himself to be provoked. As it turns out, he’s stunned into silence, so I do the work for the both of us. I gather my purse and shove the guys to the door.
“Beau, it was…uh…well, it was interesting as always. Preston, err, let’s just, let’s go this way. For dinner. I don’t care if it’s the right way.”
It’s like we’re aliens wearing human skins and doing bad impressions. I can tell Preston wants to tackle Beau to the ground and pound his face into the dirt. I hope he doesn’t try, because Beau seems like he exceeds Preston in more than just age.
I think our night will turn around once we’ve put a few blocks between us and my gallery. I keep turning around just to make sure Beau isn’t tailing us. Last I saw, he was standing on the sidewalk with his hands tucked in his coat pockets, watching us walk away.
Preston won’t even look at me, even though I did nothing wrong. I try to tell him that, but it’s no use. The awkward run-in with Beau has completely ruined our night.
We sit down at the restaurant where Preston made reservations and I ooh and aah about the decor and the menu and “Have you seen those chandeliers? Great, right?” but Preston’s burners are locked on simmer.
“The fucking nerve of that guy.”
He shoots to his feet like he’s going to—what? Run back and fight him? Beau’s long gone by now, and my stomach is growling. I reach out for his hand and yank his sleeve. “Come on, don’t let him get to you. Let’s forget about it.”
Except I can’t.
Plastered right behind Preston’s head is a framed photo of Beau with the owner of the restaurant. They’re shaking hands, and behind them is a group of guys wearing hardhats crowded around a massive yellow Caterpillar tractor. According to the small plaque under the photo, Crescent Capital helped the owner rebuild after Audrey and every year since, business has been booming. The chef won a James Beard Award last year. There’s an item on the menu named after Beau. It’s chicken and andouille étouffée pasta with white wine cream sauce, onions, bell peppers. I want to order it and lick the plate clean.
Oh god, we can’t stay here.
I shoot to my feet and nearly collide with the waiter trying to fill our water glasses.
“Come on, let’s go. I’m not hungry.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I think I’m coming down with something.”
Yes, I’ve fallen ill, suffering from a little thing I like to call everyonefuckingleavemealone-itis. My symptoms include: mumbling obscenities under my breath, barely paying attention as Preston kisses me goodbye (on the cheek) outside the restaurant, glowering at anyone who passes me on the street, and an inability to sleep later that night. I kick my sheets off in a fit of rage and spread out like a starfish on my bed. My apartment is 100 degrees. I want to yank open a window and let the cold night air flood my room, but that would require movement.
Instead, I lie there sweaty and angry, trying to make sense of the mess I’ve found myself in. It’s very simple: I was in love with Beau 10 years ago. He knew that. He didn’t love me back. He moved away and never talked to me again. He couldn’t manage a lousy phone call or a single letter, not even a measly text. Now that we share a zip code again, I suddenly can’t escape him?
How convenient.
I get that I was off limits at the time. I was a dweeby high schooler. Still, he could have let me down gently, written me a sweet letter I could have kept under my pillow and read so many times that the edges tore.
Right?
I’m not crazy.
I’m angry. It’s not fair that I wanted him then and couldn’t have him, but now that he wants me, he just gets to snap his fingers and I’m back at his feet, panting and pawing. No.
I want to teach him a lesson.
That’s right, buddy boy.
You told me once to guard my heart.
Well you’ll be happy to know, Beau, that shit’s under lock and key.
Now let’s hope you know how to guard yours.
MY PLAN IS simple, a proverbial “read ’em and weep” scenario. I’m going to give Beau a taste of his own medicine by showing up to his office and dangling the bait (me) in front of him like a carrot. If I can’t keep him away, I’ll draw him in. I will make him salivate then swat him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. I’ll wink and wag my finger and say, “Uh uh uh.” My butt will be clad in military-grade yoga pants. My boobs will be pushed so high in my strappy sports bra, they’ll have to get cleared by air traffic control. Usually, I’d need to add a little something something, but the sports bra is so fancy that it makes my small boobs look bigger than they are, even perky. Sorry Victoria, I just told your secret.
