The Beau & the Belle
Page 34
“I didn’t realize we were expecting company,” says the attractive mystery man, arching a brow at me as a slow-spreading smirk overtakes his mouth.
He looks like a devious hellhound ready to pounce.
“We weren’t,” Beau says sharply, drawing my attention to him.
He’s sitting in front of a panoramic view of the French Quarter. It’s a view that says, I have this city by the balls and I know it. His desk is made of solid wood. His chair is polished leather.
He’s reclined, watching me with steady blue eyes.
I’m supposed to have taken him off guard, but his features betray nothing. He’s shirked his suit jacket in favor of rolling the pale blue sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. I’ve never been so attracted to someone’s forearms. They’re not a body part that should do anything for me, and yet I can’t look away.
“To what do we owe this pleasure, Ms. LeBlanc?” he asks simply.
No.
He’s not allowed to sound so sure of himself. It’s like he’s been expecting me all morning.
I step forward and wave the coffee cups I brought with me. They’re still steaming. If I’d had access to a love potion, I would have spiked his. As it is, milky lattes from French Truck Coffee will have to do.
“I brought you a late morning pick-me-up.”
His friend laughs. “Where’s mine?”
What he’s really saying is, I’m disappointed you aren’t here for me.
I smile sweetly and step toward him. Oops—my thigh brushes his knee and I don’t pull away.
“Here, please have mine. Hope you don’t mind—I already took a sip.”
I’m being dirty and conniving. I think in another life, I would have made a fabulous scorned ex-lover.
He takes the coffee and puts his mouth right where mine was. “Mmm, hazelnut is my favorite.”
One long sip and our eyes are locked. It’s a bizarre dagger twisting into Beau’s heart, and he reacts just like I hoped he would.
“Russ, give us a minute.”
His friend pouts, and it’s such a silly thing to see on a man his age. Not at all my taste.
His eyes stay on me as he replies, “Aw, I’d rather stay.”
“Get out.”
Beau’s tone leaves no room for arguments.
A shiver runs down my spine and I have to concentrate hard not to smile. Remember, Lauren, he’s not sexy, he’s mean and bossy, always ordering people around and doing whatever he wants and—
Russ surges to his feet and interrupts my pep talk, his shoulder brushing mine as he rounds the chair. “If you don’t find what you’re looking for here, my office is just down the hall.”
I laugh innocently. Oh, Russ. Russ, Russ, Russ. You were never part of my plan, but you’ve played the perfect pawn. I want to take him out for a big steak dinner and tell him he’s been a good boy.
He leaves. The door closes with an ominous click, and then I turn back to Beau. His jaw is locked tight, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. Usually, I would take a moment to indulge in the details of his appearance, but today I have to stay on task.
“Can I have a seat?”
I sit before he replies. Then I realize I’m still holding his coffee, so I lean forward and smile. “Oh, right. You probably want this.”
My cleavage is in his line of sight, and it’s not an accident.
He scowls. “Why are you here?”
I sit back down and cross my legs. My hands are folded on my lap when I shrug. “Wasn’t it you that started the whole work pop-in tradition? At least I was thoughtful enough to come bearing gifts.”
He picks up the coffee and takes a sip.
I smile sweetly. “I put a little bit of cinnamon in it, just like you prefer.”
I learned that detail 10 years ago. My dad would brew a large pot every morning, and I’d always make sure there was cinnamon out in case Beau came over to pour himself some before leaving for class. The reminder of how lovesick I was heats my blood.
“Are you on your way to yoga?” he asks.
I offer an exaggerated laugh before cutting it abruptly short. “No. Haven’t you heard of athleisure? How’s your coffee?”
“Hot.”
“Do you want me to blow on it?”
His brow arches, but his resolve doesn’t crack. Time to improvise.
I push to my feet and turn to give myself a mini tour of the space. It’s beautiful. His firm is housed in one of the old buildings in the French Quarter so the views out the window are of traditional New Orleans architectural details: hanging ferns and colorful facades. Inside, he’s decorated the space pretty sparsely. There are hardly any personal photos or knickknacks.
I finger a picture of him and his mom, forgetting that I originally got up to give him a better view of my backside. Maybe I’m not so good at this after all. I need to refocus.
I turn and smile seductively. He’s watching me inspect his space, leaned back in his chair, fingers entwined on his lap. For a second, we have a silent staring contest, and then he cocks his head to the side and speaks.
“Lunch plans?”
“No.”
He pushes the intercom button on his phone. “Michelle, we’ll take lunch. My usual, please, and add a lemonade for Ms. LeBlanc.”
