Don't miss
Pretty Boy Problems
by Michele Grant
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Responsible, mature, employed ... everything Avery Beauregard Montgomery is
not.
Instead, Beau is a natural born charmer. He has breezed through life on his dazzling looks, six-pack abs, and sparkling personality. But this pretty boy's luck has run out... .
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In stores August 2012
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“J
esu Christo
what a day!” I muttered under my breath as I slid behind the wheel of my black convertible Porsche. With a sigh, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. Here we go again. This was getting old. By this, I meant having to start over from ground zero and rebuild.
I mean,
merde
! One of these days, I was going to do the right thing just because it's the right thing to do. Thirty-eight years old and not a lot of tangible achievement to show for it. No home, no job ... no life to speak of.
This wasn't my plan when I started out years ago. As the first born child of Avery and Alanna Montgomery, I planned to blaze a trail for my younger brother Roman and younger sister Katrina to follow. My childhood was golden; I had no recollection of Pops and Madere struggling to make ends meet. When we moved from Louisiana to Dallas, it was an easy transition for the whole family.
After years of civil servant jobs, Pops had opened a trucking company. Madere worked as his Operations Manager. They worked hard and the company remained successful until the day they sold it a little over five years ago.
I grew up as an athlete, a scholar, and generally known as “that nice Montgomery boy” around the neighborhood. Sometime in junior high, I sprung up eight inches all arms and legs. My ass was gangly. My head was too big, nose too prominent, lips too wide for my face.
Thankfully, by the time I reached high school, I had grown into both my features and six-foot-four frame. It seemed like overnight I went from being the smart nice boy with quiet manners to “that dude” that guys envied and girls wanted. I liked the feeling, I liked it a lot.
I excelled in sports without very much effort and excelled in my classes with very little studying. Apparently, I looked good doing both. Vividly, I can recall the day that I realized the full advantage of attractiveness. I had stayed out with a friend enjoying a lil' female companionship the night before a major project was due. For the first time, I skipped turning in a homework assignment.
When I got to class the next day, my teacher asked me why I hadn't turned in my assignment. I had no valid answer so I decided to wing it. On a whim, I walked up to Miss Whisler's desk and knelt beside her looking into her eyes. In a soft voice, I apologized swearing it would never happen again. After a slight pause, she blushed. Then she told me it was okay, just this once.
My friend who was just as nice, held the same grade point average but wasn't quite as easy on the eyes was given an incomplete and an afternoon in detention. It was a turning point for me. I got it. In an illuminating moment it was all clear to me. Beyond brains, beyond brawn, beyond brown skin and whisky gold eyes ... I had “it”âthat indefinable charisma that drew people.
You can call it charm, maybe it's second nature, I don't know. But I realized I had it and I was going to make it work for me. Having “it” meant that sure, I could work hard for extra credit or I could spend that time in a more entertaining pursuit and charm my way to the grade I wanted anyway.
Yeah, yeahâI realize that the day I decided to use my looks, wit and smile was the day I stopped trailblazing. It was the day I got comfortable. But I'm not sure that if I had to do it all again, I wouldn't do it exactly the same way.
I had a combination of academic and athletic scholarship offers. Baseball was the sport I loved. I played short stop, I could run, hit, throw and jump with minimal contact. I chose Tulane because it was back home (still considered Louisiana home) and I knew I could be a big fish in a little pond there. Baseball paid for my first two years of college. Officially, I majored in marketing. Unofficially, I majored in women. I received high marks for both pursuits.
Right before my junior year, a talent scout from a modeling agency “discovered” me in Café du Monde late one summer night and sent me to New York. Modeling part time paid for the last two years of college when I transferred to LSU. Once I graduated, I moved to New York and modeled full-time.
What they don't tell you about modeling? It's boring as hell. The majority of your time is spent waiting around or running to catch a flight. You are treated like a commodity and not a very smart one at that. But tell me what else I could do that paid me $5000 plus expenses for two day's work?
I lasted for ten years, that's five times the average male model's career. I earned a decent nest egg which contrary to popular belief, I have not blown through. I buy myself a new car every two years and pick up jobs here and there as I see fit.
At thirty-eight years of age, I was a man still waiting for my purpose in life to reveal itself. I wished it would hurry the hell up. There had to be more than this. Forty was just around the corner. I had no intention of becoming “that guy”âthe one who had all the potential and pissed it away? The one still chasing twenty-year-old tail in his forties? I couldn't be that guy. If I knew nothing else, I knew I was better than that.
