AFTER WE RINSE off, we head downstairs to see if our takeout is still sitting outside. Neighborhood cats are lazing on the stoop, picking apart our egg rolls. I swear one of them is using a spoon to sip hot and sour soup, and their lazy expressions seem to say, You’re late, do you want the leftovers? And next time, could you order shrimp?
We close and lock the door, settling on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in bed. I finish exactly one-fourth of mine before the excitement of the day catches up to me. I put out a fire! I had the best sex of my entire life! I fell in love!
I think I fall asleep mid-chew. I don’t know for sure, but there is jelly on my cheek when I jolt awake at 6:00 AM. When I realize where I am, adrenaline seeps into my bloodstream. My eyes are wide open in the dark. I know immediately there’s no point in trying to fall back asleep.
Beau is sleeping shirtless beside me on his stomach, the fluffy duvet bunched around his waist. I have a strange desire to roll over and cover his body with mine, to feel his skin on my skin.
“Beau,” I whisper loudly.
He groans.
“Are you awake?” I ask.
“No.”
“If you don’t wake up, I’m going to snoop around your house and look in all your drawers. Cabinets are fair game too.”
He reaches out and drags me toward him, dropping his heavy arm on top of me. I’m his captive.
He kisses my temple sleepily. “Go to sleep, weirdo.”
I poke his rib. “I can’t. It’s like I just took a shot of Red Bull.”
He doesn’t respond. His arm gets heavier, his breathing evens out. He fell back asleep. Lesson learned: having sex with me is very tiring. I slowly peel myself out of his grasp and crawl off the bed. I’m barefoot in one of his t-shirts. On me, it’s oversized, and it’s super soft. A pair of boxer shorts is rolled up underneath. It’s not enough—I’m still cold. I pad quietly to his closet and add a pair of his socks that reach the middle of my shins. Next, I add an old LSU sweatshirt and some sweatpants that hang loose even after I cinch them up. Every article of clothing is steeped in his scent, and I contemplate continuing to layer until I look like Joey Tribbiani impersonating Chandler Bing. I’d have to walk by throwing my weight onto one leg and then teetering back and forth. His camel coat is hanging near the back, the one I love, and I bet he has some hats I could pull down over my ears. Instead, I settle on wrapping a navy cashmere scarf around my neck so I can dip my head and inhale any time I want. It’s like I have him completely wrapped around me. I tiptoe my way back through his room.
I have the entire run of the house, so I head down to the bottom floor and stall on the last stair. I’m paralyzed with possibilities: I could pilfer his library, see how he arranges his spices, judge him for the current state of his junk drawer. In the end, I settle on making a breakfast fit for a king to make up for our dinner last night. I know how much he enjoys breakfast.
His kitchen is over the top. There’s enough counter space to film a cooking show, and Wolf appliances have been custom designed for the room. Everything is gleaming, which tells me he either never cooks or he has someone come clean religiously. There’s a butler pantry and a separate space for the ovens. There are bells and whistles I don’t dare touch—I don’t want to lose a finger. Fortunately, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the coffee maker. I make a pot and then get to work.
I’m at the mercy of his pantry and refrigerator, but fortunately there are enough ingredients for the things I want to make: scratch cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, and fruit salad to start. I’m searching for bacon in the fridge when Beau’s cell phone rings. I jerk and turn toward where it’s charging beside his keys on the counter. The ringing continues and I glance up to the ceiling, wondering if I should take it to him. It’s 7:10 AM; surely he’ll be awake soon.
The ringing stops. I give up on the bacon hunt and fill my coffee cup again. The cinnamon rolls just went in the oven, but I don’t want to start on the eggs or they’ll be cold by the time he gets down here.
His phone starts to ring again, and this time I look at who’s calling.
MOM
I panic. His mom is calling him this early? Is that normal? What if she really needs to talk to him? His phone rings again and again then goes to voicemail. I relax for a moment before it starts ringing once more and I imagine her frantic on the other end of the line.
I reach for it and answer on a whim.
“Hello, Beau Fortier’s phone.”
Who am I? His secretary?
Apparently, Mrs. Fortier thinks so.
“Michelle? Is that you?”
“Oh, no. Umm, actually it’s Lauren. Uh…Lauren LeBlanc. Is there an emergency?” I ask, somewhat hopefully.
