I shook my head one more time as I finished moisturizing every inch of my body. Pulling on simple black cotton undies and matching bra from my latest microfiber line, I spoke sternly to my image in the mirror. “You should have kicked his fine ass out. You so don’t need this.”
“Dinner’s almost done. Just simmering a bit. Ready whenever you are,” Beau called through the door. He had a voice like maple syrup and somehow made a dinner announcement sound like an invitation to bed. Or was that just my needy imagination?
I sighed. I was making more out of this than was necessary. “Be out in a sec.”
“Take your time; we’re playing by your rules this weekend.”
Damn straight. I stepped into tan yoga pants and a green tank top before looking at my reflection one more time. “Quit overthinking, Delaney.”
“Did you say something?” he asked, clearly still standing by the door.
I swung the door open. “I’m starving, sugar. What’s for dinner?”
He took a step back and appraised me lazily from head to toe.
I raised a brow. “Seriously?”
“A man can’t look?” Beau queried with a careless shrug.
“Not in this direction. Don’t even bother,” I snapped, and instantly knew it was the wrong thing to say to a man like Beau.
“Is that a challenge?” Of course he saw it as such. Nothing piqued a hunter’s interest as much as forbidden prey.
In lieu of an answer, I strode past him to the kitchen. The smells coming from the pans on the stove were amazing. Lifting the lid on one pot, I almost moaned. Shrimp, scallops, and veggies were nestled into a tomato-based sauce. I reached for a spoon.
He reached around and smacked my hand. “Get a plate, chérie.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled two plates out of the cabinet. “What is it? It smells heavenly.”
“My version of a quick and dirty spin on étouffée—nothing fancy.” He dished fluffy rice onto the plate before ladling the fragrant seafood and veggie mix over the top. He opened the oven and pulled out a tray of French bread. Breaking off a chunk, he added it to the plate before handing it to me.
My gaze ran from the delicious meal and then back to him. “You whipped this up in twenty minutes?”
He let a slow smile slide across his face. “You’d be amazed what I can do in twenty minutes, ma petite chou.”
I ignored the obvious double entendre and headed for the dining table. “You can save all that, sugar.”
Setting a wine glass beside me, he poured some Chardonnay for both of us and sat down in the seat directly across from me. “Save all what, ma douce?”
Clasping my hands together and bowing my head, I murmured a quick prayer over my food before digging in. Dear God, that was delicious. I closed my eyes and moaned appreciatively, “That’s better than sex.”
“You haven’t been doing it right,” Beau said in a husky murmur.
Blinking my eyes open, I set the fork down and took a long sip of wine before answering. “That. That’s what I’m talking about right there.”
“What?” He tried to give me an innocent look.
I wasn’t buying it. “All the innuendo and the silky seductive tones—save that for someone else.”
“You think my voice is silky and seductive?”
“Beau. I know you, okay?”
“Ms. Richards, we’ve never met. I would remember.”
I slapped my hand down on the table. “I mean, I know you. You’re the panty-getter, the best looking guy in the room, Mr. Charming. I’ve met you. I’ve been with guys just like you. I’ve seen you a thousand times over. I’m done with all that drama, sweetheart.”
He looked at me over his wineglass as he swirled the liquid in a slow circle. I met his gaze unflinchingly. He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Friends then?”
Finishing another bite, I grinned. “A man that can cook like this? You bet. We can definitely be friends.”
He arched a brow. “With benefits?”
I threw back my head and laughed. He wouldn’t be Beau if he didn’t try. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? I never say never. Let’s just leave it at that for tonight.”
4
Cotton Candy
Beau—Sunday, March 27, 7: 51 PM
Belle was lounging, stretched out with her feet up and twirling the ice in her glass when the realization hit me. She turned her head in the direction of the setting sun as we sat on Katrina’s balcony enjoying our third and final dinner together of the weekend. No makeup, hair combed artlessly back from her face, and I couldn’t remember seeing a more beautiful woman. She was flawless. And that was really saying something. I confess to having critiqued a good number of fine-looking women in my day. Okay, more than a good number. I love women; is it my bad they love me back?
