The Beau & the Belle
Page 41
“My dates end differently.”
My cheeks bake at that, and not just because I’m now imagining him having sex. I’m imagining him having sex with other women. Rose’s recent assessment jumps to my mind: Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
“I’ve toured the French Quarter and gone to Jackson Square Park,” he continues. “Does that count?”
It’s settled: we’re going to turn our breakfast into a full day of activities. Since we’re already in the Garden District, we start at Lafayette Cemetery #1, the most famous of all New Orleans cemeteries. People come from all over the world to tour it. The tombs are above ground, not only to follow in the French tradition, but also because New Orleans is below sea level. There are a few iconic crypts, the most famous of which inspired Anne Rice when she was writing Interview with a Vampire. We stand in front of the white, rusting, cast-iron structure, and Beau tilts his head.
“Spooky?” I ask.
“No, but I still like it.”
It’s hard to get the real cemetery experience in the daytime with a hundred tourists milling around and a few shouting tour guides, so we don’t stay long. We continue walking up Washington past Commander’s Palace so we can hop onto the St. Charles streetcar. Rose would never in a million years get on a streetcar on a Sunday afternoon during Carnival season, but Beau doesn’t protest, even when we see that it’s packed to the gills. All the seats are taken, so I show him where to hold on and then I use him for support. His arm goes around my waist and he tugs me closer. I glance up at him and wonder if he’s about to kiss me in front of all these people.
Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
I blink and force my gaze away from his mouth.
“Where to next?” I ask, annoyed that Rose’s little comment has lodged itself so thoroughly in my brain. “How about Café Du Monde and then we’ll head to the French Market? There will be a ton of vendors set up since it’s Sunday, and if you’re good, maybe we’ll stop off at the Pharmacy Museum.”
“Is this a date or a school field trip?” he taunts. “I didn’t get my permission slip signed.”
I pinch his side and he laughs.
Then I realize what he said.
Date. D-A-T-E. I’ll even use it in a sentence: When two people want to bang, they usually go on a date beforehand.
My palms are sweating. My knees are weak. My arms are heavy. Eminem’s the only one who understands me right now.
I am living out my decade-old dreams. This isn’t some lifelike fantasy; I’m not going to wake up at any moment. This is happening, and there’s no way on Earth I won’t screw it up. Rose was right the other day—I’m not that experienced. My kissing isn’t all that great. My ex-boyfriend, Clark, never spent the night at my apartment not because I liked my space but because after we had sex, he couldn’t wait to leave. I never told Rose that embarrassing detail, and now I wonder if this is such a good idea. I bit off more than I can chew with Beau. Take people who like running, for example: they don’t just sign up for the New York City Marathon on day one; they start slow and work their way up, maybe take a lap around the high school track a time or two.
I haven’t had sex in…well, let’s not discuss that sad fact. It’s been a while.
We ride the streetcar until we hit Canal Street and I practically jump at the opportunity to step out of Beau’s reach. Suddenly, I’m not so sure it was smart taunting him the way I have been. I’ve been poking a bear, a bear who might want to tear open my lunchbox and eat my cookies at any moment.
We walk toward Jackson Square Park and the crowd gets more densely packed. Beau laces his fingers through mine, and the touch sends a shiver down my spine. I wish I could sneak away and call Rose. I need her input right about now. I need to admit to her that I forgot that teeth thing she told me about and ask her to describe it again. Am I supposed to bite his lip or sort of let him take the lead and then just—
“Lauren?”
“Yup!”
I jerk back to the present moment and see that he’s pointing at Café Du Monde. We’ve made a terrible mistake: the line for a table extends across the street out past Jackson Square Park, and it’s moving rather slowly. Something about deep-fried dough really slows people down. There’s no way we’re eating beignets today.
“Should we just head to the market instead?” Beau asks, trying to salvage the rest of our afternoon.
No!
This is perfect!
I jump on the opportunity and shake my head. “Actually, I just remembered—I need to go work.”
He frowns, confused. “You made fun of me for working on the weekends.”
“Did I? I don’t recall.”
“You said it at breakfast.”
“Weird, doesn’t sound like me. I just remembered that my contractor needs me to look over some emails he sent about bids.”
He turns and takes my other hand. We’re standing at the altar. He’s about to profess his vows. The crowd on the sidewalk parts and moves around us reverently, and I really need to talk to Rose.
“You’re being weird.”
I wear my best shocked face. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t look me in the eye.”
I look at the building just to the right of his shoulder and shake my head. “Yes I can, but I choose not to.”
“What changed from the cemetery to now? It’s been half an hour.”
Oh, just my brain tapping me on the shoulder and reminding me that we’re not supposed to be fun, we’re supposed to be neurotic and self-sabotaging.
