The Beau & The Belle

by R.S. Grey

  He’s pussyfooting around what he really wants to say.

  I smile. “Does my being here bother you, Preston?”

  He laughs like a politician who’s been called out on his bullshit, and then his hand hits my shoulder. My hands fist by my sides with the urge to move it. “Of course not! Just because we’re all old friends doesn’t mean there’s no room for new ones. You know, I’m sure Lauren will be happy to see you. Actually…she and I had quite the night last night.” He says it like he’s confiding in a buddy in the locker room. He even winks. What a schmuck. “You know how Bourbon Street gets.”

  I listened to all of Lauren’s messages. The final one was sent when she was back at her apartment, drunk and alone. “I jus wanned youta know that Julie helped get me home even though Preston kept instisting he would take me. I DIDDINT let him come back here! That better count for something.”

  I smile thinking about it.

  “Yeah, I heard about it. Sounds like it was a good time.”

  Surprise clouds his eyes for a moment. “Oh yeah? Lauren told you?”

  I shrug dismissively.

  He laughs and steps closer, his voice so low now that no one around us can hear it. “I guess I better make this crystal clear, seeing as how you don’t know how to take a hint. Lauren and I go way back, Beau. Our families are old friends.” His knuckle hits my chest. To anyone watching, it looks like he’s telling me a secret, something funny judging by the smile on his face. “This relationship she and I have has been in the works for a while.”

  I hum like he’s telling me something interesting.

  “So you can make all the money you want, use it to buy your way into parties like this,” he whispers, “but at the end of the day, you’re just faking it. You can’t compete with what we have.”

  “That’s an interesting take, considering the phone call we three had the other day.”

  His eyes are steel when they meet mine.

  “That unknown number she called you from?” I continue with a little smile. “That was my office number.”

  I don’t feel good about what I’m doing. I’ve never played this part before.

  “Beau,” Mr. LeBlanc says, drawing my attention back to the group. “Have you met Dennis?”

  I want to step back and pivot, turn and go look for Lauren. I want to drag her upstairs and show her how much I missed her last night, show her why she should have been with me instead of out with Preston.

  In reality, Mr. LeBlanc ropes me into a conversation with a few of his friends he wants me to meet. He thinks they’d be a good fit for my firm, and I’m happy to oblige him after all he and his family have done for me over the years. Our short conversation drags on though. His friends are anxious to pick my brain, and when I turn to scan the party, I don’t see Lauren anywhere. Preston’s gone too.

  More guests arrive. I spot my mom merrily chatting with a group of women. She’s found her footing here rather quickly.

  I finally get a chance to break off from Mr. LeBlanc, using the open buffet line as an excuse, and that’s when I see her. She’s underneath the face-painting tent with her mom. There’s a line a mile long. Little kids too excited to stand still exclaim what they’re going to choose: “A DOG!” “A CAT!” “A DRAGON!” They could have hired a crew, but Lauren’s mom is an artist, so I suppose she wanted to do it herself.

  I step to the edge of the tent and go unnoticed. Lauren is concentrating hard on the face she’s painting. The tip of her tongue juts out between her lips. Her brow is furrowed. Around her left eye, there’s a scrolling green and pink flowering vine. Glitter is sprinkled across it. She looks like a woodland nymph.

  “I see you there watching me and it’s making me nervous.” I smile as she finally chances a quick glance in my direction. “I’m trying to turn this little boy into a dinosaur.”

  The kid sitting on the chair in front of her turns to me with a proud smile. “See it?!”

  Lauren’s painted a cartoonish velociraptor across the boy’s cheek and chin. It’s hanging upside down so when the boy opens his mouth, the creature looks like he’s baring his teeth.

  “Awesome.”

  “THANKS!” The boy beams and runs off. “Dad! Am I terrifying!?”

  I step up under the tent and Lauren pats the empty chair beside her. “My mom roped me into helping out with the face-painting station. There are too many kids here for her to do it all by herself.”

  “Need another set of hands?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I’ve painted houses before.”

