IT’S BEEN ONE week since Beau’s near-miss-kiss, one week since he started snipping away at my seams. I went home and changed before my date with Preston, partly because I had to—he informed me last minute that we were attending some fancy fundraiser for his father—and partly because I told Beau I would. How pathetic.
I stormed home to my apartment, slipped out of my blouse, rolled those stockings down my legs, and then made myself come twice in the shower.
Just the usual pre-date routine, right?
I hate myself.
I have no more willpower when it comes to Beau than I did at 17. If anything, it’s gotten worse. I now know full well what it feels like to be touched by a man, but I still want to know what it feels like to be touched by him. I judged Preston against him the entire time we were on our date.
I wasn’t lying when I said Preston had changed. He’s grown up, just like we all have. He’s not the same jerk he used to be. Sure, he stills shows signs of having been a little spoiled. He’s flashy: when we were at the fundraiser, he kept kissing me on the cheek, gripping my hand when the cameras were around, telling people I was his girlfriend. Last time I checked, one date does not a relationship make. It was sort of sweet though. The last guy to refer to me as his girlfriend was seven, and he said it right before we were married under the jungle gym in a playground ceremony.
Girlfriend.
I mull the word over in my mind while I finish checking my emails at NOLA. I should care that he’s telling newspapers we’re a couple, but honestly, who even reads those things? I mean, Beau’s article aside, I haven’t read one in about 200 years.
Not to mention, I don’t really have time to care about that right now. I have two dozen work emails waiting to be answered and a subcontractor wrapping up construction for the day. The new shipment of bathroom tile finally arrived and he’s been installing it since this morning. I’ve checked up on him twice, but I’ve purposely avoided going back there for the last few hours. I’m scared to look at the finished product because I don’t want to jinx it.
“Ms. LeBlanc, I’m all done in here,” the subcontractor, Miles, announces. “Want to come have a look?”
I shoot off the email I was finishing and push back from the counter.
There’s a pile of broken tiles on the ground outside the bathroom that I have to step over—not a great sign.
“Was the herringbone pattern a mistake?” I ask just before I step inside and eat my words.
MIRACLES DO HAPPEN!
It looks awesome. Fresh. Clean. White subway tile with dark gray grout. West Elm, meet your southern match.
“Oh my god! It’s perfect!”
Miles nods and assesses his finished work. “I wasn’t sure how it would look, but it’s pretty fancy, kinda modern. Is that the look you were going for?”
I smile. “Exactly.”
I tell him another 100 times how great it looks. I cannot emphasize it enough.
“Finish cleaning up and I’ll cut your final check. Really good job.”
I almost can’t believe it. This business has conditioned me to expect the worst when it comes to construction. Like Pavlov’s dogs, when I hear the sound of renovation, I mindlessly pull out my wallet and start lighting money on fire.
Half an hour later, after I’ve scheduled him to come back and tile the coffee bar’s backsplash, NOLA’s quiet again. I’m back at my computer, anxious to get a few more emails sent off before Preston picks me up for our second date. Yes, date número dos. I’m shocked it’s even happening. He asked at the end of the fundraiser, and I was caught off guard. Even having accepted that Preston has changed, I was ready for his old tendency to lose interest and move on to the next shiny thing.
He must really like me if he’s willing to take me out again.
Now, I don’t know how I feel about it.
There’s a knock on the front door and then it swings open. Preston’s here. Footsteps approach. I hold up my finger. “Hey, just give me one more second to finish this email and then we can head out. I hope you haven’t had dinner yet because I’m starving.”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”
My head jerks up so fast I tweak something in my neck. “Ow. Shit.”
My hand shoots up to soothe it, and I make angry eyes at Beau.
“I thought you were Preston.”
“Hmm, I don’t see the resemblance.”
There’s never been a truer statement.
Preston is to Beau as day is to night. Preston is sunshine and silver spoons. Beau is calloused hands and sooty lashes and…lips so kissable they make me pant.
Today he’s wearing a midnight blue suit. It fits him like the designer sewed him into it this morning. He’s taller than I remember, more imposing. I wonder if his hair is darker than usual or if angels have just started following him around with dramatic backlighting. He’s polished, but approachable. In another life, he should have run for president. I smile at the thought considering it was Mr. Westcott who was the first to tell Beau he should go into politics.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks, stepping closer.
“I’m deciding whether or not you could get 270 electoral votes.”
“What?”
I close my laptop and stand, shoving it into my bag. “Nothing. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see if you were hungry and now that I know you are, you have no excuse to turn me down for dinner.”
Smooth.
“Have you ever been turned down for a date before?”
The question lights a spark deep in his eyes, which means the answer is no.
“It must be tough being so beautiful.” I step closer and brush his cheek with my hand tauntingly.
The contact makes my skin sizzle. I think I have second-degree burns, and the way Beau is looking down at me tells me he feels the heat too. Before I can pull away, his hand circles my wrist in a vice-like grip and then he turns it slowly so my palm is face down. Gently, his mouth descends and he kisses the back of my hand. Beautiful butterflies flap their delicate wings in my abdomen before I clench my abs and drown them in stomach acid.
“Come to dinner with me,” he says again.
Keep it together, Lauren.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
It’s a good question. Isn’t this the exact thing I dreamt about for all those years? The truth is, I’m scared. I’m like a girl in a ghost story, confronted by the phantom of a once-doomed love—of course my first instinct is to run.
“Preston’s coming to—”
His eyes pinch closed for a brief moment and his hand tightens on mine. “Stop the Preston bullshit, Lauren.”
I’ve heard the saying my whole life: you can’t go back home—but what happens when you do? What do you do when the past reaches out and offers you a way back?
“It’s getting silly.”
