I’VE NEVER WORN lingerie for a man. I’ve never worn it for a woman either—except, I guess, for Rose. She was the one to force me into La Perla during a Black Friday sale a few years ago. I fought off three women for this set, slapped down my credit card, awkwardly belted out, “I don’t normally wear this sort of thing” to the cashier, and brought it home only to bury it away in my underwear drawer and forget it existed. I remembered it this afternoon. I finger the lace, playing should I or shouldn’t I, and then I slam the drawer shut again. Five minutes later, I sneak back in, pull the bodice and underwear out, and lay them on my bed. The photo of my parents on my dresser gets turned face down. The bird outside my window whistles; I draw the blinds.
At the time I purchased it, Rose convinced me the lingerie was tasteful. I try to see it through her eyes. To me, it looks like I’m trying too hard. It’s a beautiful black corset. The panties match, silk satin with sheer lace. I shave places on my body I didn’t even know I had then slather on tubs of lotion and hover in the doorway of my room. The lingerie taunts me. I tell myself I’ll just try it on and see if it still fits. My thoughts turn into an infomercial: It’s a miracle! My skin is glowing! My boobs have never looked better!
I have a red dress for later, but for now the lingerie gets hidden away under a fluffy white terrycloth robe. I’m cooking and don’t want to stain my outfit. Nothing will ruin tonight.
I spent the afternoon looking up recipes and grocery shopping. I know how to make all the usual boring staples: meat and veggies, pastas, Cajun food. Tonight, I’m going out on a limb and trying my hand at lamb chops with olives and capers. It takes me two hours to prepare the meal. I drink wine and try to enjoy the process, but in reality, I enjoy nothing. I’m too nervous. My hand shakes when I read the recipe. My forehead is damp with sweat. I’ve never used the convection setting on my oven before, but the recipe suggests it. I pour more wine. My hand shakes a little less and I decide it’s no big deal if I’m a little tipsy when Beau shows up. No, bad Lauren. I pour the wine into my ivy plant and vow to drink water from here on out. I put the lamb in the oven, though I think about taking its place.
It’s 7:00 PM. I have just enough time to put on my makeup. I swipe on my mascara, eyeshadow, and eyeliner. I catch a whiff of something good—roasting, caramelized meat. I wonder if Beau will drool more at the sight of me or at the meal I’m preparing. No—I want to be more appetizing than the main course. I lean forward and layer on another coat of mascara. Blush gets swiped onto the apples of my cheeks. My smoke alarm starts blaring and I jerk forward, millimeters away from jabbing my eye with the brush. When I look down, there’s smoke billowing into the bathroom from beneath the door. My roasted, caramelized meat now smells considerably more charred.
“Oh god. No, no, no!”
I touch the door handle like they teach you in elementary school, and when I find that it’s not hot, I whip open the door and spot the source of the fire right away: my oven.
Smoke billows out of it and I cough, grabbing for a tea towel to cover my nose and mouth. Random, distorted fire safety rules leap to mind: STOP, DROP, COLLABORATE AND LISTEN. I should run from my apartment, but I’m too stubborn. Besides, the fire isn’t that bad. I know exactly where the fire extinguisher is underneath my sink, though I’ve never used it. I curse and read the instructions as quickly as possible. The fire gets a teensy bit worse and I wonder if the lamb is still in any way edible. In a move I can only describe as heroic, I pull the pin from the nozzle, aim the nozzle at the flames, and squeeze the lever slowly, just like the instructions describe. When the flames are gone, I reach forward and turn the oven off with my tea towel.
I DID IT!
I’m heaving in big gulps of air. My head feels light. My smoke alarm is still blaring. I turn and realize my apartment is filled with smoke so thick I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me.
Fists start pounding on my door. I’m standing on a chair, aiming the end of a broom at the smoke alarm when firemen come bursting through the door.
“NOFD! Stay calm!”
I drop the broom and put my hands in the air like I’m under arrest.
There are three of them—tall and muscly, ready to toss me over their shoulders and carry me to safety. They all look like they could be extras on Chicago Fire. I regret saving myself. I should have let my apartment burn.
“Ma’am! Are you all right?”
Before I answer, I’m hoisted off the chair by one of them while the other two assess the situation.
“It’s not safe for you to stay in here.”
I bob from side to side as he carries me outside and drops me on the sidewalk. He doesn’t listen to me when I tell him the fire has been extinguished. “It was just in the oven! I put it out!”
He asks me if I have someone I can call. I tell him I could if only I had my cell phone. While I’m at it, I would also appreciate some shoes.
“We can’t let you go back in there just yet, ma’am,” he says, propping his hands on his hips and sneaking a quick glance down before going red-cheeked and turning away. I follow the direction his gaze took and realize with a start that I’m still wearing my robe with my skimpy lingerie set underneath. I can see the faint hint of black lace. I gather the lapels between my hands and close them, making sure the belt is double-knotted. A little gust of wind rushes up the skirt, and I realize I’m in a bit of a pickle.
He radios to one of his buddies to bring me out my purse.