  “This takes a delicate touch.”

  I arch a brow and she laughs, handing me a paintbrush and a fresh palette. I’ve never painted with a brush this small, but I’m not completely inept. It ends up working pretty well. If a kid asks for something complicated, we send them to Lauren or Mrs. LeBlanc. If they want something simple, like cat whiskers or a heart, they come to me. My painting is a little wonky, and the first few faces I do don’t really look like much of anything. (Kid: “What is this?” Me: “A Heart.” Kid: “It looks like a butt.” Lauren: “Add glitter. It’ll either look less like a butt, or at least it’ll be a sparkly butt.”) By midafternoon, my hearts start to look more symmetrical, and Lauren says I’m coming along nicely.

  I finish off another butterfly, Mrs. LeBlanc calls me Picasso, and then I turn to find a tall brunette waiting in line. She smiles when I meet her eye and holds up her cash donation.

  “I’ve seen your work,” she flirts, pointing to a little girl she was dancing with moments ago. “Do you do adults, or just kids?”

  I can feel Lauren watching us out of the corner of her eye, and I answer diplomatically.

  “Only kids and kids at heart. What would you like?”

  “You’re the artist—what would you recommend?” She’s laying it on thick, and Lauren intercepts before I can respond.

  “Here are the options,” she announces brusquely, snapping her brush against the poster board.

  The brunette keeps her gaze on me and tells me I can do whatever I want.

  Lauren shouts, “NEXT!” to draw the next person from the line.

  I paint a gold star with speed I never knew I had.

  “Hey, you messed it up!” whines Lauren’s kid, holding the mirror up to his face. Apparently, she’s rushing too.

  “That’s called artistic license. Hold still.”

  The brunette asks me what I’m doing after the party, and Lauren mutters a curse word under her breath. When the little kid repeats it loudly, I can’t help but laugh.

  “I’m actually seeing someone.”

  The brunette’s smile falters. “Oh. Do you have a face wipe?”

  When she leaves, I meet Lauren’s eyes and we don’t say a word. I arch a brow. She shakes her head. I smile. She squeezes her lips together, but eventually, she’s the one to break first.

  “You can do whatever you want,” she moans dramatically. “Just put it all over my face.”

  I chuckle. “I think she wanted me to paint my number on her cheek.”

  “Oh good.” Lauren rolls her eyes. “She gets it before I do.”

  I reach for a Sharpie on the table in front of us and grab Lauren’s hand. When I let go, my number is printed on the inside of her palm.

  “Now you don’t have to leave a million messages at my office,” I tease.

  Her cheeks redden. “Oh god, you got those?”

  “We got those. Half the office listened to them.”

  “You’re kidding! Why?!”

  “Michelle was playing them when I walked in.”

  “Couldn’t you have turned them off?”

  “By the time I got there, they were playing them through for a second time. Don’t worry, everyone loved them—especially the one where you broke out in song.”

  “No!”

  “‘Jack and Diane’—instant classic.”

  Her face is in her hands. “I thought I dreamed that part.”

  “L
arry in IT is turning you into a ringtone.”

  “I hate you.”

  She doesn’t sound annoyed.

  “I didn’t peg you as a Mellencamp fan.”

  “I’ll never be able to show my face there again.”

  “We’re thinking of renting a karaoke machine for Christmas this year so you can serenade us all again. I’d like to request ‘Small Town’.”

  “Shuddup. NEXT!”

  Eventually, the line dies down enough that I’m just sitting, watching Lauren work. Her mom went to get lunch, so it’s just us in the tent now. I could get up and socialize, but I’m fine right here, where Lauren’s knee brushes against mine every time she reaches for more paint.

  Our last client of the day is a little girl with big glasses and poofy brown hair. She steps up to the front of the line with her $20 bill in hand, deposits the cash in the donation jar, and then proudly proclaims she wants a unicorn on her left cheek. Her confidence evaporates the moment her bottom hits the chair.

