Page 21 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
I tug it close around me, getting a hint of his scent. “Thank you.”
We continue walking until we reach an alleyway.
I hesitate. “Is this what I think it is?”
“If you’re worried I’m going to drag you down here and—” He slices his throat. “No. It’s the back entrance.”
Glancing around, I recognize we’re behind the Ice Palace, the Knights’ arena, which doubles as a convention center. I’ve beenhere a few times over the years, once for a bridal show with my mother and another time for a golf expo with my dad.
Never for hockey.
Why would Beau bring us here?
“For your information, I don’t wander into strange alleys with strange men. We’re hardly on a first-name basis.”
He takes a few steps closer to me. The dim light makes his green eyes dark, but I’m not afraid. I get the sense he’d sooner throw himself in front of a moving train or the dumpster fire on trolley wheels that is my family than hurt me.
His voice is indeed splendid with his subtle accent when he says, “A strange man? You know that I’m Beau Hammer.”
True, he’s not particularly odd—according to Juniper’s “Male Scale,” he probably qualifies as normal, but just to be safe, I ask, “What’s your middle name?” If it’s Tate, I’ll take that as a sign to run away.
“Francois.” His accent is something of an afterthought, but it appears when he says this.
“That’s fancy.”
“It means free man. Ironic,” he mutters.
“Are you nobility or something?”
Beau tucks his chin and his gaze narrows. “You’re cheeky, you know that.”
Even though I know what he means by cheeky, I glance over my shoulder at my backside, wondering anew if this dress flatters my figure. “My mother said I look like a can of pea soup stuffed in this garment.”
“Pardon my saying so but your mother is ridiculous.”
“Celeste added that I look like a can of pea soup with botulism.”
“She should lay off the Botox.”
Beau circles me in the dim light of the alley like a naval officer evaluating whether my dress whites are squared away.
When he stops in front of me, we stand toe to toe. He wears the closest thing that approximates a smile that I’ve seen all night. It lifts to his eyes and they shine. “You wear the dress well.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
My brow ripples as I call back an expression about how some people wear the clothes or the clothes wear them. Knowing I won’t extract a more satisfying answer out of him, I turn the tables.
“Are you a junior or a third?” I press, inquiring about his status.
“No.”
“Neither? Blink once if yes. Twice if no. Or is it the other way around?”
I lift my gaze to his and all I see is amusement.
“Moving on. Do you intend to name your firstborn Beau?” I ask.