I cringe. What if he didn’t want his mom to know I was over here? It’s a little early for this sort of thing, isn’t it? I should have let her assume he was dead in a ditch.
“Lauren!” Her voice is filled with shock. “What are you doing over at Beau’s this early?”
The silence after that question could stretch across the Atlantic Ocean. There’s only one reason I’d be at her son’s house this early, and I know she realizes it when she does a little oh, silly me laugh.
My cheeks are on fire.
“Cooking…breakfast?” I croak.
She has the decency to turn away from the phone and conceal her laughter as a coughing fit. “Oh, I bet he’ll love that. He and I were actually supposed to meet this morning, but I think that’s probably going to need to be rescheduled.”
Because of me. She doesn’t sound too annoyed, but I won’t let things get shifted around on my account. Besides, my cinnamon rolls are delicious. She will love them.
“No! Why don’t you just come here?”
Turns out, Mrs. Fortier was already around the corner from Beau’s house. She knocks on the door and I answer quickly, steaming cup of coffee outstretched for her.
She takes in my outfit with raised brows and a pleased smile. “You look…warm.”
I forgot I’m covered in the many layers of Beau.
She accepts the cup of coffee and we head back into the kitchen. The smell of baking dough makes my stomach grumble. She takes a seat at the bar and appraises me over her cup of coffee. I try not to fidget.
“So you came over this morning to cook breakfast?”
“It’s a long story. Basically, my oven caught fire at my apartment yesterday so your son let me stay here.”
Her eyes are all-knowing. “How very selfless of him to invite you over.”
Her sarcasm reminds me of why I like her.
It’s been 10 years since Beau took me home to meet her, 10 years since I sat on her porch, completely in love with her son. I wonder if she can read the truth on my face now. I wouldn’t be surprised if the freckles on the bridge of my nose rearranged themselves to spell out his name.
“Breakfast smells delicious.”
“Cinnamon rolls from scratch,” I brag. “I was actually about to whip up some scrambled eggs to go with them, but now that you’re here, I might enlist your help. I still remember yours from that day I visited with Beau. They were so good.”
She smiles. “The secret is to smother them in Havarti cheese. It’s Beau’s favorite.”
I check the refrigerator, but Beau doesn’t have any. He does have an annoyingly large supply of pre-portioned protein shakes. I volunteer to go get some cheese from the grocery store a block over. She says not to bother, but I’ve been waiting 10 years to eat her eggs and I want them to be just right—for Beau, but more importantly, for me.
“I’ll be right back! The cinnamon rolls have another 20 minutes, but if I’m not back in time, you can pull them out. They should be good. The cream cheese frosting is in the refrigerator.”
It takes me 30 minutes to hunt down the right kind of cheese. The first store I go to didn’t have it. The second store did and I buy two packages. It’s overkill, especially considering I have no clue how many more breakfasts I’ll be enjoying at Beau’s house. If he kicks me out, I’m taking my cheese with me.
When I make it back to the house, I kick off my tennies in the foyer and reach to unravel the scarf before deciding to leave it on. His house is nice and toasty now, but I like how soft it feels around my neck.
I head toward the kitchen, wondering if Beau’s still sleeping, then stop short when I hear them talking. Eavesdropping! My favorite hobby!
“You’ve loved her for 10 years,” Beau says to his mom.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she protests. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He snorts in disbelief. “Do you remember when I dated Lesley a couple years ago? You would accidentally call her Lauren.”
She laughs. “That was just a slip of the tongue. Their names are very similar.”
“You ask me about her every time we talk.”
“I do not. Refill my coffee, will you?”
Beau passes in front of the hallway to get to the coffee maker and I press my body against the wall, trying to make myself as flat as possible. If I had an invisibility cloak, I’d don it.
“It’s all pretty new and…unpredictable,” Beau warns. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. Sugar?”
“Yes. Some milk too. What do you think I’m going to do?” She laughs. “Ask her what sort of wedding she’d like? If she wants children?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“There’s no point in asking. I want at least three grandchildren—you two don’t really get a say in the matter.”
“Mom,” he warns.
She’s really laughing now. “Oh you really are too easy to tease, just like always.”
Beau passes in front of the hallway again and does a double take when he sees me lurking in the shadows. Oh dear. I try to play off my eavesdropping as coolly and calmly as possible.