His accusation makes my back stiffen. The old Lauren was silly, but now I’m a hardened New Yorker. I once survived a four-day snowstorm by eating my way through canned goods. I ate Chef Boyardee with chopsticks and nursed my last bottle of wine before the weather finally broke. I dug my way out of my apartment with a spoon.
Maybe I’ve been viewing Beau through rose-colored contact lenses, struck blind to his domineering possessiveness. I work up a long monologue, outlining all the reasons I am NOT silly just because I’m not throwing myself at him, but Preston arrives and saves me the trouble.
He walks into NOLA with pep in his step and a smile on his face. I think he’s even whistling, but the second he sees Beau holding my hand, his smile drops.
“Lauren?”
His tone holds all the dramatic effect of a scorned lover. It’s like he just caught Beau mid-thrust. I want to roll my eyes.
“Hi Preston. You remember Beau?”
My hand is set free as Beau turns to assess Preston. It’s so strange to see them in the same room after all this time. I used to assume Preston didn’t hold a candle to Beau solely because he was younger, just a teenager like me. Now, the theory is dead.
“Beau, yes. It’s good to see you,” Preston says with a fake smile. “You used to rent that apartment from Lou’s parents, right?”
For the record, Preston has never once called me Lou.
Beau nods and extends his hand. “Good memory. You’re Mayor Westcott’s son.”
On the surface, hands are shaking and smiles are spreading, but I know it’s all for show. The nature channel could dub an educational voiceover on top of the footage: Watch as the two rutting males suppress their aggression in an elaborate show, vying to impress the lone female with their respective mastery of emotional restraint.
“How’ve you been?” Preston asks, assessing Beau with a cool once-over before he takes a step toward me. Beau doesn’t move, so I’m semi-squashed between them. I worry a bizarro threesome is about to break out, featuring only biting and Greco-Roman wrestling.
“Could I just—”
My question gets cut off.
“I thought you should know that I just asked Lauren out on a date,” Beau says casually.
Wait, what? Is that allowed?
Preston is just as confused as I am. His brows are at his hairline, his smooth jaw half open.
“I turned him down!” I say in a rush.
Then, because he deserves it, I shove Beau in the shoulder. Because of our size difference, he stays put and I’m thrown off balance. What kind of psycho just announces something like that? What is Preston supposed to do now? Shake his hand and congratulate him?
I whip my gaze to Preston and pray he doesn’t allow himself to be provoked. As it turns out, he’s stunned into silence, so I do the work for the both of us. I gather my purse and shove the guys to the door.
“Beau, it was…uh…well, it was interesting as always. Preston, err, let’s just, let’s go this way. For dinner. I don’t care if it’s the right way.”
It’s like we’re aliens wearing human skins and doing bad impressions. I can tell Preston wants to tackle Beau to the ground and pound his face into the dirt. I hope he doesn’t try, because Beau seems like he exceeds Preston in more than just age.
I think our night will turn around once we’ve put a few blocks between us and my gallery. I keep turning around just to make sure Beau isn’t tailing us. Last I saw, he was standing on the sidewalk with his hands tucked in his coat pockets, watching us walk away.
Preston won’t even look at me, even though I did nothing wrong. I try to tell him that, but it’s no use. The awkward run-in with Beau has completely ruined our night.
We sit down at the restaurant where Preston made reservations and I ooh and aah about the decor and the menu and “Have you seen those chandeliers? Great, right?” but Preston’s burners are locked on simmer.
“The fucking nerve of that guy.”
He shoots to his feet like he’s going to—what? Run back and fight him? Beau’s long gone by now, and my stomach is growling. I reach out for his hand and yank his sleeve. “Come on, don’t let him get to you. Let’s forget about it.”
Except I can’t.
Plastered right behind Preston’s head is a framed photo of Beau with the owner of the restaurant. They’re shaking hands, and behind them is a group of guys wearing hardhats crowded around a massive yellow Caterpillar tractor. According to the small plaque under the photo, Crescent Capital helped the owner rebuild after Audrey and every year since, business has been booming. The chef won a James Beard Award last year. There’s an item on the menu named after Beau. It’s chicken and andouille étouffée pasta with white wine cream sauce, onions, bell peppers. I want to order it and lick the plate clean.
Oh god, we can’t stay here.
I shoot to my feet and nearly collide with the waiter trying to fill our water glasses.
“Come on, let’s go. I’m not hungry.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I think I’m coming down with something.”
Yes, I’ve fallen ill, suffering from a little thing I like to call everyonefuckingleavemealone-itis. My symptoms include: mumbling obscenities under my breath, barely paying attention as Preston kisses me goodbye (on the cheek) outside the restaurant, glowering at anyone who passes me on the street, and an inability to sleep later that night. I kick my sheets off in a fit of rage and spread out like a starfish on my bed. My apartment is 100 degrees. I want to yank open a window and let the cold night air flood my room, but that would require movement.
Instead, I lie there sweaty and angry, trying to make sense of the mess I’ve found myself in. It’s very simple: I was in love with Beau 10 years ago. He knew that. He didn’t love me back. He moved away and never talked to me again. He couldn’t manage a lousy phone call or a single letter, not even a measly text. Now that we share a zip code again, I suddenly can’t escape him?
How convenient.
I get that I was off limits at the time. I was a dweeby high schooler. Still, he could have let me down gently, written me a sweet letter I could have kept under my pillow and read so many times that the edges tore.
Right?
I’m not crazy.
I’m angry. It’s not fair that I wanted him then and couldn’t have him, but now that he wants me, he just gets to snap his fingers and I’m back at his feet, panting and pawing. No.
I want to teach him a lesson.
That’s right, buddy boy.
You told me once to guard my heart.
Well you’ll be happy to know, Beau, that shit’s under lock and key.
Now let’s hope you know how to guard yours.