The Beau & the Belle
Page 57

I sign on to Gmail and there are 50 new emails waiting for me. 50! When I went to sleep, my inbox was empty. The first email’s subject line reads: MAJOR CATERING CRISIS. I cry for exactly 10 seconds and then give in to the urge to rest my head on the edge of the desk and close my eyes.
This will all be over tomorrow.
Except not really, because then NOLA will be officially up and running. It’s going to take a lot of my attention. I have plans to hire a manager and two more baristas as soon as possible. A digital marketing team is handling my online presence, and Beau talked me into consulting with an accountant. In a few months (okay, years), it will operate like a well-oiled machine and I’ll be able to step back and watch it grow. Then a few years after that, I’ll take another step back and possibly be able to sleep again.
I sigh.
Having worked through my minor freak-out, I blink my eyes back open and notice the bottom drawer of Beau’s desk is cracked open just a few inches. Once a snoop, always a snoop. I tug it open all the way and find a small white cardboard box. It’s unlabeled, so naturally, I lift the lid just a smidge to see what’s inside, and my heart does a cartwheel when I see a photo of tiny Beau peeking up at me from the top of a stack. It’s old and faded, wallet-sized. Beau has shaggy brown hair and a big, crooked grin. Kneeling beside him on one knee is his dad. The similarity between the man in the photo and the man asleep upstairs makes my heart pang with sadness. I hold the photo closer and examine the details: his dad’s thick mustache and acid-washed 80s jeans, the way they’re both squinting into the sun. Beau’s dad has his arm looped around Beau’s shoulders and Beau’s leaning his full weight against his dad’s chest. They’re cheek to cheek. It’s love at the most basic level: father and son.
My hand shakes as I put the photo down on the desk and I turn back to the box, hungry for more of these old memories. There are at least a hundred photos stashed inside, but a stack of folded papers catches my attention first.
I unfold them slowly, and I’m not sure what I’m looking at right off the bat. Some of them are pages printed offline. Some of them are newspaper clippings so fragile and old I worry they’ll tear if I’m not careful.
It’s takes me a few long seconds to register what I’m looking at, and then chills run down my spine. My stomach tightens.
All these years, I thought I suffered alone. I thought my feelings were one-sided, but this is proof to the contrary.
I drop the papers back into the box and take the stairs two at a time. It’s early; I should let him sleep. Instead, I dropkick his door open and fling myself onto the bed like a flying squirrel.
He groans.
I kiss his cheeks and forehead and mouth and chin. My hands are on his naked chest. If he ever tries to go to bed with a shirt on, I’ll scissor it off of him like a sexy paramedic.
“You’re letting all the warmth out,” he growls mildly.
He peels the blanket back and then wraps it over me. We’re in a cocoon and it smells like his body wash. We showered together just before bed.
I kiss him on the lips and he smiles.
“I was having a really good dream. You were naked and on top of me, so now I’m not sure if I’m asleep or awake.”
He finds the hem of my sweatshirt. He tugs it up, covering my stomach with his hand. Heaven will feel like his heated palm against my skin.
“Beau! I’m not trying to sex you into consciousness. I’m waking you up because I have a question: did you think about me in the decade we were apart?”
He groans sleepily. “That’s a wake-up-able question?”
I playfully shake his shoulders like I’m a harsh interrogator. “I’m asking the questions, tough guy. You have to answer.”
“Maybe. Some.” He doesn’t open his eyes. “I don’t know. I was too busy with work.”
“Uh huh.”
Two dimples bracket his smile. “I went on a lot of dates, really played the field. So many girlfriends, I lost count.”
His hand slips higher and he groans when he finds my bare breast. Lust makes it hard to get the next words out, but I manage.
“You’re a bad liar. I found your stash downstairs, the old newspaper articles about my debutante days.”
“My mom gave me those.”
“What about the clippings from Sotheby’s for sales I helped facilitate?”
“I was thinking of starting an art collection.”
“There was a piece of scratch paper with my old work email address scribbled on it.”
He sighs because we both know this is damning evidence.
“I was feeling depressed on my birthday a few years back. I thought about contacting you.”
My heart breaks. “Why didn’t you?”
His hand falls back to my hip and his eyes flutter open. “Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t all that sure of your feelings for me. You might’ve thought it was creepy. Besides, the last time I’d seen you, you were shouting about hating me.”
“Did I say I hated you? I meant to say I loved you. It came out wrong.”
“Ah, yeah, I can see how that could happen. Similar words.”
“Sometimes my Ls sound like Hs. Let me try it now.”
“I’m listening.”
“Beau, I hulate you.”
“Yeah, see you did it again.”
“Damn, hold on. Let me do some warm-up exercises. Red leather, yellow leather. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”
I roll my tongue and flutter my lips.
Beau hooks his hands under my arms and draws me up higher on top of him so our hips are perfectly aligned. I’m splayed out like a frog, pinning him down with all my weight. It’s glorious. He’s mine. His hands grip my derrière and I prop myself up on my elbows on his chest so I can see his face.
He’s finally awake now. Even in the low light, he glows. I can make out his lovely blue eyes, red lips, tousled brown hair. He looks younger than he is, boyish and handsome. I want to propose to him—propose that we stay here until we turn into dusty skeletons.
His hand reaches up to play with my curls, and I ask a question I’ve been curious about.
“So now that we’ve cleared up the fact that you’ve been harboring angsty, shoebox love for me for upwards of a decade, what would you have done if I hadn’t moved back to New Orleans?”
He smiles lazily, twisting a curl around his finger. “I’d have eventually come to New York.”
“And if I was dating someone else?”
His eyes lock with mine and he arches a dark brow. “You were dating someone else. I stole you.” He slips his hand around my neck and tugs me down for a kiss. I oblige him and then, because I can, I oblige him again. I didn’t come up here with the intention of having morning sex and I tell him so—“I have so much to do before tomorrow”—but then he tilts his head and our mouths open and his tongue sweeps into my mouth. My body says, Scratch that—I have so much Beau to do before tomorrow, and our kisses turn hungry and hot. His teeth graze my bottom lip.
“The sun isn’t even up yet,” he says, convincing me. “Besides, what we’re about to do is a natural stress reliever.”
It’s adorable that he thinks there’s a possibility I would stop this. A freight train could not carry me away from him in this moment. I’ve forgotten there’s a life outside this room.
Both of his hands grip my waist and he holds me against him as he rolls his hips. My sweatshirt gets tugged off and then my soft polka dot nightgown gets unbuttoned slowly. I’m dressed for comfort, not seduction, but Beau makes me feel sexy no matter what I’m wearing.
My chest is bared and his hands are sloping up the bottom of my rib cage then I’m arching my back to make it oh so easy for him to reach my breasts.
“Can you reach the side table from here?” he asks huskily.
“I can if I scoot off you a little.”
Apparently he doesn’t like that idea, because he wraps his arm around my waist and turns us over. I’m pressed into the mattress as he reaches over to grab for protection. It’s either a genius move or a happy coincidence that he grinds into me with every movement. I’m left squirming, not to mention how deeply sexy it is that he can just maneuver me around however he pleases. I bet if I asked, he’d toss me over his shoulder like he did that day my oven caught fire. Maybe he’d even wear a little fireman getup. I decide that’s what I want for my birthday.