People act like it’s some sort of crime to appreciate the beauty and bounty of a woman . . . well, yes, women plural. I was always upfront. I never led anyone on. When you tell a woman, “Don’t fall in love with me. I’m not sticking around. I’m not husband material,” it doesn’t get any clearer than that. Women seemed to find that a challenge. What’s a man to do?
Yes, I’ve been in long-term relationships. My college girlfriend and I were together for about four years. And then there was Alexa. She was a model as well. We were actually engaged. I was never really sure why she broke off the engagement. I was doing a photo shoot in Milan, she flew in, gave me the ring back, wished me luck, and I haven’t seen her since. I wasn’t cheating. I mean, I wasn’t around a lot, but I thought she and I would have made a beautiful couple. Had beautiful kids in a beautiful house.
So see? Not a complete dog. Or what did Jewellen call me the other day? A man-ho? That was so unfair. And patently untrue. A ho is indiscriminate; I consider myself very discerning.
What was I talking about before I got sidetracked? Oh. Belle. Yeah. If I was a man for serious relationships, I’d make a play. If she gave me half an indication of being interested in a fling, I’d make a play. I couldn’t remember the last time I had spent an entire weekend in a beautiful woman’s company when I hadn’t made a serious move. More than forty-eight hours with no sex was involved... and I enjoyed it.
If you had told me that I would enjoy running errands and grocery shopping, I would have doubted your sanity. But hanging with Belle while she picked through stacks of avocadoes and tomatoes in the quest for the perfect guacamole fixings was more fun than I’d had in ages.
After stocking up on supplies for the house, she invited me to go house hunting with her. Since she and Katrina were going to be working near the Fashion District in Dallas, she wanted a full-service place with relative low maintenance in the downtown area. Within a five to ten minute drive were the Dallas Market Hall and Trade Center, a mecca for those in the apparel business.
We drove around the area, and I played tour guide while getting a feel for what she was looking for in short-term housing. On a whim, I drove her to the W Residences near the arts district. She could have hotel amenities, concierge service, and a sleek loft-style condo only fifteen minutes from the Dallas Trade Center and less than five minutes from Katrina’s condo. She loved it. As luck would have it, one of the units that was up for sale was also available for month-to-month rental.
I watched her bargain a lower price in exchange for paying six months’ cash up front. She also got the owner to agree to leave a good portion of the furniture. She reminded me of Madere, my mother, the way she negotiated so politely the person thought it was their idea all along.
We celebrated her new housing over Mexican food and margaritas. We ended the evening with a fist bump in the hallway before she went to her bedroom and I retired to mine. That alone should have let me know that my mojo was missing in action.
We spent today chilling. Usually, I spent Sundays at Pops and Madere’s house but I wasn’t up to any more chatter from Rome and Jewel. Instead, I scanned the job boards to see if anything interested me (no
thing did). I moved some money around, checked my stock portfolio, and caught up on my e-mail.
The whole day Belle remained hunched over her laptop and sketchbook. I finally suggested a movie. She agreed and had no issues when I chose the latest action blockbuster with car chases and explosions.
When we returned to the house, she offered to cook. We dined out on the balcony. It wasn’t until right this minute that I realized what a cool weekend I was having. Drama-free. Breezy, full of laughter and light-hearted moments. The conversation never lagged, and the silence was never uncomfortable. It was just . . . easy.
Now that’s pause-worthy. How often did a woman like that cross your path? A woman who looked like that, had her act together, and possessed that elusive cool factor thing, too? That’s possibly all five w’s. That’s a woman you had to give some serious consideration. That’s not a woman to keep in the Friend Zone. Just as I thought about making a play, she tilted her head slightly, and it clicked where I’d seen her before. Oh shit! How had I missed that?
“You’re Delaney!”
