The Beau & the Belle
Page 40

“What are we doing now?” she asks, fidgety, anxious. “Are you going to take me up to my room and play out all my fantasies?”
I resist the urge to groan.
“Have you ever fantasized about me helping you clean up this tent?”
“Now you’re talking.” She feigns a sexy little groan. “Soak the brushes. I’ll spray off the palettes.”
“And then we’re going to get some food because I haven’t eaten.”
“Yes.” It’s breathy and guttural. “Keep going.”
I tip my head down until our foreheads touch. “And then after, we’re going to…we’re going to…”
“Uh huh…”
“…hang out with our parents.”
“Oh my god, Beau.” She slaps my chest mildly. “You dirty dog.”
I can’t help but laugh, reaching down and twining my fingers with hers.
“There’s no reason to rush this, Lauren.”
She mumbles something I don’t catch the first time and when I ask again, she shakes her head.
“Fine.” She drags me behind her. “If we aren’t going to get it on, I at least want to get some of the jambalaya before it’s all gone.”
THAT NIGHT, SHE texts me when I’m in bed reading. I program her number into my phone and text her back.
LAUREN: Did you wash the heart off yet?
BEAU: Immediately upon walking through my front door.
LAUREN: :( All that hard work…
BEAU: We can discuss getting permanent tattoos if you’re that broken up about it.
LAUREN: Tattoos where? Be descriptive.
BEAU: Left ass cheek. Delicate. Black ink with red shading.
LAUREN: Better go with calligraphy font so all your future hookups know you’re a classy guy.
BEAU: I’d probably keep my boxers on, just to be safe.
LAUREN: Speaking of your boxers, what are you wearing now?
BEAU: …
LAUREN: What do ellipses mean? Nothing? Faded yellow banana hammock? That Borat mankini?
BEAU: Let’s go to breakfast in the morning.
LAUREN: You are killing me.
BEAU: Feeling’s mutual.
LAUREN: What if I only want you for your body?
BEAU: My body will be at The Ruby Slipper on Magazine at 10:00 AM tomorrow morning.
LAUREN: I’m going to drizzle my pancakes with syrup and eat them really slowly and suggestively. You’ll have to bite down on your fist.
BEAU: I’ll take my chances.
SUNDAY IS ONE for the books—specifically, my memoir, titled:
Slow Burn
How One Woman’s Sexy Suffering Led Her to Spontaneously Combust
The ending is predictable (I die), but the middle is filled with so much angst that it will be worth a read. Housewives across America will dissect my life at book clubs over boxed wine from Target, postulating where it all went wrong for me.
It starts with breakfast.
I show up 20 minutes early because I was worried I would hit any number of unexpected delays—traffic, charity 5ks, parades, a slow-moving grandma with a walker that’s missing a tennis ball. I help her cross the road and she tells me her life story, which is so long that I become a slow-moving grandma by the end.
Turns out, my worrying was for nothing. I’m early. My taxi pulls up outside the restaurant and I have the driver loop around the block five times before he asks if I’m helping rob a bank or something. I smile and tell him the only thing I’m hoping to steal today is a kiss. He frowns and tells me to get out.
The restaurant is busy and I do a quick loop to make sure Beau isn’t inside waiting for me. After, I slink into the bathroom to stall and use the opportunity to check my appearance. I’m wearing a cream-colored sweater dress and soft brown leather boots. The outfit seemed nice when I put it on at my apartment, but now it looks like I tried a little too hard. I wipe off the red lipstick (WHO WEARS LIPSTICK ON A SUNDAY MORNING?!) and dab on some lip balm instead. Better. I adjust my dress and confirm that the material hugs my butt like a clingy toddler. My blonde curls are cooperating for once in my life, so I take a second and shoot a quick thank you up to the savior.
Paul Mitchell, that is.
I tug out my phone. I should text Beau and ask if he’s close, but that’s not part of Playing It Cool. I shove my phone back into my purse and stroll out to the foyer. He’s there standing at the hostess stand, telling her his name. She’s leaned in close, listening to his every syllable while her gaze is on his lips.
There’s no wait; apparently he called ahead. I let my gaze slide down his gray Patagonia pullover and jeans. He looks like an erotic camp counselor, an outdoorsy man who could start a fire by rubbing two sticks together—a real tent-pitcher.
He sees me approach and steps back, smiles. Two little dimples frame his mouth. My breath sucks out of me like a vacuum. Somehow, I manage to keep my footing as I walk toward him. He leans down and kisses my cheek.
“Morning.”
I grunt or something in response then we’re led to our table.
I should have never agreed to breakfast.
Of all the meals, breakfast is the most civilized. You sip coffee or orange juice. You order something knife-and-forkable that is either healthy and simple (omelet) or delicious and messy (waffles). My taunting about seducing him with syrup from the night before flies out the window when they seat us at a small table in a corner. It’s a popular place, the tables close. I can hear what our neighbors are talking about, and it hardly sets the mood: “…hemorrhoids have really gotten better, I hardly even need this little pillow anymore…”
Beau smiles and takes the menus from the hostess. She smiles at him and tells him to enjoy his meal. I’m told nothing.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, eyeing me with those dark blue eyes over the top of the menu. “If not, we could split something.”
I hold my palm up to silence him. “I’m not one of those girls.”
I order a Chicken St. Charles: crispy chicken breast over a buttermilk biscuit, topped with poached eggs and finished with a tasso cream sauce. It’s one of their specialties and when our food comes, Beau is smart enough not to ask me if he can have a bite of it, though I do demand a sample of his omelet.
“Do you have plans after this?” I ask, sipping the last of my coffee.
The whole morning has been a big one-act play. Our conversation has been light and pleasant. We discuss the weather, Carnival season, where our favorite king cakes are from. I tease him for eating so healthy, and he wonders where I manage to put away the entire Chicken St. Charles I just slurped off my plate. Underneath the table is a different story. Our knees brush back and forth. His jeans create a torturous friction against my bare legs. We’re so entwined that if I tried to stand, I’d topple over. He makes eyes at me from across the table, and I suck a drop of coffee off my bottom lip.
“Plans?”
“Yes, like a pilates class or a book club.”
He smirks. “I suppose I have to see a man about a tattoo.”
I laugh. “No really. What would you do if we weren’t together? What do your Sundays usually look like?”
He rubs his hand back and forth along the nape of his neck and shrugs. “I’d usually work out, maybe go see my mom, work on her house a little bit. If it’s busy at the office, I’ll go in and try to get a head start on Monday.”
My face shows my disgust. “Wait, you’re telling me you use Sunday to get a head start on Monday? That’s sacrilegious, especially during Carnival season.”
He arches a brow, leans over, and grabs my hand. Our fingers are entwined between the salt and pepper shakers. A passing waitress sees it and smiles like we’re adorable.
I keep dragging details out of him, and apparently in all the years he’s lived in New Orleans during law school and after Audrey, Beau has never had a true touristy day in New Orleans. No streetcars. No Lafayette Cemetery #1. No dunking sugarcoated beignets into a warm café au lait at Café Du Monde. That’s the one that horrifies me the most—I think my eye twitches when he fesses up to it.
“Are you serious?” I ask in shock. “It’s like Rome—all roads lead there. In high school, I think Rose went there after every date she ever went on.”