The Beau & the Belle
Page 42
I wanted to drag him inside, flip off the neon side, and have my wicked way with him, but I’d been too busy to do any meaningful research. I still wasn’t prepared. Whatever he had in mind, it needed to stay platonic.
“What are you working on?”
I held up my bills and turned my computer so he could see my screen.
QuickBooks, A.K.A. PretendYouKnowWhatYou’reDoing&LetYourAccountantFigureItOut.
He frowned. “You should eventually set most of those recurring bills to autopay or you’re going to spend half of each month buried in envelopes.”
“I was getting around to that.”
He unbuttoned his camel coat as if he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. “Do you want some help?”
I was smart enough not to turn him down. I patted the stool beside mine and he took a seat. We didn’t touch once. Instead of spreading the sheets, we made spreadsheets to track monthly expenses. Instead of putting it in my box, we cleared my inbox. We cataloged my business assets instead of…you get the idea. I could have easily done these things myself, but I liked the game. If we couldn’t have sex, I wanted this. I wanted delusion. I sexualized everything: the way he sat on his stool leaned forward, thigh muscle flexed; the way he narrowed his eyes and dragged his finger pad across his bottom lip. At one point, he pulled out glasses to read something on the screen, and I had to press my knees together.
After that day, him walking me home became our routine. His firm is near NOLA and my apartment is a few blocks from his gym, so it’s a convenient walk for him. Sometimes he changes out of his suit at the office so when he picks me up, he’s in sweats and a t-shirt, or if it’s an unseasonably warm day, he’ll wear gym shorts. Those days I have to keep at least a body’s length between us on the sidewalk so I don’t get any wise ideas. I’ve had a lot of them lately.
Two weeks into this weird schedule we’ve found ourselves in, he declares, “Tomorrow I’m going to work out during my lunch break.”
I try not to sulk. His workout clothes have become the best part of my sad little life.
“The police department is having their annual charity concert at House of Blues tomorrow night and I’ve agreed to attend.”
I’m barely listening, focused on the fact that I will have to get my kicks from somewhere else tomorrow. No Beau Fortier in gym clothes. My diary will have such a sad entry, so many depressing doodles.
“I’ve RSVP’d for two,” he continues.
I wonder if I could possibly sneak into his gym tomorrow during lunch dressed in a blue maintenance jumpsuit and a fake mustache.
“Lauren, are you listening?”
“Not at all.”
He laughs and deposits me on my front doorstep like I’m a parcel and he’s a mailman. We don’t even play it off like he might be coming up. The first night he walked me home, I grappled with the idea, even muttering the first half of the question: “Do you want to—”, but then I clamped my mouth shut and reached out with my hand. We shook hands under the fading sun, and I cradled that hand against my chest as I walked up the two flights to my apartment, alone and berating myself for being so weird.
After that day, I don’t even bother playing the will I, won’t I game with myself anymore, and for some reason, Beau doesn’t seem to mind. After all, it’s not as if he’s demanding entry into my apartment. He could easily push me back into the foyer of my building, kick the door closed, and drag me up the stairs by my collar, but he doesn’t, and that confuses me even more. I wish I could go back to the early days of our relationship when I straddled him in his office, when I was too impulsive to care whether or not I was a bad lover. It’s been weeks since we’ve done anything beyond holding hands, and I think my body is starting to expel energy in other ways. I use a stress ball at work. My teeth gnaw on the ends of pens. Today, I cried when I realized NOLA backward is almost ALONE.
“I’d like you to come with me tomorrow.”
The invitation catches me off guard. I’ve grown used to our short walks home. I find that in the few minutes it takes us to get here, I can usually keep myself from staring at him with undersexed, horny eyes. He might actually think I’m a functioning human being.
“Tomorrow?” I squawk.
He laughs and tips forward, kissing me on the forehead like I’m a good little girl.
“Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at NOLA at 7:30. We can walk there if it makes you feel better.”
“Dress code?”
“Not too fancy. Wear a dress.”
“You can’t handle me in a dress.”
The taunt comes out so naturally, I don’t have time to steal it back. Maybe the old me is back!
His brow arches, and now he’s the one with undersexed, horny eyes.
I push him off the sidewalk, away from my apartment, across the street, and onto the opposite sidewalk. If I could, I would march him down to the port and deposit him on a ship set for Europe.
“Forget I said that.”
He smirks. “It’s forgotten.” Then he steps back, repositioning his gym bag over his sculpted shoulder. “Tomorrow.”
I offer a noncommittal sigh. “Yes. Sure. Whatever. Now turn around and hurry to the gym. I’m going to go scream into a pillow.”
