The Beau & the Belle
Page 29

He eyes the boxes near my feet. “That can probably wait until morning. You shouldn’t be in here alone this late.”
I laugh off his concern. “There are a million people out right now.”
“Exactly. We’re only a few blocks from Bourbon—it only takes one drunk guy to do something stupid.”
I want to ask him why he even cares, but that’s a silly question. He’s my friend, my old friend, and he doesn’t want me in what he perceives as a dangerous situation. It’s tempting to fight with him, to explain that I’m a native and I know those drunk college kids are mostly harmless, but I throw up my hands. “Fine, I’ll finish in the morning.”
Besides, I was only working late to avoid thinking about him. So much for that. My pajamas—A.K.A. slightly stretchier leggings—are calling my name.
I grab my keys and phone off the counter.
“Satisfied?”
It takes me a few minutes to check the back entrance and confirm it’s locked, turn the lights off, and head toward the front door. Beau waits for me, though it hasn’t been established why. He said he came to see the space. He saw it. We’re in uncharted territory.
“After you,” he says, allowing me to walk outside before he lugs my doorstop box back inside.
It’s not that cold, but the wind makes it feel worse than it is. It picks up right away, tousling the curls that have slipped out of my ponytail. They’re stubborn and annoying. Worst of all, according to Rose, they make me look younger than I am. I swipe at them in vain.
Once the door’s closed, I step forward to lock up. My key’s half-inserted into the slot when he speaks up.
“I’m thinking we should go on a date.”
His voice is both smooth and gravelly. My laugh that spills out after is awkward and clunky.
“Oh, is that what you’re thinking?”
My key stays right where it is. My hands are frozen.
“Yes, a date. A meal, perhaps a movie.”
It’s like I’ve forgotten the meaning of the word and he’s trying to teach it to me. Language of origin, please.
“Saturday.”
I laugh some more, my focus still on my key. “Hold on, my inner 17-year-old is crying right now.”
He sighs and steps forward, taking the key out of my hand and finishing the job himself. Very dexterous, that one. When NOLA is all locked up, he holds the keys back out to me. I take them without touching his hand—I know my limits.
“Why now? You don’t even know me anymore. It’s not a good idea.”
His eyes narrow for a brief moment before he catches himself. “It’s a very good idea, and a better way for us to get to know each other again. You wanted this back then, but it wasn’t the right time.”
I throw my hands up in defeat. “Of course I wanted you to pursue me back then! I think I remember cycling through all the major world religions, praying about it like three times a week.”
“So what’s holding you back now?”
Now I do something else three times a week, and it has nothing to do with praying. I blush and turn in the direction of my apartment.
“I don’t know what to say. It’s different now. Good night, Beau.”
I think I’m being very clear about my rejection, but he falls in step beside me. Fine by me. It’s only a few blocks to my apartment, and if he wants to act as a human shield against this winter wind, I’ll let him.
“Here, go in front of me,” I say, ducking behind him as much as possible.
I should have brought gloves or a hat with me. NOLA was deceptively warm.
“How is it different?” he says, more playfully curious than spurned. The wind picks up and I hiss against it. He rolls his eyes and unbuttons his coat, tugging it off his arms and holding it open for me. It’s like someone is holding up a delicately crafted banana split with whipped cream and a cherry on top. I might have enough sense to turn down a date with him, but I do not have the willpower to turn down that jacket. I turn and he steps forward then wraps it around me. My eyes close, and for two seconds I delude myself into thinking it’s him wrapped around me rather than the stiff, woolen material. It’s warm and smells so good I want to bring the collar to my nose and sniff like those weirdo actors on Febreze commercials.
“Why is it different now?” he asks, spinning me around to face him.
The light of the French Quarter is just enough to make it easy to see every contour of his face. The straight nose. Strong brows. Soft lips. Those lips are where I’m staring when I tell him one solid, very good reason why it’s different now.
“Well, for one, Preston and I are dating.”
Bippity. Boppity. Boop. He’s supposed to rip his jacket off me and storm off in a jealous rage. I grip it around me tighter just in case he tries. Instead, he laughs like I’ve just told him the world’s funniest joke. His dark brows arch in disbelief.
“Preston? Little Preston?”
“Grown-up Preston,” I correct after clearing my throat.
“Since when?”
I turn and continue walking toward my apartment, anxious for this exchange to end before he picks apart my lame excuse. “Since I moved back to town a few weeks ago.”
I don’t think it’s important to clarify that Preston and I haven’t actually gone out on a date yet; our first one is still a few days away. I was sort of looking forward to it before tonight…I think.
“Little Preston treated you like shit. Remember crying over him in your parents’ kitchen? What makes you think big Preston won’t do the same?” he asks, somewhat rhetorically.
“He’s changed.”
And really, he has, at least from what I’ve seen.
“Hmm, must’ve been one hell of a change. Guy didn’t even see what he had in front of him then.”
I whirl around and point my finger into his chest. “Oh, and you did?!”
I want to reach out and pluck the words out of the air before they reach his ears. I regret my outburst even before he replies with a cold, steady breath. He steps closer to me, his shiny designer shoes hitting my tennies.
“That was different and you know it.”
We’re so close I can taste his breath. It’s minty and fresh and it pisses me off even more. Can’t he leave one thing open to criticism? Where’s the annoying habit? The gap in his teeth? Anything! I need a flaw to focus all my energy on so I can convince myself to stay away from him.
We stay positioned like that, and I realize I’m supposed to speak up now since he was the last one to talk, but my brain’s operating system accidentally reverted to a decade-old version. I’m nothing but a beating heart and shaky limbs. The wind picks up again, jostling my curls, and Beau leans up to brush them aside, his finger warm against my cheek. My stomach tightens, along with every other muscle in my body.
“This is my apartment,” I say, pointing up.
It’s actually a lie. My apartment is another block over, but I have to get away from him. I’m already stepping back and waving genially.
“Lauren—”
He steps forward and I shake my head to cut him off.
“I’ll see you in the morning at my parents’ house for brunch, okay?”
Before he can reply, I turn and pull open the door of the building in front of me, thanking the various gods it’s not locked. I step inside and pull the door closed, heaving a sigh of relief to be out of his presence. I keep my eyes closed for a few breaths, trying to unscramble my brain, and when I blink them open, I find that I’m standing in the foyer of a bank. It’s closed. I only have access to an ATM, but who cares, because I’m an idiot. This isn’t an apartment complex. No one lives here, and Beau definitely knows that. Even now, he’s probably standing on the other side of the door wondering what my plan is, but I refuse to go back outside and admit that I’m certifiably insane. Instead, I slide down to the floor and set up shop. I’ll stay here as long as it takes.
The quiet voice in the back of my head starts firing off questions.
Why are we running from Beau?
Why are we clinging to Preston?
And most importantly…