I take a deep breath and finally force myself to meet his gaze. It’s glorious and I am not worthy. I need to go home and make out with my hand. I need to google Top Ten Ways to Blow His @#$% (And His Mind). I need to YouTube that sex scene from Titanic and memorize how Kate Winslet kisses Leonardo DiCaprio. How did she know how hard to slam her hand against that steamy window? What if she accidently punched straight through? Beau is older and more experienced than I am. Sure, he was my first kiss, but I need to show him that I’ve progressed since then. I’m not that same high school dweeb anymore. I’m Lauren LeBlanc, sex kitten, vixen extraordinaire.
Or at least I will be.
WORK AT NOLA steals my attention for the next few days. We’re only a few weeks away from the soft opening. The to-do list is a mile long and by the time I scratch off one item, three more get added. I work with a consultant to finalize the drink menu and we sample pastries from a bakery down the street. NOLA doesn’t have a full working kitchen, so we’ll keep it simple with croissants, donuts, and avocado toast. During next year’s Carnival season, I’ll order king cake from Manny’s and do my best to leave enough for the customers.
Our sign is finally installed outside: four millennial pink block letters spaced across the white brick facade spelling N-O-L-A. Underneath, in delicate, scrolling neon lights, it says: is for lovers. It’s genius, a statement people will want to pose underneath, all the while spreading the word about the coffee shop and gallery. The day it gets installed, there is a line of aspiring influencers with their cameras at the ready.
Our tables and chairs arrive next. I commissioned them from a local furniture designer. They’re rusted copper and natural wood, somehow dainty and masculine all at once. Miles comes back to finish the backsplash behind the bar. While he’s at it, I have him install light wooden shelves on top of it so I can start to display our pink coffee cups. The day our espresso machine is delivered, I perform quality control by taking a “latte break” every couple of hours. By the end of the day, I’m so wired I can’t sleep. I lie awake googling sex positions and thinking about Beau.
I try to delude myself into thinking work is keeping me busy enough to forget about him, but it doesn’t come close. He’s been busy at work as well. We hardly talk during the day, but every night after he finishes up at Crescent Capital, he comes to NOLA and walks me home (to my actual apartment, not the bank). The first day it was a surprise. I was sitting behind the bar, trying to work through bills when he tapped on the glass and caught my attention. It was two days after our breakfast date—two long days. He was wearing his camel coat over a black suit. Shiny shoes. Raven hair. My mouth pooled with drool.
My cheeks bake at that, and not just because I’m now imagining him having sex. I’m imagining him having sex with other women. Rose’s recent assessment jumps to my mind: Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
“I’ve toured the French Quarter and gone to Jackson Square Park,” he continues. “Does that count?”
It’s settled: we’re going to turn our breakfast into a full day of activities. Since we’re already in the Garden District, we start at Lafayette Cemetery #1, the most famous of all New Orleans cemeteries. People come from all over the world to tour it. The tombs are above ground, not only to follow in the French tradition, but also because New Orleans is below sea level. There are a few iconic crypts, the most famous of which inspired Anne Rice when she was writing Interview with a Vampire. We stand in front of the white, rusting, cast-iron structure, and Beau tilts his head.
“Spooky?” I ask.
“No, but I still like it.”
It’s hard to get the real cemetery experience in the daytime with a hundred tourists milling around and a few shouting tour guides, so we don’t stay long. We continue walking up Washington past Commander’s Palace so we can hop onto the St. Charles streetcar. Rose would never in a million years get on a streetcar on a Sunday afternoon during Carnival season, but Beau doesn’t protest, even when we see that it’s packed to the gills. All the seats are taken, so I show him where to hold on and then I use him for support. His arm goes around my waist and he tugs me closer. I glance up at him and wonder if he’s about to kiss me in front of all these people.
Maybe you aren’t that great of a kisser.
I blink and force my gaze away from his mouth.
“Where to next?” I ask, annoyed that Rose’s little comment has lodged itself so thoroughly in my brain. “How about Café Du Monde and then we’ll head to the French Market? There will be a ton of vendors set up since it’s Sunday, and if you’re good, maybe we’ll stop off at the Pharmacy Museum.”
“Is this a date or a school field trip?” he taunts. “I didn’t get my permission slip signed.”
I pinch his side and he laughs.
Then I realize what he said.
Date. D-A-T-E. I’ll even use it in a sentence: When two people want to bang, they usually go on a date beforehand.
My palms are sweating. My knees are weak. My arms are heavy. Eminem’s the only one who understands me right now.