THE NEXT DAY, I bring three dresses with me to NOLA and FaceTime Rose in the bathroom after the construction crew has left for the day. It’s early February and chilly enough that I want to be bundled in five layers and roasting myself near a fire, but that’s not an option.
“Show me the black dress again.”
I hold it up and she nods conclusively. “Yep, that one. Done. Wear it with the stockings and leather jacket.”
“I’ll freeze my ass off.”
“Do you know what the temperature is in Boston right now? 11 degrees. 11!”
Suddenly, 55 doesn’t seem so bad.
“Yeah okay, I’ll suck it up. Are you still coming down for NOLA’s soft opening?”
“I’ve already requested time off work. My boss isn’t excited about it, but I don’t really care. In the few years I’ve been here, I’ve used like three of my PTO days. I deserve this.”
“I agree, but be honest—are you coming for me or to replenish your king cake stores?”
“Why ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to?”
Fair enough.
We keep talking as I get dressed in my Free People velvet mini dress. It’s sleeveless (hence the leather jacket), and Rose insists that the stockings help make the length a little more decent.
“It might be a benefit concert, but if it’s at House of Blues, everyone will be dressed edgy and cool.”
I take her word for it and then hang up so she doesn’t distract me while I apply winged liner and a dark red lipstick. If my blonde curls weren’t so girly, I’d look badass.
I’m turning, trying to catch the back of my reflection to confirm I don’t have toilet paper stuck to any part of me when I hear a man’s voice out in the gallery. Shit. He’s early. There goes my hope of giving myself a neurotic pep talk in the mirror.
“Coming!” I call, shoving my cosmetics back into my bag and then reaching down for my purse. My leather jacket is hanging out on the coat rack, which was a mistake on my part because I feel like I’m showing too much skin when I step out of the bathroom.
I spread my lips into a well-trained, carefree smile, but it gets wiped away the moment I spot Preston standing in front of the bar, inspecting the place.
“Preston?”
He turns, hands stuffed in his pockets, and his blond brows shoot up to the sky when he gets a look at me.
He whistles low. “Where are you off to?”
I deposit my purse on the counter beside him and wonder if I should grab my jacket. Would that be too obvious? I settle for crossing my arms over my chest, but then that seems defensive, so I drop them by my sides and inwardly groan.
“There’s a benefit concert tonight at House of Blues.”
He’s listening to my words, but his attention is on my body. I’m suddenly not so sure about the length of my dress. Cool air hits the tops of my thighs. I consider calling Rose and growling at her for leading me down this path.
“What are you working on?”
I held up my bills and turned my computer so he could see my screen.
QuickBooks, A.K.A. PretendYouKnowWhatYou’reDoing&LetYourAccountantFigureItOut.
He frowned. “You should eventually set most of those recurring bills to autopay or you’re going to spend half of each month buried in envelopes.”
“I was getting around to that.”
He unbuttoned his camel coat as if he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. “Do you want some help?”
I was smart enough not to turn him down. I patted the stool beside mine and he took a seat. We didn’t touch once. Instead of spreading the sheets, we made spreadsheets to track monthly expenses. Instead of putting it in my box, we cleared my inbox. We cataloged my business assets instead of…you get the idea. I could have easily done these things myself, but I liked the game. If we couldn’t have sex, I wanted this. I wanted delusion. I sexualized everything: the way he sat on his stool leaned forward, thigh muscle flexed; the way he narrowed his eyes and dragged his finger pad across his bottom lip. At one point, he pulled out glasses to read something on the screen, and I had to press my knees together.
After that day, him walking me home became our routine. His firm is near NOLA and my apartment is a few blocks from his gym, so it’s a convenient walk for him. Sometimes he changes out of his suit at the office so when he picks me up, he’s in sweats and a t-shirt, or if it’s an unseasonably warm day, he’ll wear gym shorts. Those days I have to keep at least a body’s length between us on the sidewalk so I don’t get any wise ideas. I’ve had a lot of them lately.
Two weeks into this weird schedule we’ve found ourselves in, he declares, “Tomorrow I’m going to work out during my lunch break.”
I try not to sulk. His workout clothes have become the best part of my sad little life.
“The police department is having their annual charity concert at House of Blues tomorrow night and I’ve agreed to attend.”
I’m barely listening, focused on the fact that I will have to get my kicks from somewhere else tomorrow. No Beau Fortier in gym clothes. My diary will have such a sad entry, so many depressing doodles.
“I’ve RSVP’d for two,” he continues.
I wonder if I could possibly sneak into his gym tomorrow during lunch dressed in a blue maintenance jumpsuit and a fake mustache.
“Lauren, are you listening?”
“Not at all.”