  She holds up her hands like Lauren is brandishing a hot poker. “WAIT! Will it hurt?”

  Lauren tries hard not to laugh. “No, of course not. It’s just paint.”

  The girl squeezes her eyes closed. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

  “How about I paint a little bit on your hand and you can tell me if it hurts. Does that sound okay?”

  The little girl rips her hand out of Lauren’s grasp before she can do it. “NO!”

  I lean forward. “How about this: I’ll get one if you get one?”

  Her eyes light up and she nearly falls off her chair in a fit of giggles. “You can’t get your face painted! You’re too big and old!”

  Lauren turns to me and winks. “I think what she means to say is that no man as masculine and strong as you could possibly handle getting a unicorn painted on his cheek.”

  “Try me.”

  A minute later, I’m sitting on the table and Lauren is standing in front of me, positioned between my legs. If we weren’t in the middle of a fundraiser, I’d pull her closer to me and curve my hands around her ass. Her jeans are killer—tight in all the right places.

  “Hold still,” she hisses, nudging my hand from where it was resting on her waist.

  Oops.

  Cold paint hits my cheek and the little girl erupts into another fit of laughter.

  “It’s PINK! She’s using PINK!”

  I can’t help but smile.

  “No!” Lauren groans half-heartedly. “Don’t smile or you’ll mess it up.”

  She steps closer and uses her finger to wipe a spot that must have smudged. I catch a whiff of her perfume and have to train my eyes to look anywhere but right in front of me. Her chest is inches from my face. She’s wearing a sweater, not a bikini, and yet it’s enough to make me want to do something indecent.

  “Done yet?”

  “Not even close. I want it to look perfect.”

  “Hey,” the little girls says, “that’s not a—”

  “SHH!” Lauren snaps. “Don’t tell him. It’s a surprise.”

  Oh god, I should have known she wasn’t going to play by the rules.

  “I agreed to a unicorn. I’m a lawyer, y’know—I can sue you for breach of contract.”

  Her hazel eyes meet mine. “I know, but this is better than a unicorn. Believe me.”

  I’m not allowed to look until the little girl finishes getting her face painted. Together, at the same time, we lift the mirrors up and inspect our new ink. The little girl screams with glee. I laugh. There’s not a unicorn on my left cheek; there’s a massive pink heart with initials drawn in the very center: BF <3 LL.

  Lauren won’t meet my eyes when I drop the mirror.

  “BF hearts LL, huh?”

  “Could be Lindsay Lohan, or Lucy Liu. Guess we’ll never know.”

  She shrugs and starts putting away her paints. We’re wrapping up for the day.

  “I’m going to guess Lauren LeBlanc.” I hold up the mirror again. “That’s a pretty big heart.”

  It takes up my entire cheek and some of my jaw.

  “Is it?”

  “Why’d you put my initials first? I heart you? Not the other way around?”

  She bites down on her lip to conceal her smile. “Duh. You heart me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You face-heart me so much,” she taunts.

  I forget for a second that we’re at a busy party and reach out to tug her toward me. Her body is flush with mine when I glance down at her.

  “This isn’t about the brunette who came into my line to get her face painted, is it?”

  She shrugs innocently, looking away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I cradle her chin and force her to turn back to me. Her eyes meet mine, and it’s like she has me wrapped around her little finger.

  “Jealous, Lauren?”

  She narrows her eyes. “No!”

  “You just painted your initials on my face.”

  “Because the little girl asked me to.”

  “She wanted you to do a unicorn.”

  Her cheeks are flushed. “Like I said, artistic license. I’m your unicorn, and you heart me. I thought everyone should know it.”

  “Does that mean I should claim you too? Draw my initials on you?”

  Her hips are pressed against mine.

  “Are we still talking about face paint?”

  I smile and bend down, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. Her bottom lip puffs out when I pull away.

  “What are we doing now?” she asks, fidgety, anxious. “Are you going to take me up to my room and play out all my fantasies?”

  I resist the urge to groan.