But for right now, this instant? I needed a place to lay my head for a minute. Wiping my hand down my face, I started the engine and made a ten minute drive south along Central Expressway.
That's how I found myself, fresh off a firing by my brother and an eviction by my sister-in-law, standing outside my sister's high-rise condo in downtown Dallas hoping (praying) she was out of town.
Kat was a model as well and frequently jetted off for days at a time. I was pretty sure that she was doing a beach shoot on the other side of the planet and would be there for a week or so. At least I hoped so. If Kat was home, she would want explanations, she would want chatter and explanations and I wasn't in the mood for anymore soul searching.
With my laptop case slung over my left shoulder and a garment bag in my hand, I leaned on the doorbell. After a few minutes with no response, I dug into my pocket for the spare key I had made for emergency situations such as the one I found myself in now.
“Kat?” I called out as I stepped in the door. “Katrina? It's Beau.”
Still no answer. With a relieved sigh, I set the bags down in the entryway and ventured deeper into the unit. I strolled past the open great room with kitchen and living area attached, ignored the guest rooms and bath for now and headed for the master suite.
It wasn't until I was outside the master bath door that I heard the shower running and Maxwell crooning.
I sighed.
A brother cannot catch a break today
, I thought as I pushed open the door. Fog and the strong scents of ginger and peaches wafted heavy throughout the area. I stepped deeper into the room, Kat's shower was a huge glass and tile enclosed box on the far side of the room. Without pausing, I yanked open the shower door and dove into my explanations, “Kit-Kat, it's Beau. I'm staying a few nights. No lectures, okay?”
A startled scream came from the wet woman under the hot stream at the exact moment I realized it wasn't my sister Katrina in the shower. No indeed, it was not. Instead, I allowed my eyes to roam up and down the lovely frame of a tall sister around 5'10”, with short hair a la Halle Berry, curves for days, high cheekbones, lush lips and widely set big brown eyes currently widened with alarm.
“What in the entire hell is this?” The sudsy, angry and gloriously naked vision before me spoke.
Now you know, I considered myself to be quite a connoisseur of the female form; and this right here was a mighty fine specimen. Taking my time, I leaned against the tile wall and looked my fill in blatant appreciation. “Well now ... you're not Kit-Kat.”
Regaining her composure, the young woman turned the water off and reached for her towel. “A gentleman would have averted his eyes.” She spoke with a decidedly deep Southern drawl all warm and whisky-laden. Something about her struck me as familiar. I rarely forgot a face or a figure like hers.
“I've never claimed to be a gentleman.” I answered honestly. I took a step back to allow her to pass. She was a cool one, seemingly unfazed to find herself near naked in my sister's bathroom with a strange man.
She tucked the towel around her chest tightly and shot me a look. “You must be Beau.”
I tilted my head in acknowledgement. “
Mais oui
, in the flesh and at your service.”
“Well Beau, I'm Belle. Your sister and I are designing a clothing line together. She invited me to stay here until I find a place of my own. She didn't mention anything about additional houseguests.” Her tone, though pleasant, was stern. She wanted me gone. I needed to stay. So here we stood.
I gave a quick shrug. “She didn't know. I'm an unexpected drop in. Just here for a day or two. Are you going to send me out into the hot Texas evening with no place to go,
chérie
?”
“How is it that you have an accent and she doesn't?” Belle inquired as she perched on the edge of the vanity chair and reached for some lotion.
“Some of us cling tighter to our roots than others.” Truthfully, I liked to let a li'l Louisiana roll off my tongue from time to time. The fact that ladies seemed to love it was all the more reason to sprinkle it in the mix. I flashed my most charming smile and headed for the door. “So what's it gonna be, Belle? Shall I start dinner or head for the elevator?”
Belle tilted her head to the side and assessed me with serious consideration. Long moments passed as she eyed me up and down. Finally she shrugged, “You have the weekend and then I talk to Kat. I'm partial to fish on Fridays.”
Score! My smile spread. There was never a deal Beau Montgomery couldn't close given forty-eight hours, a set agenda and a beautiful woman. “Seafood it is.” I slipped out the door and closed it behind me. I laughed softly when I heard the click of the lock. She might be a cool one but she was no fool.