She turned fully toward me and beamed, flashing a trademark pearly-toothed countenance that had graced many a magazine cover. “Guilty as charged. Delany Mirabella Richards, to be exact. Why do you make it sound like an accusation?”
How did I not know this? I wondered. So I asked out loud, “How did I not know this?” Me, who prided myself on possessing an encyclopedic memory of the hottest models of the last two decades; I should have recognized her at first glance. Especially since my first glance had been quite a glorious eyeful.
For a while there, Delaney was the supermodel of supermodels. Magazine covers, runway shows, and cosmetic campaigns—she rocked them all. She hit big just as I was getting out of the business, so our paths never crossed professionally but I definitely had her on my radar.
Looking at her now as she raised and dropped her shoulders in a who knows? gesture, I saw not much had changed. She’d cut her hair; it used to hang to her waist. She had added maybe ten pounds here and there, but it landed in all the right places. I took my time letting my eyes wander along her frame. Yes, sir. All. The. Right. Places. Good Lawd.
She raised a brow. “Beau, we had an agreement.”
I leaned back casually. “What was that, chérie?”
“We agreed to keep things on a friendly basis.”
“Am I not being friendly?” I loved a good banter. Lately, it seemed all I had to do was smile and crook a finger and women fell in my lap. It was hella-boring. Where was the challenge in that? But this right here? Maybe this was what I needed. An honest-to-goodness challenge worthy of my determined pursuit.
Belle sat back in her chair and wagged her head at me. “It’s so funny. I can actually tell what you’re thinking. Don’t waste your time, darlin’ man.”
If she only knew, I had nothing but time to waste. I grinned wolfishly and lowered the tone of my voice. “Enlighten me. What do you think I’m thinking?”
“You’re thinking I’m a challenge and you’re a little bored.”
Well damn. I had to laugh, “You got me, chérie.”
She smirked. “Normally, I’d be flattered, and I’d play the game with you.”
“What if it’s not a game?”
She gave me a look. “Isn’t it all a game?”
I conceded the point. “Maybe. But? It sounded like you had a but coming behind that statement.”
“I’m a busy woman, Beauregard.”
“Vraiment—but, beautiful, I’ll do all the work. All you have to do is say yes.”
She raised her eyes to meet mine and let a slow smile spread across her face. Busy woman or not, she was enjoying the banter as much as I was. “You’re good, sugar. I’ll give you that.”
I nodded seriously. “You don’t know the half. You should try me and find out.”
She flung her head back in a full-bodied laugh. “I’ve no doubt. Beau, we would be quite the fling, wouldn’t we? But I have neither the time nor the energy for the kind of diversions you have in mind.”
“All work and no play, Belle?”
She let out a deep sigh. “Beau, if you don’t mind me asking... what do you do?”
“Bonne question.”
“You don’t know what you do for a living?” She slanted me a confused glance.
“Ah well, there’s a question. Let’s just say, I’m between enterprises at the moment.”
She rolled her eyes. “Let me break it down: ex-model, pretty boy, mid- to late-thirties, unless I miss my guess. No job, no home, no wife, no kids. Flashy car, elegant wardrobe, barely respectable bank account, off-the-chart charm, and ridiculous bedroom game. You are all play and no work. Mr. Montgomery, you are cotton candy.”
She lost me on that one. She was close on most of it except my bank account. Happily, thanks to smart investing, I could probably buy and sell her company a few times over if I wished. That cotton candy thing, though? She needed to explain. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a sweet treat. Tempting as hell. Good to look at and delicious to boot. But you’re all good times and no substance. And, ultimately, too much of you probably makes people sick. It’s not a knock. I’m not saying it to be mean. There’s a place in the world for cotton-candy people.”
Well, le ouch. Did she just reduce me to a sugar high at the state fair? Damned if I would let her know that stung. A lot. I sent her one of my patented smiles. “Don’t you ever just crave something sticky and sweet, chérie?”
