“I didn’t get any work done the rest of the day. I wanted you so bad it hurt.”
How could she have missed it?
Her mouth forms a little circle and her eyes go wide. She can’t meet my gaze, so I step around her stool, grip her shoulders, and turn her to face me. Her knees squeeze together magnetically.
“I stopped us that day because I didn’t want us to have sex in my office. It’s not exactly the way I imagined our first time.”
Her fingers absently go to my shirt. She’s playing with one of the buttons and then her finger slips through the gap in fabric and she’s lightly brushing my chest. Blood rushes south.
“So you’ve imagined our first time?”
I smile. “Hey, I’m still asking the questions.”
“Objection overruled. Now tell me, have you?”
“Every day for the last few weeks. I only take cold showers. I work out 30 minutes longer than I usually do. You haven’t let me kiss you in two weeks.”
She laughs. “Hilarious! I’m going to kill Rose.”
“Why?”
“She was the one to suggest that my kissing skills were to blame, that it might’ve clued you in to how inexperienced I am.”
“So if Rose hadn’t speculated that, you and I would have—”
She laughs and finally meets my gaze. Her hazel eyes are alight with humor. “Oh yeah, if she hadn’t broken my confidence, we’d have had sex ages ago—lots of it. We’d probably both need metal plates and screws in our pelvises by now.”
My hand slips under her curls and wraps around her neck. I can feel her little pulse against my thumb. Her heart is racing. I tug her closer and her head tips back to look up at me.
I’m seconds away from kissing her, but I need to finish clearing the air.
“I’m sorry about the other night. I took my anger out on you, and I regret that.”
She’s watching my mouth as I talk. I don’t think she’s listening to a word I’m saying.
“Lauren?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you accept my apology?”
“Yes, sure, and I’m sorry too, for the lying.” Her finger is absentmindedly drawing circles on my chest. She squirms and presses closer. “Can we talk about this another time? I’d really like you to kiss me now, and maybe break my pelvis.”
She arches up toward me at the same time that her hands go to my shoulders. She’s yanking me down with all her weight, trying to bring her lips closer to mine.
Her floral perfume hits me, and I’m reminded of why I chose roses at the florist this morning.
Our lips brush together, but I still don’t kiss her. “I think I should torture you like you’ve been torturing me these last few weeks. It’s ridiculous—I walk you home every night and you’ve been shaking my hand.”
Her expression turns pleading. “Don’t. Please, Beau.” Our lips brush together gently with every word she says. “This isn’t fair. I did that because I was scared, not because I didn’t want you! Kiss me or I’m going to die.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Your lips are so soft.”
I smile against her mouth. Our eyes are still open. Her hands are tiny little claws on my shoulders and I reach out instinctively, bringing her to the edge of the stool so our hips are better aligned. If she thinks I’m not interested, there should be no confusion now.
The door opens behind us and Lauren curses loudly—subcontractors, ready to get started for the day. When they see us, they stop dead in their tracks.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am—err, sir. We can come back.”
Lauren doesn’t move.
“It’s Carnival season, don’t mind us,” she calls. “Come right on in and pretend we aren’t even here.”
I laugh and step back. She moves with me. One more inch and she’ll tip off the edge of the stool.
“I thought you were good at holding a grudge?” I taunt.
“I am. Nothing has changed. Come over for dinner tonight.”
“You’re finally inviting me up to your apartment?”
“Yes. 7:30, be there—and bring wine and more cake. We have unfinished business.”
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 t
hing 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.