When he’s done, he pushes his chair back and stands. My back hits the bookshelf behind me.
“You told me the other day that you wanted me to pursue you when you were seventeen.”
My throat goes dry. “I was silly.”
“And now?”
“Now I know better.”
His jaw tightens.
“You seem to hold my decisions back then against me, but there was no decision to make. It wouldn’t have been right.”
“So what? Do you only ever do what’s right?”
My question is a weak weapon.
“‘So what’?” He’s angry with me now. “Let’s say I kissed you that day in my apartment. Let’s say I touched you—let’s say I fucked you. The hurricane still would have torn us apart, and you’d probably be in this same spot demanding to know why I took advantage of you.”
He’s wrong, but then, so am I. I knew it was impossible for us to be together back then, but I suffered for that. I cried and ached at the injustice of it all, but it never seemed to bother Beau. It didn’t eat away at him like it did me. I wanted us both to suffer, and that’s why I’m here now. He owes me heartache.
“I don’t think you’re here because you’re angry,” he says, stepping closer. “I think you’re curious.”
My gaze snaps up to his. His eyes are the color of open ocean.
There’s no mincing his words.
He’s seconds away from stealing control of this situation.
I didn’t wield clingy yoga pants and a steaming latte only to have him hijack my temptation train. I didn’t lie awake tossing and turning last night just so he could corner me against the bookshelf and show me yet again that I’m the one who’s putty. I’m not the lovesick wimp. No. I step forward and place my hands on his chest. He’s rock solid under his button-down. His chiseled muscles only annoy me more.
“You know what, I’m not that curious. Want to know why?” I push him until the backs of his thighs hit his chair and he sits. I hover over him, and I feel powerful—in charge. “I’ve imagined it so many times that I doubt you’ll be able to stack up. You know: never fuck your heroes.”
In a flash, his hands reach up and he grips my hips. With one rough tug, I’m sitting on his lap, straddling his thighs. The chair squeals under my added weight. Fear spikes my blood.
His hands squeeze and I sway slightly. My body is a live wire. Raw. Sparking.
“You’ve imagined this?” he asks.
I take two calming breaths, angry that my stomach is quivering.
“A million times,” I admit, training my voice to sound bored. “Every way you could possibly kiss me. Every dirty word you could ever say. Imagination was all you left me with. It’s no use, though.” I shrug and look down at my nails. “With such high expectations, I doubt reality would ever stand a chance.”
He looks like a devious hellhound ready to pounce.
“We weren’t,” Beau says sharply, drawing my attention to him.
He’s sitting in front of a panoramic view of the French Quarter. It’s a view that says, I have this city by the balls and I know it. His desk is made of solid wood. His chair is polished leather.
He’s reclined, watching me with steady blue eyes.
I’m supposed to have taken him off guard, but his features betray nothing. He’s shirked his suit jacket in favor of rolling the pale blue sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. I’ve never been so attracted to someone’s forearms. They’re not a body part that should do anything for me, and yet I can’t look away.
“To what do we owe this pleasure, Ms. LeBlanc?” he asks simply.
No.
He’s not allowed to sound so sure of himself. It’s like he’s been expecting me all morning.
I step forward and wave the coffee cups I brought with me. They’re still steaming. If I’d had access to a love potion, I would have spiked his. As it is, milky lattes from French Truck Coffee will have to do.
“I brought you a late morning pick-me-up.”
His friend laughs. “Where’s mine?”
What he’s really saying is, I’m disappointed you aren’t here for me.
I smile sweetly and step toward him. Oops—my thigh brushes his knee and I don’t pull away.
“Here, please have mine. Hope you don’t mind—I already took a sip.”
I’m being dirty and conniving. I think in another life, I would have made a fabulous scorned ex-lover.
He takes the coffee and puts his mouth right where mine was. “Mmm, hazelnut is my favorite.”
One long sip and our eyes are locked. It’s a bizarre dagger twisting into Beau’s heart, and he reacts just like I hoped he would.
“Russ, give us a minute.”
His friend pouts, and it’s such a silly thing to see on a man his age. Not at all my taste.
His eyes stay on me as he replies, “Aw, I’d rather stay.”
“Get out.”
Beau’s tone leaves no room for arguments.
A shiver runs down my spine and I have to concentrate hard not to smile. Remember, Lauren, he’s not sexy, he’s mean and bossy, always ordering people around and doing whatever he wants and—
Russ surges to his feet and interrupts my pep talk, his shoulder brushing mine as he rounds the chair. “If you don’t find what you’re looking for here, my office is just down the hall.”