She got up and started clearing plates from the table. Turning toward the door, she looked over her shoulder at me. “You’ll be the first to know if I do. Good night, Beau.” She disappeared into the house and closed the door behind her.
I sat there looking over the Dallas skyline. What just happened? It wasn’t that I’d never been turned down before. I had, most definitely. At some point. But no one had ever dismissed me. She called me sugared fluff, for Christ’s sake! Sitting here on my sister’s patio without a plan of what to do when the sun rose in the morning, I had to acknowledge some truth to her words, and that smarted more than I cared to delve into.
I was back to my thought from Friday night. I was too old for this shit. I needed to pull it together. Looking down, I saw Belle’s sketchbook. Pulling it toward me, I began to flip through the book. Her ideas for a menswear line along with some sketched designs filled the pages. It looked like she was blending old Hollywood glamour with modern fabrics and unique tailoring details.
Picking up a red pen from the set she’d left on the table, I jotted a note next to one of the designs. And then I added another and another. Before I knew it, ideas were pouring out of me onto her pages. I may be sugared fluff but I knew what clothing looked good on men. The least I could do was offer a male perspective to her and Katrina’s designs. Apparently, that was all I was good for this evening.
5
More than Just a Pretty Face
Belle—11:52 PM the same day
Dammit. I couldn’t sleep. I felt bad. I shouldn’t have said that stuff to Beau. I just wanted to dissuade him from whatever pursuit he was about to mount. I knew it was coming. I’d enjoyed his company all weekend long. That surprised me. I really didn’t think he was that three-dimensional. It turned out that Beau had a keen mind to go along with that sense of humor, wit, and charm. Disconcertingly, he had the same taste in movies, music, and loft space that I did. Beyond the crazy, sexy, pretty exterior beat the heart and personality of a likeable man.
But I knew there would come the moment when he did what guys like Beau do. They have to do it. They turn on the charm, dial up the heat, and next thing you know—naked shenanigans. My current rule in that regard? Don’t start none, won’t be none. So I shut him down before he got started.
Not that what I said was wrong; it was just raw and coming from a mean-spirited place. And even though he tried to hide his reaction, I could tell I hit a soft spot. Then again, who wants to be told they are pastel, spun confectiona
ry sugar? I should’ve known better. Especially from one former model to another. I knew what it was to want to rock a “I am more than just a pretty face” T-shirt 24/7, just to be taken seriously.
With that in mind, I rolled out of bed where I had been tossing and turning anyway and went in search of Beau. I peeked inside the second guest room that he was using but he wasn’t there, and the bed hadn’t been slept in.
I cut through the living room and only as I was heading toward the kitchen did I glance outside. He was sprawled across one of the deck chairs sleeping soundly. Stepping closer, I noticed he had my sketchbook in his hands. “What in the entire holy hell?!” I raced onto the deck and snatched the book out of his hands.
He blinked up at me sleepily. “Hey you.”
Dammit, the man even woke up sexy. I wasn’t having it. “What are you doing with my designs?” Flipping open one of the pages, I noticed notes scribbled in a different color pen and handwriting. “Did you write in here?”
Sitting up slowly, he shrugged. “Just a thought or two.”
I started to deliver a scathing barrage of scorn when I actually read the note next to the drawing of a man’s dress shirt. Add pale blue contrast stitching at wrist and collar. If produced in silk and linen, good for club and vacation wear. My mouth fell open. I would have never thought of that, and the contrast thread would add a custom touch to make buyers feel as if they were buying a one-of-a-kind product. I tapped his legs so he would swing them out of the way and kept reading. All of his suggestions took my designs to the next level. That elite couture, recognizable on sight level. The man was a genius.
“You’re a genius!” His random thoughts were going to elevate my designs from pretty good to all-world epic.
He wiped the sleep from his eyes and blinked at me. “Can’t say I’ve ever been accused of that before.”
I nudged him. “No, seriously, these ideas are brilliant.”
He looked embarrassed and shrugged again. “Glad you like them.”
Pretty Boy Problems Page 3