I leave my wild curls as they are and apply just enough makeup to appear as if I’m not wearing any at all. I spritz my neck with a delicate perfume that will find its way to his nostrils the moment I step into his office.
He’ll think, What is that glorious scent?
Me. I’m the scent.
At 11:00 AM, I glide into Crescent Capital like I’m on ice skates, waving and smiling to anyone who cares to acknowledge me. Curious heads pop up from cubicles, watching me pass. The office manager points me in the direction of Beau’s corner office and I mouth, He’s expecting me, to his secretary and then let myself in.
My plan hits a speed bump when I see that he’s not alone. There’s an attractive blond guy sitting in a chair on the other side of Beau’s desk. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a pair of thick black-framed glasses. He looks like the prince from Cinderella, if the prince wore Hugo Boss.
His accusation makes my back stiffen. The old Lauren was silly, but now I’m a hardened New Yorker. I once survived a four-day snowstorm by eating my way through canned goods. I ate Chef Boyardee with chopsticks and nursed my last bottle of wine before the weather finally broke. I dug my way out of my apartment with a spoon.
Maybe I’ve been viewing Beau through rose-colored contact lenses, struck blind to his domineering possessiveness. I work up a long monologue, outlining all the reasons I am NOT silly just because I’m not throwing myself at him, but Preston arrives and saves me the trouble.
He walks into NOLA with pep in his step and a smile on his face. I think he’s even whistling, but the second he sees Beau holding my hand, his smile drops.
“Lauren?”
His tone holds all the dramatic effect of a scorned lover. It’s like he just caught Beau mid-thrust. I want to roll my eyes.
“Hi Preston. You remember Beau?”
My hand is set free as Beau turns to assess Preston. It’s so strange to see them in the same room after all this time. I used to assume Preston didn’t hold a candle to Beau solely because he was younger, just a teenager like me. Now, the theory is dead.
“Beau, yes. It’s good to see you,” Preston says with a fake smile. “You used to rent that apartment from Lou’s parents, right?”
For the record, Preston has never once called me Lou.
Beau nods and extends his hand. “Good memory. You’re Mayor Westcott’s son.”
On the surface, hands are shaking and smiles are spreading, but I know it’s all for show. The nature channel could dub an educational voiceover on top of the footage: Watch as the two rutting males suppress their aggression in an elaborate show, vying to impress the lone female with their respective mastery of emotional restraint.
“How’ve you been?” Preston asks, assessing Beau with a cool once-over before he takes a step toward me. Beau doesn’t move, so I’m semi-squashed between them. I worry a bizarro threesome is about to break out, featuring only biting and Greco-Roman wrestling.
“Could I just—”
My question gets cut off.
“I thought you should know that I just asked Lauren out on a date,” Beau says casually.
Wait, what? Is that allowed?
Preston is just as confused as I am. His brows are at his hairline, his smooth jaw half open.
“I turned him down!” I say in a rush.
Then, because he deserves it, I shove Beau in the shoulder. Because of our size difference, he stays put and I’m thrown off balance. What kind of psycho just announces something like that? What is Preston supposed to do now? Shake his hand and congratulate him?
I whip my gaze to Preston and pray he doesn’t allow himself to be provoked. As it turns out, he’s stunned into silence, so I do the work for the both of us. I gather my purse and shove the guys to the door.
“Beau, it was…uh…well, it was interesting as always. Preston, err, let’s just, let’s go this way. For dinner. I don’t care if it’s the right way.”
It’s like we’re aliens wearing human skins and doing bad impressions. I can tell Preston wants to tackle Beau to the ground and pound his face into the dirt. I hope he doesn’t try, because Beau seems like he exceeds Preston in more than just age.
I think our night will turn around once we’ve put a few blocks between us and my gallery. I keep turning around just to make sure Beau isn’t tailing us. Last I saw, he was standing on the sidewalk with his hands tucked in his coat pockets, watching us walk away.
Preston won’t even look at me, even though I did nothing wrong. I try to tell him that, but it’s no use. The awkward run-in with Beau has completely ruined our night.