I laugh innocently. Oh, Russ. Russ, Russ, Russ. You were never part of my plan, but you’ve played the perfect pawn. I want to take him out for a big steak dinner and tell him he’s been a good boy.
He leaves. The door closes with an ominous click, and then I turn back to Beau. His jaw is locked tight, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. Usually, I would take a moment to indulge in the details of his appearance, but today I have to stay on task.
“Can I have a seat?”
I sit before he replies. Then I realize I’m still holding his coffee, so I lean forward and smile. “Oh, right. You probably want this.”
My cleavage is in his line of sight, and it’s not an accident.
He scowls. “Why are you here?”
I sit back down and cross my legs. My hands are folded on my lap when I shrug. “Wasn’t it you that started the whole work pop-in tradition? At least I was thoughtful enough to come bearing gifts.”
He picks up the coffee and takes a sip.
I smile sweetly. “I put a little bit of cinnamon in it, just like you prefer.”
I learned that detail 10 years ago. My dad would brew a large pot every morning, and I’d always make sure there was cinnamon out in case Beau came over to pour himself some before leaving for class. The reminder of how lovesick I was heats my blood.
“Are you on your way to yoga?” he asks.
I offer an exaggerated laugh before cutting it abruptly short. “No. Haven’t you heard of athleisure? How’s your coffee?”
“Hot.”
“Do you want me to blow on it?”
His brow arches, but his resolve doesn’t crack. Time to improvise.
I push to my feet and turn to give myself a mini tour of the space. It’s beautiful. His firm is housed in one of the old buildings in the French Quarter so the views out the window are of traditional New Orleans architectural details: hanging ferns and colorful facades. Inside, he’s decorated the space pretty sparsely. There are hardly any personal photos or knickknacks.
I finger a picture of him and his mom, forgetting that I originally got up to give him a better view of my backside. Maybe I’m not so good at this after all. I need to refocus.
I turn and smile seductively. He’s watching me inspect his space, leaned back in his chair, fingers entwined on his lap. For a second, we have a silent staring contest, and then he cocks his head to the side and speaks.
“Lunch plans?”
“No.”
He pushes the intercom button on his phone. “Michelle, we’ll take lunch. My usual, please, and add a lemonade for Ms. LeBlanc.”
When he’s done, he pushes his chair back and stands. My back hits the bookshelf behind me.
“You told me the other day that you wanted me to pursue you when you were seventeen.”
My throat goes dry. “I was silly.”
“And now?”
“Now I know better.”
His jaw tightens.
“You seem to hold my decisions back then against me, but there was no decision to make. It wouldn’t have been right.”
“So what? Do you only ever do what’s right?”
My question is a weak weapon.
“‘So what’?” He’s angry with me now. “Let’s say I kissed you that day in my apartment. Let’s say I touched you—let’s say I fucked you. The hurricane still would have torn us apart, and you’d probably be in this same spot demanding to know why I took advantage of you.”
He’s wrong, but then, so am I. I knew it was impossible for us to be together back then, but I suffered for that. I cried and ached at the injustice of it all, but it never seemed to bother Beau. It didn’t eat away at him like it did me. I wanted us both to suffer, and that’s why I’m here now. He owes me heartache.
“I don’t think you’re here because you’re angry,” he says, stepping closer. “I think you’re curious.”
My gaze snaps up to his. His eyes are the color of open ocean.
There’s no mincing his words.
He’s seconds away from stealing control of this situation.
I didn’t wield clingy yoga pants and a steaming latte only to have him hijack my temptation train. I didn’t lie awake tossing and turning last night just so he could corner me against the bookshelf and show me yet again that I’m the one who’s putty. I’m not the lovesick wimp. No. I step forward and place my hands on his chest. He’s rock solid under his button-down. His chiseled muscles only annoy me more.
“You know what, I’m not that curious. Want to know why?” I push him until the backs of his thighs hit his chair and he sits. I hover over him, and I feel powerful—in charge. “I’ve imagined it so many times that I doubt you’ll be able to stack up. You know: never fuck your heroes.”
In a flash, his hands reach up and he grips my hips. With one rough tug, I’m sitting on his lap, straddling his thighs. The chair squeals under my added weight. Fear spikes my blood.
His hands squeeze and I sway slightly. My body is a live wire. Raw. Sparking.
“You’ve imagined this?” he asks.
I take two calming breaths, angry that my stomach is quivering.
“A million times,” I admit, training my voice to sound bored. “Every way you could possibly kiss me. Every dirty word you could ever say. Imagination was all you left me with. It’s no use, though.” I shrug and look down at my nails. “With such high expectations, I doubt reality would ever stand a chance.”