“HELLO! I JUST GOT BACK WITH THE CHEESE!” I exclaim as I lurch forward and present the grocery bag like it’s a fish I just plucked out of a river.
“Are you crying?”
I sniffle. “No. It was cold and windy out. Who’s hungry?”
“I know you were listening just now,” he says, coming around the island to take the bag from my hand. He drops a kiss to my cheek and there is no getting this lunatic grin off my face. I try to wipe it away, but like a coiled spring under tension, it bounces right back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Beau, may I have my coffee?” his mom asks, giving me a conspiratorial smile.
He turns away. “I forget, did you want milk?”
“Yes,” she and I both say at once.
He shoots a teasing glare at me and a giddy laugh spills out of me. “I wasn’t listening, just a lucky guess! Mrs. Fortier, are the cinnamon rolls still in the oven?”
“I pulled them out a few minutes ago and iced them. They’re just warming now. Here, Beau, hand me the cheese so I can make the eggs. Everything else is ready.”
I sit down at the table. Beau takes the chair beside mine, turning me so I have no choice but to face him. Our legs brush. He takes in my outfit with a chuckle, and then he reaches forward and tugs the scarf like it’s the end of a bow.
“Warm enough?”
The back of his knuckle barely grazes my neck and I shiver. “Yes. How’d you sleep?”
“Like a baby.”
“Me too.”
He tilts his head, blue eyes searing into me. “I distinctly remember you waking me up before the sun.”
His mom clears her throat, her back to us while she cooks eggs at the stove.
“Yes, right…uh, when I walked down from the guest room to cook you breakfast this morning.”
I’m fooling no one. He laughs and bends forward to kiss me good morning. He hasn’t shaved yet, and the stubble on his jaw tickles my bottom lip. It makes me love him more.
WHOA.
My stomach lurches like I’m going to be sick.
It hits me full force.
The microburst of love.
“What’s up?” he asks, acknowledging that I’ve turned to stone in a matter of seconds.
I shake my head and ask if there’s anything else we need. I list out breakfast items so as to fill my mouth with words that don’t start with the letter L: eggs, coffee, cinnamon rolls, fruit, orange juice.
“I think we’re all set,” Mrs. LeBlanc says, transferring the cheesy eggs onto a platter and bringing them over to the table.
Beau keeps his attention on me as I load up my plate. I can tell he wants to draw the truth out of me by any means necessary, but I don’t think it’s a conversation we should have while his mom is here with us. She shouldn’t be subjected to my tears when he inevitably pats my head and tells me to run along.
“So Lauren, what exactly happened with your apartment? There was a fire?”
“Yes. I was making lamb chops and my oven got a little carried away. The fire department had to come out, but other than a little smoke damage, everything was fine. I should be able to move back in today.”
Beau hums like he finds that interesting.
“You don’t think so?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I guess it depends on whether or not your landlord has had anyone in to clean the place yet. They’ll probably want to replace the carpet, and you’ll need to get your furniture steam cleaned. I don’t think you realize how much smoke was in there yesterday.”
I sulk. “Ugh, you’re right.”
“You can just stay here.”
I make a little noise like I’m a mouse. “Or I could ask my parents to take me in.”
Mrs. Fortier stands and reaches for her plate. “I feel like I ought to—”
“Stay!” I insist, leaning forward and gripping her hand.
This is getting serious, and fast. We’re discussing living situations.
“Mom, will you give us a second?”
She listens to Beau instead of me, opting to take her breakfast into the den so she can watch the Today show—she’s a big fan of Hoda.
I turn to Beau as soon as she’s out of earshot.
“I bet it’s not half as bad as you think it is. I’m not homeless.”
He laughs. “You think I’m trying to coerce you into living with me?”
“Of course. You and I both know I make excellent company. Look at this feast.”
“Okay, but 50 percent of the time you set the place on fire. Not the best odds.”
I grab for my orange juice. “Jeez, it was the first fire in 27 years of life! I’d say those are pretty good odds moving forward.”
“Uh huh. Why don’t we go check out your place after my mom leaves and we’ll decide what to do from there? Who knows, maybe you’ll be in my bed again tonight.”
Oh lord.
Two nights in a row?
I scoop a forkful of eggs into my mouth to keep from audibly moaning.