The Beau & the Belle
Page 28

Now, it’s just sort of annoying. Until we find it, I have to take small bites and gently probe the baked good just to make sure the baby isn’t inside. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve nearly choked to death on the tiny plastic prophet.
“Didn’t you just get this yesterday?” she asks, pointing at the half-eaten cake on the counter. “Where’d it all go?”
“I am so glad you noticed it too,” I say in a conspiratorial tone. “Are you sure all the windows were locked last night? I think we oughta get the cops down here to dust for prints.”
“Uh huh. Are you sure it wasn’t more of an inside job?”
“Hmm, could be…but if it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t you, guess it must’ve been Dad.”
I’m so caught up weaving my web of lies that I don’t check my next bite. I bite down and nearly crack a molar.
“Found him.”
My mom throws her arms up in celebration. “Woohoo! You’re queen for the day!”
I look around theatrically. “So where’s my king?”
She smiles knowingly as she leans down to cut a slice of cake for herself. “Working on it.”
My fork drops to my plate. “MOM!”
I sound petulant, but that’s the only way to get through to her. She should have learned her lesson after the masked ball: no more meddling in my life.
“What are you talking about?”
“I invited Beau over for brunch later this week.”
“What? Why? When!?”
I sound like a 1930s reporter fresh on the scene of a crime.
“I saw you two dancing the other night.”
She winks like she and I are in on a secret together, but we are in on nothing.
“Well enjoy having brunch with Beau. I hope you two have a lot to talk about.”
She shrugs, seemingly unperturbed. “That’s fine if you don’t want to come. I’ll just tell him you have diarrhea then talk about you the whole time, brag about all your accomplishments. Don’t worry, I’ll assure him that your bathroom habits are normally very regular.”
My face crumbles. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I like Beau, and”—she points her fork at me and a tiny fleck of icing flings onto my face—“I’ve always had an inkling that you do too.”
I SPEND THE next few days knee-deep in work at NOLA. I thought I had an idea of what it takes to open a small business, but as it turns out, I wasn’t even close. My budget—shot. My timeline—delayed. My marketing team is behind, and I think I found a gray hair on my head this morning. I plucked it out and burned it on my stove to make an example of it to its compatriots. If Rose were in town, I’d ask her for some kind of voodoo spell to ward off any others.
Shockingly, the space is coming together really well. The design team is professional and timely. Delays in construction have come from unexpected circumstances, like when the bathroom tiles arrived in crates and every single piece was cracked down the middle—two-week delay. The city needed an extra building permit—four-week delay. The crew found rotted wood behind some of the sheetrock—one-week delay. Electrical, HVAC, lighting—delay, delay, delay.
Every problem shaves another year off my life. I will die at 30, but in the end the space will look just like it’s supposed to: hip, cool, and worthy of an Instagram post. Bloggers will eat out of the palm of my aesthetically pleasing hand.
I’m in the space now, unpacking a shipment of coffee cups we got in yesterday. They’re millennial pink and amazingly, I’ve only found a tiny chip on the rim of one of them so far. My luck might be turning around.
It’s late, nearly 8:30 PM, and normally I wouldn’t be here. By now, I’m usually in my pajamas back at my apartment, either on the phone with Rose or finding a new binge-worthy show on my small TV. But tonight, I’m avoiding going back until I’m ready to crash. Brunch is in the morning. My mom refuses to disinvite Beau, and she is no longer moved when I text her links to budget retirement homes in the area.
Her most recent response was something like, That’s nice honey. Do you think I should whip something up or have Another Broken Egg delivered?
I sighed, told her to order me a Monterey omelet, and slammed the phone down in a fit of fury.
I’m here working late, trying to distract myself from another encounter with Beau. It’s been a few days since the masked ball, so I should have reverted back to baseline. In New York, Beau was there in the back of my mind, but not all-consuming. In the days since we danced together, I’ve been procrastinating dealing with my feelings. Instead of asking myself how I really feel about him, I’m choosing to channel all my energy into work and digesting king cake. It feels good to live rent-free in delusion—I highly recommend it.
“You really shouldn’t leave this door open.”
His voice surprises me and I jump, dropping one of the coffee cups on the floor. It shatters into a million tiny pieces and I do the mental math of what that will cost me. What does it matter? At this point, I’m just flushing money down the drain.
I look up and Beau is already in motion, grabbing the broom and dustpan that are leaning against the counter. He’s polished and professional, dressed in a long camel-colored coat over a black suit. His hair is the color I see when I close my eyes at night.
He steps close, pushes me back, and starts to sweep up the mess.
Okay then.
“Sorry about that,” he says, glancing up.
I fiddle with my oversized Wellesley sweatshirt. “It’s fine.”
“You really shouldn’t leave that door open though.”
I look up to the front door, held open by a heavy box. “It gets too stuffy in here if I don’t.”
It’s the plight of every southerner in winter: it might be freezing cold in the morning, but by the end of the day, it’s always sweaty-sweater weather.
He looks up. “Don’t you have A/C?”
“They’re replacing the condenser. It’s delayed.”
Despite myself, the word makes me smile. Then I shift my expression to neutral, realizing that Beau is looking at me like he likes the way I look when I smile. I narrow my eyes, skeptical. “What brings you here?”
He tips his chin up, arms spread to encompass the room around us. “I heard you were opening up a business. I wanted to see for myself.”
I glance around the half-finished space, angry that he’s seeing it before it’s done. The coffee bar looks lonely and bare without an espresso machine. The walls are still covered in bright white primer. As is, it’s hard to imagine the finished result.
“It’s going to look a lot better than this,” I promise.
He bends low to scoop the shattered ceramic into the dustpan and when he’s finished, he stands up, eclipsing me. “I have no doubt, but I wanted to see it now.”
The way he says it, dark and husky, makes me think he wanted to see me now.
There’s no way that’s the case, though—look at me. My outfit is hilarious compared to his. I threw on leggings this morning with no regard for fashion. They aren’t even my best pair, the ones that hug my butt. These are my giving-up-on-life leggings, the pair I put on when I’m stressed. There is a hole on one of the calves.
I sigh. “Well, you’ve seen it.”
I take the full dustpan from his hand and dump it in the trash behind the bar. When I turn, he’s watching me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. From this moment forward, I decide I will only leave my apartment decked out in my finest clothes. I refuse to run into him dressed like this again; I need to be on an even playing field. I want him to see me like I used to look in New York. I was polished too. I primped. I preened. I even have the female version of that coat in my closet…somewhere.
A crowd of people cross in front of the building, loud and rambunctious. They all carry yard-long frozen drinks in their hands like they’re at an amusement park. Hurricanes, I believe they’re called. It makes Beau frown.
“How late do you plan on staying?”
“As long as this takes.” I hope he’s impressed with my entrepreneurial spirit.