I am living out my decade-old dreams. This isn’t some lifelike fantasy; I’m not going to wake up at any moment. This is happening, and there’s no way on Earth I won’t screw it up. Rose was right the other day—I’m not that experienced. My kissing isn’t all that great. My ex-boyfriend, Clark, never spent the night at my apartment not because I liked my space but because after we had sex, he couldn’t wait to leave. I never told Rose that embarrassing detail, and now I wonder if this is such a good idea. I bit off more than I can chew with Beau. Take people who like running, for example: they don’t just sign up for the New York City Marathon on day one; they start slow and work their way up, maybe take a lap around the high school track a time or two.
I haven’t had sex in…well, let’s not discuss that sad fact. It’s been a while.
We ride the streetcar until we hit Canal Street and I practically jump at the opportunity to step out of Beau’s reach. Suddenly, I’m not so sure it was smart taunting him the way I have been. I’ve been poking a bear, a bear who might want to tear open my lunchbox and eat my cookies at any moment.
We walk toward Jackson Square Park and the crowd gets more densely packed. Beau laces his fingers through mine, and the touch sends a shiver down my spine. I wish I could sneak away and call Rose. I need her input right about now. I need to admit to her that I forgot that teeth thing she told me about and ask her to describe it again. Am I supposed to bite his lip or sort of let him take the lead and then just—
“Lauren?”
“Yup!”
I jerk back to the present moment and see that he’s pointing at Café Du Monde. We’ve made a terrible mistake: the line for a table extends across the street out past Jackson Square Park, and it’s moving rather slowly. Something about deep-fried dough really slows people down. There’s no way we’re eating beignets today.
“Should we just head to the market instead?” Beau asks, trying to salvage the rest of our afternoon.
No!
This is perfect!
I jump on the opportunity and shake my head. “Actually, I just remembered—I need to go work.”
He frowns, confused. “You made fun of me for working on the weekends.”
“Did I? I don’t recall.”
“You said it at breakfast.”
“Weird, doesn’t sound like me. I just remembered that my contractor needs me to look over some emails he sent about bids.”
He turns and takes my other hand. We’re standing at the altar. He’s about to profess his vows. The crowd on the sidewalk parts and moves around us reverently, and I really need to talk to Rose.
“You’re being weird.”
I wear my best shocked face. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t look me in the eye.”
I look at the building just to the right of his shoulder and shake my head. “Yes I can, but I choose not to.”
“What changed from the cemetery to now? It’s been half an hour.”
Oh, just my brain tapping me on the shoulder and reminding me that we’re not supposed to be fun, we’re supposed to be neurotic and self-sabotaging.
I take a deep breath and finally force myself to meet his gaze. It’s glorious and I am not worthy. I need to go home and make out with my hand. I need to google Top Ten Ways to Blow His @#$% (And His Mind). I need to YouTube that sex scene from Titanic and memorize how Kate Winslet kisses Leonardo DiCaprio. How did she know how hard to slam her hand against that steamy window? What if she accidently punched straight through? Beau is older and more experienced than I am. Sure, he was my first kiss, but I need to show him that I’ve progressed since then. I’m not that same high school dweeb anymore. I’m Lauren LeBlanc, sex kitten, vixen extraordinaire.
Or at least I will be.
WORK AT NOLA steals my attention for the next few days. We’re only a few weeks away from the soft opening. The to-do list is a mile long and by the time I scratch off one item, three more get added. I work with a consultant to finalize the drink menu and we sample pastries from a bakery down the street. NOLA doesn’t have a full working kitchen, so we’ll keep it simple with croissants, donuts, and avocado toast. During next year’s Carnival season, I’ll order king cake from Manny’s and do my best to leave enough for the customers.
Our sign is finally installed outside: four millennial pink block letters spaced across the white brick facade spelling N-O-L-A. Underneath, in delicate, scrolling neon lights, it says: is for lovers. It’s genius, a statement people will want to pose underneath, all the while spreading the word about the coffee shop and gallery. The day it gets installed, there is a line of aspiring influencers with their cameras at the ready.
Our tables and chairs arrive next. I commissioned them from a local furniture designer. They’re rusted copper and natural wood, somehow dainty and masculine all at once. Miles comes back to finish the backsplash behind the bar. While he’s at it, I have him install light wooden shelves on top of it so I can start to display our pink coffee cups. The day our espresso machine is delivered, I perform quality control by taking a “latte break” every couple of hours. By the end of the day, I’m so wired I can’t sleep. I lie awake googling sex positions and thinking about Beau.
I try to delude myself into thinking work is keeping me busy enough to forget about him, but it doesn’t come close. He’s been busy at work as well. We hardly talk during the day, but every night after he finishes up at Crescent Capital, he comes to NOLA and walks me home (to my actual apartment, not the bank). The first day it was a surprise. I was sitting behind the bar, trying to work through bills when he tapped on the glass and caught my attention. It was two days after our breakfast date—two long days. He was wearing his camel coat over a black suit. Shiny shoes. Raven hair. My mouth pooled with drool.
