The Beau & the Belle
Page 26

I flush and turn away.
It can’t be him.
God, I really am starved for affection. I want Beau to be here so badly that I’ve hallucinated him into existence.
“What’s in this punch?” I ask the person beside me.
He’s a tiny man with big teeth and bigger glasses. His name is next on my dance card, but I will tower over him. Even now, I feel like he can see up my nostrils when he turns to me. “What?!”
“Do you think someone put drugs in the punch?” I shout over the loud music.
He grins and nods enthusiastically. “Thanks! I just got it cut!”
“Never mind.” I motion for him to come closer so he can hear me. “Do you see that man over at my nine o’clock? Tall, good-looking, kind of has that strong, silent-type vibe?”
He turns and rises up on his tiptoes, looking around for who I could be referring to. He employs such little subtlety in his search that I regret enlisting him right away.
“Jesus, stop swiveling your head like you’re caught in a spin cycle. I said nine o’clock. Yes, that way. Do you see him?”
“Tall guy?”
I nod eagerly.
“Handsome?”
My heart swells three sizes. “Yeahyeahyeah.”
“Black tuxedo?”
Oh my god, my hands are sweating.
“Yes, yes!”
“No, I don’t really see anyone with that description.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I turn back to where I just saw him and sure enough, he’s not there. I really was imagining him. I feel disappointment on an atomic level. I didn’t even realize I was hoping he’d be here tonight until this exact moment.
I asked my parents about the old Fortier house this afternoon and they weren’t sure about the new owners. Apparently, whoever made the purchase did so under a private trust, very hush-hush, which probably means it’s a celebrity. Boo, thumbs down—unless it’s Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds. In that case, fine, whatever—just let me babysit your kids.
I really wanted it to be Beau though.
The next dance starts and I’m led back out onto the dance floor. Soon my card is half finished and my feet hurt. Any excitement I had for the night vanished in a poof after my Beau phantasm. I try to put on a smile and cover my yawns as best as possible, but dancing is hard, especially with partners as bad and boring as these. I’m contemplating how I could realistically feign an illness (fingers down the throat too much?) to bow out of the second half of the dances when a deep, husky voice speaks behind me.
“I know your card is full, so I got you a new one.”
A wave of goose bumps cascades down my body as I turn. My shoulder brushes his and my smile is stretched across my face before I can think of how I should respond to him. How did we leave things all those years ago? I forget because he’s here now and he’s so much more than I remember—more handsome, more sure of himself, more magnetic. His features, somewhat hazy in my mind, condense all at once into a disarming sharpness. Even now, my skin itches to touch him, drawn by an invisible force. I fist my hand harder around my drink.
“Beau,” I say on an exhale, leaning into him as he bends to kiss my cheek. My eyes flutter closed on their own. His scent is subtle but strong, a provocative mix of citrus and wood, and it makes it that much more difficult to open my eyes and step back again. I don’t let go of him though. My fingers grip his muscular forearm. I’m too scared this isn’t real, too afraid he’s not actually standing there and smiling down at me after all this time.
His eyes are just as I remembered: the darkest shade of blue before gray, like the sky an hour after sunset.
“You look beautiful,” he says, stealing a quick glance down my body.
“And you look…”
My eyes catch on the expanse of his chest in that bespoke tuxedo. I think I’m shaking, but that can’t possibly be right because that would be embarrassing. I’m an adult now. Beau doesn’t make me quiver in my boots—and besides, I’m wearing heels.
“Older.”
That’s the adjective I settle on, and it makes him laugh. That little dimple on his right cheek draws my attention and I think maybe I should have spit out all the other adjectives swirling around in my mind instead. They wouldn’t have made him laugh, at least I hope not.
“You’ve been busy tonight,” he says, drawing me to his side as someone tries to pass behind us.
How can he still keep up with our surroundings?
For me, there’s only him.
I finally pull my hand away, but I’m still pressed right up against him. It’s not like I have a choice, right? If I take a step back in this crowd, I won’t be able to hear him. Yup, it makes perfect sense.
“My parents really went all out. I thought this was going to be much smaller.”
“Clearly everyone wanted to see you. You’re the toast of the town.”
“Pshh, nothing like you.” His eyes meet mine and then they drop pointedly to my lips for one second. Another. Finally he glances back up and I’m flushed from head to toe. “I saw your newspaper article,” I continue in explanation. “My dad brought it to lunch.”
I don’t volunteer that I read it two more times once I got back to my apartment.
“The press likes to overstate things,” he says, glancing away briefly.
He’s embarrassed, and the concept makes me smile.
“Has your mom seen it yet? I’m sure she’s proud.”
He drags his hand across his jaw and I follow its path along that chiseled line. My tongue wets my bottom lip and I force my attention back to his eyes.
“She has a few copies.” He laughs. “I think she bought out a few of the drugstores near her house.”
I smile. “And how is she? Good, I hope?”
A part of me can’t believe we’re here, talking about his mom like that day at her house was 10 minutes ago and not 10 years.
“Lauren?” a voice asks behind me.
I turn and find a handsome young man standing with his hand outstretched. Apparently, the next song is starting soon. Oh, good grief. This is ridiculous. One of my mom’s friends thought the card thing would be charming, but it’s getting out of hand.
Surely I don’t have to accept dances with all these men. It’s the 21st century, dammit, the age of consent and radical feminism. I wasn’t even here when my mom flitted around the room as if gathering signatures for a petition to end Lauren’s celibacy. I hardly think the dance card is legally binding.
He pushes his hand a little closer. His smile widens. I glance back at Beau. He’s watching the exchange with inscrutable emotion lurking in his heavy gaze. His eyes narrow.
“Thank you, but I’m going to sit this next dance out,” I say with an apologetic smile. “My feet are killing me.”
There’s no protest. He bows out kindly, leaving me with Beau, and now I regret not speaking up earlier. I could have saved myself a world of annoyance.
“Do your feet actually hurt?” Beau asks.
I huff and fan myself dramatically with my original dance card. “Why sir, it’s not very gentlemanly to accuse a lady of tellin’ a lie.”
He chuckles and reaches out to finger the thin ribbon that secures the card to my wrist.
“Do you want to dance with the rest of these guys?”
Do you want me to?
He continues as if he hears my thoughts, “I didn’t think so.”
I’m staring at him in awe as he brings his other hand up and gently breaks the ribbon. From there, he rips the card in two. There are audible gasps and at least one Good heavens! from the partygoers around us. The world stops turning on its axis for half a second then speeds up to make up time. An old woman faints. A decency committee pens a hasty letter to Emily Post.
A giggle erupts out of me. It feels like he just slayed a dragon for me.
A hero like always.
I lean in and whisper, “I’m sure you’ve just broken some aristocratic French law from the 1700s.”
“Let them eat cake,” he jokes, taking my hand in his and tugging me toward the dance floor. “Now let’s dance before someone comes to hauls me out of here.”