“Maybe some jeans too! And shoes!”
One of the firemen comes rushing out with my purse and two brown mismatched boots. The heels have a height difference of an inch. No clothes—great. Apparently they’re too busy evacuating people from the building to worry about whether or not I have a t-shirt. Yes, that’s right: my entire apartment complex (all 16 units) has to be evacuated due to the fire alarm. It’s part of the city’s fire codes. All my neighbors—Cranky Mabel, Silent Paul, Brussels Sprouts Gina—trail out of the building, moaning about having their evenings interrupted.
“I was just in the middle of making—” Gina says.
“Brussels sprouts, I know.”
She’s nothing if not predictable.
I wave at Cranky Mabel when she passes me.
She offers me a shrewd glare. “Tell me you didn’t start this.”
“Well yes, technically. Sorry about that! Ha ha, that’s what I get for trying to roast lamb chops!”
No one thinks I’m funny or charming. I wonder what their nickname is for me.
We can’t go back in until they’ve reached a satisfactory conclusion as to the source of the fire. I keep trying to shout at them about what happened, but they’re very busy doing fireman things. They apparently have protocols they have to follow and a whole checklist of things that need to be…well, checked. It’s freezing out, and I’m shivering and standing alone on the sidewalk when Beau walks up.
I don’t notice him until he’s right beside me, looking up at my apartment complex like everyone else.
“What’s going on?”
In all the panic, I forgot I was expecting him.
“Beau!” I point at the fire truck. “Can you believe it? Firemen!”
I sound like an excited four-year-old.
He frowns. “Did someone pull the fire alarm by accident?”
“Oh, no. Funny thing, actually.” I laugh like this is all one big misunderstanding. “There actually was a fire in the building, but—”
Cranky Mabel snorts. “Her fire! Ask her how it started!”
I make a mental note to sign Mabel up for a bunch of junk mail the first chance I get.
“The fire was in your apartment?” Beau asks, slipping off his coat to offer it to me. “Why are you wearing a robe out here? And what’s with the boots?”
I wanted to start tonight on an even playing field. I was supposed to greet him at the door in a slinky dress with a red rose between my teeth. I’d have a drink ready for him, bourbon or something equally dark and sexy, a drink that says, Here’s some liquor, now come and lick-her. His coat would slip off his shoulders. I’d tell him what we’re having for dinner and he’d moisten his lips in anticipation. It smells divine, he’d say. Then I’d delight him with witty anecdotes about my day, and all the while he’d be watching me with a look that said, How have I managed to ensnare this vivacious vixen?
As it is, I’m currently standing out on the street corner in a terrycloth robe and crazy boots. My carefully crafted waves are likely tousled from being toted around like a sack of potatoes. I smell like I just bathed in a BBQ pit; he smells like he showered in a majestic waterfall surrounded by breezy pines. Worse, he came straight from work. I hate his impeccable style more than ever.
“My oven caught fire.” I point one steely eye at my cantankerous neighbor. “As it turns out, you’re supposed to brown for 10 minutes then lower the temperature for the rest of the cooking time, but it really could have happened to anyone.”
“Are you okay?” Beau asks, spinning me in a circle like he’s looking for damage. Wind flaps the ends of my robe and I tighten my grip so he can’t see what’s hidden underneath.
I nod. “Yes, fine. It wasn’t bad, really.”
He repositions his coat on my shoulders, but my fluffy robe makes it impossible to button.
“All right, everyone!” one of the firemen shouts, trying to get our attention. “We’re giving the complex an all-clear! You’re all free to re-enter the building. Please make sure your fire extinguishers are in working order and familiarize yourself with evacuation routes. Will the woman in unit 212 step forward please?”
I flinch as all eyes turn to me.
Surely they aren’t going to chastise me in front of everyone. It was an accident!
I hang my head as I walk closer. The tallest of the firemen meets me halfway. He’s cute, young—the one who lifted me off the chair and carried me downstairs. I realize with a little smile that he’s about the same size as Beau. With them on either side of me, the entire sky is nearly blotted out. If I were a plant, I’d shrivel up and die.
“Ma’am, your quick thinking likely saved this entire complex from being burned to the ground.”
WHOA. Not what I was expecting.
“Have you used a fire extinguisher before?”
“Never.”
He smiles wide. “Well you handled it like a pro.”
HEAR THAT, MABEL?!
I bloom under his praise. I think I’ll sell NOLA and travel the country teaching fire safety to our nation’s youth. Photos of Smokey the Bear will be replaced with my heavily filtered headshot. From now on people will feel compelled to thank the troops, first responders, and Lauren LeBlanc.
I’m so lost in the possibilities, I don’t catch the conversation taking place between Beau and the fireman until Beau asks me if I want to stay at his place.
Well that escalated quickly.
“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.”
My stomach hits the floor.
“Okay. Okay. So that means we’re…”
He steps closer and starts to undo the double knot on my robe. My hands hang limp at my sides.
“Lauren?”
“Yes?”
“Breathe.”