  “Have you ever fantasized about me helping you clean up this tent?”

  “Now you’re talking.” She feigns a sexy little groan. “Soak the brushes. I’ll spray off the palettes.”

  “And then we’re going to get some food because I haven’t eaten.”

  “Yes.” It’s breathy and guttural. “Keep going.”

  I tip my head down until our foreheads touch. “And then after, we’re going to…we’re going to…”

  “Uh huh…”

  “…hang out with our parents.”

  “Oh my god, Beau.” She slaps my chest mildly. “You dirty dog.”

  I can’t help but laugh, reaching down and twining my fingers with hers.

  “There’s no reason to rush this, Lauren.”

  She mumbles something I don’t catch the first time and when I ask again, she shakes her head.

  “Fine.” She drags me behind her. “If we aren’t going to get it on, I at least want to get some of the jambalaya before it’s all gone.”

  THAT NIGHT, SHE texts me when I’m in bed reading. I program her number into my phone and text her back.

  LAUREN: Did you wash the heart off yet?

  BEAU: Immediately upon walking through my front door.

  LAUREN: :( All that hard work…

  BEAU: We can discuss getting permanent tattoos if you’re that broken up about it.

  LAUREN: Tattoos where? Be descriptive.

  BEAU: Left ass cheek. Delicate. Black ink with red shading.

  LAUREN: Better go with calligraphy font so all your future hookups know you’re a classy guy.

  BEAU: I’d probably keep my boxers on, just to be safe.

  LAUREN: Speaking of your boxers, what are you wearing now?

  BEAU: …

  LAUREN: What do ellipses mean? Nothing? Faded yellow banana hammock? That Borat mankini?

  BEAU: Let’s go to breakfast in the morning.

  LAUREN: You are killing me.

  BEAU: Feeling’s mutual.

  LAUREN: What if I only want you for your body?

  BEAU: My body will be at The Ruby Slipper on Magazine at 10:00 AM tomorrow morning.

  LAUREN: I’m going to drizzle my pancakes with syrup and eat them really slowly and suggestively. You’ll have to bite down on your fist.

  BE
AU: I’ll take my chances.

  SUNDAY IS ONE for the books—specifically, my memoir, titled:

  Slow Burn

  How One Woman’s Sexy Suffering Led Her to Spontaneously Combust

  The ending is predictable (I die), but the middle is filled with so much angst that it will be worth a read. Housewives across America will dissect my life at book clubs over boxed wine from Target, postulating where it all went wrong for me.

  It starts with breakfast.

  I show up 20 minutes early because I was worried I would hit any number of unexpected delays—traffic, charity 5ks, parades, a slow-moving grandma with a walker that’s missing a tennis ball. I help her cross the road and she tells me her life story, which is so long that I become a slow-moving grandma by the end.

  Turns out, my worrying was for nothing. I’m early. My taxi pulls up outside the restaurant and I have the driver loop around the block five times before he asks if I’m helping rob a bank or something. I smile and tell him the only thing I’m hoping to steal today is a kiss. He frowns and tells me to get out.

  The restaurant is busy and I do a quick loop to make sure Beau isn’t inside waiting for me. After, I slink into the bathroom to stall and use the opportunity to check my appearance. I’m wearing a cream-colored sweater dress and soft brown leather boots. The outfit seemed nice when I put it on at my apartment, but now it looks like I tried a little too hard. I wipe off the red lipstick (WHO WEARS LIPSTICK ON A SUNDAY MORNING?!) and dab on some lip balm instead. Better. I adjust my dress and confirm that the material hugs my butt like a clingy toddler. My blonde curls are cooperating for once in my life, so I take a second and shoot a quick thank you up to the savior.

  Paul Mitchell, that is.

  I tug out my phone. I should text Beau and ask if he’s close, but that’s not part of Playing It Cool. I shove my phone back into my purse and stroll out to the foyer. He’s there standing at the hostess stand, telling her his name. She’s leaned in close, listening to his every syllable while her gaze is on his lips.