Dishing Up Love

by KD Robichaux

  “I think that’s my favorite feature of this style architecture,” Curtis says thoughtfully, and I glance up to see him looking at the entrance.

  “The doors?” I ask, a little confused. There’s nothing really special about the door here. It’s just wooden and painted green.

  He shakes his head. “Not the doors themselves. The placement of them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen doors made right into the corner of a building before today. Like, right where two sides of the building meet, bam! That’s where you go in. I bet that’s a bitch to install when they have to replace the doorframes and stuff, trying to get it all aligned and level.” When I raise a brow at him in question, he answers, “My yaya’s husband has been a contractor since he retired from the military. When I was a teenager, it was my first job.”

  “Reeeally?” I trail my finger over his chest flirtatiously. “Not only could I fulfill my construction worker fantasy, but you actually know what you’re doing? My very own Chip Gaines,” I purr, rubbing up against him and watching his eyes flash. “See why Joanna is my idol? She’s got it all figured out. Get ya a guy to do all your neck-down work and design biddings. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.”

  He chuckles at my evil laughter. Pulling me ever closer. “Sugar, I’ll even walk around in just my tool belt, if it’ll make you happy. Anything to make you happy,” he murmurs just before he presses his lips to mine for a quick but oh so sweet kiss. “Now. Let’s see if these Hand Grenades are better than the ones we had on the tour.” He takes my hand and pulls me inside, walking up to the line at the bar.

  When I can calm my racing heart enough to speak—damn this man for making me go all gooey when I was just trying to be my normal goofy self—I tell him, “That bar we got our drinks at was owned by Tropical Isle. Hand Grenades are policed like a motherfucker around here. They don’t allow knockoffs. If they find out a bar or restaurant they don’t own is calling a drink a Hand Grenade, they sue their asses in a heartbeat. So if you can walk in somewhere and get one in their signature green bomb cup, it’s pretty safe to say it’s always going to taste exactly the same.”

  “Interesting,” he replies, and then smiles over my shoulder when the bartender asks what we’d like. “So do we want another one, or should we try something else?”

  “Mine was on the rocks. You could try the frozen one. Or there’s the Shark Attack. That’s one’s really good and they make a big scene when you order one. There’s also the Tropical Itch and the Horny Gator,” I supply, and his eyes twinkle at the name.

  “Oh, the Horny Gator. I gotta try that one!” he calls over to the bartender, who nods. “What do you want, sugar?”

  “Might as well match you drink for drink. That way you’ll know when I’m reaching that seventy-three percent sober level you were talking about earlier.” I shrug.

  He laughs at that, turning away just long enough to tell the bartender to make that two Horny Gators. “I’m sliiightly larger than you, babe. I don’t think our tolerance is the same.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a liver of steel and live in New Orleans. My tolerance is pretty damn high,” I retort, and he nods in acceptance.

  We find a table a few minutes later, after I tugged Curtis out of a chair he plopped into, not realizing where he was sitting. Without verbally answering his question of why I made him move, I point to where he’d previously been sitting. He turns to watch as a group of drunk coeds attempt to throw the little green plastic hand grenade that comes in the top of the drink this bar is famous for into a net situated right over where he’d been. It takes them several tries to make their bombs into the net, the people cackling and falling all over themselves as they chase the ones they drop all over the floor before attempting to throw them in again. One of the girls even falls into the chair Curtis just vacated, and I’m happy I won’t have to get into a bar brawl tonight.

  That thought makes me sit up straight, my brow furrowing, and Curtis notices.

  “What’s the matter? You look… perturbed,” he observes, taking a sip of his drink before glancing down into his green alligator-shaped souvenir cup adorned with little gator toys and licking his lips. “Damn, that’s good.”

  I try to change the subject, uncomfortable with my jealousy. “Oh! Do your trick! Do your trick!” I chant, but he shakes his head.