We sit down at the restaurant where Preston made reservations and I ooh and aah about the decor and the menu and “Have you seen those chandeliers? Great, right?” but Preston’s burners are locked on simmer.
“The fucking nerve of that guy.”
He shoots to his feet like he’s going to—what? Run back and fight him? Beau’s long gone by now, and my stomach is growling. I reach out for his hand and yank his sleeve. “Come on, don’t let him get to you. Let’s forget about it.”
Except I can’t.
Plastered right behind Preston’s head is a framed photo of Beau with the owner of the restaurant. They’re shaking hands, and behind them is a group of guys wearing hardhats crowded around a massive yellow Caterpillar tractor. According to the small plaque under the photo, Crescent Capital helped the owner rebuild after Audrey and every year since, business has been booming. The chef won a James Beard Award last year. There’s an item on the menu named after Beau. It’s chicken and andouille étouffée pasta with white wine cream sauce, onions, bell peppers. I want to order it and lick the plate clean.
Oh god, we can’t stay here.
I shoot to my feet and nearly collide with the waiter trying to fill our water glasses.
“Come on, let’s go. I’m not hungry.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I think I’m coming down with something.”
Yes, I’ve fallen ill, suffering from a little thing I like to call everyonefuckingleavemealone-itis. My symptoms include: mumbling obscenities under my breath, barely paying attention as Preston kisses me goodbye (on the cheek) outside the restaurant, glowering at anyone who passes me on the street, and an inability to sleep later that night. I kick my sheets off in a fit of rage and spread out like a starfish on my bed. My apartment is 100 degrees. I want to yank open a window and let the cold night air flood my room, but that would require movement.
Instead, I lie there sweaty and angry, trying to make sense of the mess I’ve found myself in. It’s very simple: I was in love with Beau 10 years ago. He knew that. He didn’t love me back. He moved away and never talked to me again. He couldn’t manage a lousy phone call or a single letter, not even a measly text. Now that we share a zip code again, I suddenly can’t escape him?
How convenient.
I get that I was off limits at the time. I was a dweeby high schooler. Still, he could have let me down gently, written me a sweet letter I could have kept under my pillow and read so many times that the edges tore.
Right?
I’m not crazy.
I’m angry. It’s not fair that I wanted him then and couldn’t have him, but now that he wants me, he just gets to snap his fingers and I’m back at his feet, panting and pawing. No.
I want to teach him a lesson.
That’s right, buddy boy.
You told me once to guard my heart.
Well you’ll be happy to know, Beau, that shit’s under lock and key.
Now let’s hope you know how to guard yours.
MY PLAN IS simple, a proverbial “read ’em and weep” scenario. I’m going to give Beau a taste of his own medicine by showing up to his office and dangling the bait (me) in front of him like a carrot. If I can’t keep him away, I’ll draw him in. I will make him salivate then swat him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. I’ll wink and wag my finger and say, “Uh uh uh.” My butt will be clad in military-grade yoga pants. My boobs will be pushed so high in my strappy sports bra, they’ll have to get cleared by air traffic control. Usually, I’d need to add a little something something, but the sports bra is so fancy that it makes my small boobs look bigger than they are, even perky. Sorry Victoria, I just told your secret.
I leave my wild curls as they are and apply just enough makeup to appear as if I’m not wearing any at all. I spritz my neck with a delicate perfume that will find its way to his nostrils the moment I step into his office.
He’ll think, What is that glorious scent?
Me. I’m the scent.
At 11:00 AM, I glide into Crescent Capital like I’m on ice skates, waving and smiling to anyone who cares to acknowledge me. Curious heads pop up from cubicles, watching me pass. The office manager points me in the direction of Beau’s corner office and I mouth, He’s expecting me, to his secretary and then let myself in.
My plan hits a speed bump when I see that he’s not alone. There’s an attractive blond guy sitting in a chair on the other side of Beau’s desk. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a pair of thick black-framed glasses. He looks like the prince from Cinderella, if the prince wore Hugo Boss.