He laughs and deposits me on my front doorstep like I’m a parcel and he’s a mailman. We don’t even play it off like he might be coming up. The first night he walked me home, I grappled with the idea, even muttering the first half of the question: “Do you want to—”, but then I clamped my mouth shut and reached out with my hand. We shook hands under the fading sun, and I cradled that hand against my chest as I walked up the two flights to my apartment, alone and berating myself for being so weird.
After that day, I don’t even bother playing the will I, won’t I game with myself anymore, and for some reason, Beau doesn’t seem to mind. After all, it’s not as if he’s demanding entry into my apartment. He could easily push me back into the foyer of my building, kick the door closed, and drag me up the stairs by my collar, but he doesn’t, and that confuses me even more. I wish I could go back to the early days of our relationship when I straddled him in his office, when I was too impulsive to care whether or not I was a bad lover. It’s been weeks since we’ve done anything beyond holding hands, and I think my body is starting to expel energy in other ways. I use a stress ball at work. My teeth gnaw on the ends of pens. Today, I cried when I realized NOLA backward is almost ALONE.
“I’d like you to come with me tomorrow.”
The invitation catches me off guard. I’ve grown used to our short walks home. I find that in the few minutes it takes us to get here, I can usually keep myself from staring at him with undersexed, horny eyes. He might actually think I’m a functioning human being.
“Tomorrow?” I squawk.
He laughs and tips forward, kissing me on the forehead like I’m a good little girl.
“Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at NOLA at 7:30. We can walk there if it makes you feel better.”
“Dress code?”
“Not too fancy. Wear a dress.”
“You can’t handle me in a dress.”
The taunt comes out so naturally, I don’t have time to steal it back. Maybe the old me is back!
His brow arches, and now he’s the one with undersexed, horny eyes.
I push him off the sidewalk, away from my apartment, across the street, and onto the opposite sidewalk. If I could, I would march him down to the port and deposit him on a ship set for Europe.
“Forget I said that.”
He smirks. “It’s forgotten.” Then he steps back, repositioning his gym bag over his sculpted shoulder. “Tomorrow.”
I offer a noncommittal sigh. “Yes. Sure. Whatever. Now turn around and hurry to the gym. I’m going to go scream into a pillow.”
THE NEXT DAY, I bring three dresses with me to NOLA and FaceTime Rose in the bathroom after the construction crew has left for the day. It’s early February and chilly enough that I want to be bundled in five layers and roasting myself near a fire, but that’s not an option.
“Show me the black dress again.”
I hold it up and she nods conclusively. “Yep, that one. Done. Wear it with the stockings and leather jacket.”
“I’ll freeze my ass off.”
“Do you know what the temperature is in Boston right now? 11 degrees. 11!”
Suddenly, 55 doesn’t seem so bad.
“Yeah okay, I’ll suck it up. Are you still coming down for NOLA’s soft opening?”
“I’ve already requested time off work. My boss isn’t excited about it, but I don’t really care. In the few years I’ve been here, I’ve used like three of my PTO days. I deserve this.”
“I agree, but be honest—are you coming for me or to replenish your king cake stores?”
“Why ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to?”
Fair enough.
We keep talking as I get dressed in my Free People velvet mini dress. It’s sleeveless (hence the leather jacket), and Rose insists that the stockings help make the length a little more decent.
“It might be a benefit concert, but if it’s at House of Blues, everyone will be dressed edgy and cool.”
I take her word for it and then hang up so she doesn’t distract me while I apply winged liner and a dark red lipstick. If my blonde curls weren’t so girly, I’d look badass.
I’m turning, trying to catch the back of my reflection to confirm I don’t have toilet paper stuck to any part of me when I hear a man’s voice out in the gallery. Shit. He’s early. There goes my hope of giving myself a neurotic pep talk in the mirror.
“Coming!” I call, shoving my cosmetics back into my bag and then reaching down for my purse. My leather jacket is hanging out on the coat rack, which was a mistake on my part because I feel like I’m showing too much skin when I step out of the bathroom.
I spread my lips into a well-trained, carefree smile, but it gets wiped away the moment I spot Preston standing in front of the bar, inspecting the place.
“Preston?”
He turns, hands stuffed in his pockets, and his blond brows shoot up to the sky when he gets a look at me.
He whistles low. “Where are you off to?”
I deposit my purse on the counter beside him and wonder if I should grab my jacket. Would that be too obvious? I settle for crossing my arms over my chest, but then that seems defensive, so I drop them by my sides and inwardly groan.
“There’s a benefit concert tonight at House of Blues.”
He’s listening to my words, but his attention is on my body. I’m suddenly not so sure about the length of my dress. Cool air hits the tops of my thighs. I consider calling Rose and growling at her for leading me down this path.
