The Beau & the Belle
Page 49

“What? Why?”
“He said the smoke and extinguisher residue is pretty bad. You’re going to have to get your apartment professionally cleaned, and it probably needs to air out for a few days.”
“But…no, that’s not…”
The fireman steps closer, concern etched across his face. “Ma’am, is this gentleman giving you trouble?”
I bark out a laugh. “BAH! No, no, it’s not…” My brain seems to be incapable of completing a sentence. “This is a total mess.”
“We can connect you with the appropriate city resources,” he continues with a solemn expression.
I assure the fireman that everything is fine. He’s taking my hesitation as a sign that I don’t feel safe, but in reality, I’m nervous that if I step inside Beau’s home, I might never want to leave. This is what I get for trying to cook meat. If I was a vegan, I’d be having anemic sex with Beau right now, and the only thing I’d have to worry about would be my chickpea breath.
BEAU SAYS HIS place isn’t far, so we walk. I’m wearing tennis shoes now. We were allowed back inside my apartment and I managed to pack a small duffel bag while Beau opened windows and tried to wipe away as much residue as possible. I have my makeup, toothbrush, clothes, and purse. I didn’t know how much to pack. I’m not even comfortable staying one night, but Beau insists that it’s for the best. My fingers itch with the urge to call my parents like I’m a homesick tween at a sleepover. This feels desperate and weird. Oh, oops, I burned my apartment to a crisp—now I have to live with you. He probably assumes I torched the place on purpose.
I’m still wearing my robe. All my clothes back home—and everything in my duffel—smell like a campfire. Beau says he has something I can wear, but I tug my robe tighter as he turns the corner and directs me to a three-story brick townhouse on Dauphine Street. Beau’s home. I puff out an impressed chuckle. So this is where he lives. There is a small courtyard to the right, three levels, and cast-iron balconies. Overgrown hanging ferns and planter boxes give the place a lived-in feel. The house looks ancient—it’s definitely haunted. If Rose were here, she’d want to burn sage and hold a séance.
“How old is this place?”
“The original owner built it in the 19th century. It used to be a pharmacy.”
He unlocks the door and steps inside.
I step to the threshold and bend forward, taking in as much of the house as I can from the doorway. Soaring ceilings, gleaming wood floors, original crown molding—all the reasons people pay big bucks to live in the French Quarter. There’s a parlor to my right with dark blue wallpaper and books lining the walls from floor to ceiling, all hardbacks. There’s a leather chair sitting beside a fireplace with a soft white throw hanging over one side. I’ve never seen a vignette more inviting.
“Are you coming in?” he asks, flipping on the chandelier lights in the foyer. He’s standing inside a jeweled prism.
I shake my head and lean a little farther in, trying to spy the room on my left. I think it’s a formal dining room, but I can’t be sure.
“Lauren?”
I straighten and smile. “Oh, no. I can’t stay. I’m going to call my parents. Sorry about dinner.”
I’m turning and heading back out onto the street when he walks around me and catches my shoulders, pushing me backward. His hand covers my entire shoulder. His biceps are flexing. He’s stronger than the fireman—cuter too. I want to burrow into his house like a little mouse and stay forever, which is exactly why I should leave.
“I really can’t stay.” I sound like the girl in that rapey Christmas song.
He smiles. “Yes you can.”
“I didn’t burn my apartment down on purpose, just to be clear.”
The concept makes him laugh.
“I didn’t peg you as a pyro.”
“I’ll sleep in a guest room so I won’t bother you, or maybe I’ll just go back home later? I bet the smoke is gone now.”
“Your apartment is unlivable. You can’t even breathe in there.”
“I’ll wear one of those masks.”
“Great, I’ll buy you one tomorrow. Right now, you’re coming inside. Step.”
I pick my feet up so I don’t trip on his doorway. We’re inside his foyer and he gently kicks the door closed. His hands are still on my shoulders. It’s time to be honest.
“I think it’s only fair that you should know I’m currently wearing lingerie, like really, really revealing lingerie. Earlier, it seemed appropriate. Now, it just feels sleazy.”
The house is silent. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “You’re wearing lingerie?”
I pull aside the top of my robe so he can see the edge of the bodice. His grip tightens on my shoulder and then he looks up like he’s praying for help. I follow his gaze and admire the intricate detailing on his ceiling. This place is amazing, and I’ve only seen a tiny bit of it.
“Now that that’s out of the way, I’d like a tour please.”
“Now?” His voice sounds hoarse.
“Yes, starting with the laundry room so I can put my clothes in the wash.” I smile and step back, giving him a friendly pat on the chest.
Instead, our tour starts at the wet bar where he pours himself two fingers of bourbon, downs it, and then fills his glass again. Apparently, I’m adept at driving a man to drink. From there, we step into the kitchen where he takes off his suit jacket and tosses it onto the back of a chair. He yanks off his tie and unbuttons the top of his dress shirt. I realize I’m watching him with my mouth open. Drool is about to dribble out onto my chin, so I turn away and ask about the butler’s pantry.
With each room we tour, Beau’s patience wanes a little more. 10 minutes in, I’m forced to take matters into my own hands and the tour becomes self-guided. I walk around and Beau trails after me lazily, offering input only when I insist. There are double parlors and a huge courtyard in the back. Upstairs on the second floor, there’s a master suite with a marble bath, two walk-in closets, and a large sitting area. I walk through the room, looking anywhere but the bed. The walls are painted a light color right between beige and gray. It’s calm and soft. A paint researcher spent their entire career designing that exact color. The crown molding looks original, as does the brick fireplace. No TV—I like that. I finger the books he has on his nightstand: Poe short stories and the complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. Darkness and mystery. He asks if I’ve ever read them and I look up. Our eyes lock across his bed. Do not look down. DO NOT LOOK AT HIS BED.
I turn and break out in a mild sprint.
“Show me the third floor!”
He responds with a muffled laugh, or it might have been a curse—I scurry away too quickly to hear properly.
The third floor has two guest bedrooms that open out onto covered galleries with breathtaking views of Dauphine Street. There are en suite bathrooms and opulent furniture. One of the rooms is painted pale blue with white, fluffy bedding. An ornate gold mirror hangs over the headboard. The other room is dark green and romantic. I drop my bag in the blue room and turn to find Beau watching me in the doorway, brow arched.
“I’ll sleep here. It’s perfect.”
“Are you ready for dinner now? I can order something.”
I tell him to order anything but lamb then continue asking about the house. I have him describe to me in great detail how he renovated it. My clothes get tossed into the washer and then I ask to be shown the A/C unit, the water heater’s control panel.
“Where do you keep your mops?”
I’m like a prisoner on the execution block, using my last words to filibuster my way out of certain death. If I keep talking, we won’t have to deal with the fact that we’re alone in his house. I won’t have to acknowledge the lace currently covering my boobs.
“Can I have something to change into?” I ask after he closes the entrance to the attic.
“No.”
I think I heard him wrong. “No?”
“No. You cannot change, and you cannot ask to see the attic again.”