  “Nuh-uh. Not until you tell me what just made you look like you tasted something with arugula in it,” he states, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “How did you know I hate arugula?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

  He smiles. “Because when we were at the grocery story earlier, in the produce section, I heard you say ‘oh barf, arugula’ when we passed by it,” he informs me through a chuckle. “Now spill.”

  “I don’t care what people say. It’s arugula that’s the devil’s lettuce, not weed.” I shiver dramatically.

  “Uh-oh, do I have a little pothead on my hands?” he asks, taking another sip of his drink before moaning in approval at the flavor once more.

  I shake my head. “Nah, while it does have many amazing medical benefits for both mental and physical ailments, it just makes me super hungry and then sleepy, and I wake up with the worst belly ache. So after the third or fourth time smoking it in college, I decided it wasn’t for me.”

  “Sugar.” He gives me a pointed look. “Spill,” he orders.

  And I sigh, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms like a petulant child. “Hey, it was you who changed the subject that time. Not my fault.” He lifts a brow, his lips going in a straight line. “Fine. That girl fell into the chair you were sitting in before. Which means she would’ve fallen right in your lap if I hadn’t gotten you to move over here. The thought… irked me.”

  His nostrils flare, and I just know he’s trying not to smile. “It irked you?”

  I huff. “Yes. It fucking irked me! I had a momentary vision of a full-on cat fight where I took her by the hair and slung her across the bar, making her slide all the way down it and knocking over everyone’s drinks.”

  He nods slowly, eyeing me. “So in this momentary jealousy-induced vision, you had adrenaline-fueled super-strength.”

  I shrug one shoulder, lifting my hand to look at my nails before buffing them on my tank then glancing at them once more, as if I don’t have a care in the world. “Technically, it wasn’t jealousy; it was possessiveness. And kinda like Black Widow, not quite Wonder Woman. I’m a badass in my coed slinging fantasies, not an Amazon.”

  He just stares at me. Deep into my eyes, all over my face, down my body before the rest of it disappears beneath the table, back up to my eyes. I don’t know what he’s looking at or for, but I feel… seen for the first time in my entire life. And instead of making me want to squirm under his perusal, I bask in the feeling, because there’s nothing but awe in his expression.

  “You truly are the perfect woman, sugar. Gorgeous, with a brilliant brain and you’re a nerd? Fuck. You were made for me,” he rumbles, leaning forward in his chair. “Which reminds me. What was all that you were saying to those college kids outside the bathroom? You cosplay and go to conventions?”

  My cheeks heat a little. I forgot I said that in front of him earlier. It’s one of my guilty pleasures. I groan, sinking into my seat and shaking my head. “It’s something Emmy and I have done since I can remember. We get quite a few awesome nerd conventions here in New Orleans, and we dress up and go get autographs and photo ops with some of our favorite actors.”

  He bites his lip for a moment and then grins. “Who do you dress up as?”

  I roll my eyes then look away, not meeting his eyes, because dear God, for some reason, I care about what this man thinks of me. And I don’t want him thinking I’m too much of a geek, when he’s this devastatingly gorgeous, super cool celebrity chef.

  Be gone, stupid self-doubt! He’s already told you you’re perfect for him. Now see if he’s perfect for you!

  “My favorite to dress up as is Khaleesi,” I finally reply.

&nbs
p; His eyebrow quirks. “Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen?”

  I lean forward with a smirk. “The First of Her Name.”

  “The Unburnt? Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men?”

  I nod, flipping my ponytail over my shoulder. “Queen of Meereen.”

  He sighs dreamily. “Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea?”

  I put my elbow on the table between us and prop my chin on my knuckles. “Protector of the Realm.”

  “Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms?” he asks, his hand going to his chest like he’s about to get the vapors, and it takes everything in me to finish the rest of the Game of Thrones character’s title with a straight, serious face.

  I throw my head back and my arm in the air, closing my eyes to call out, “Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons!”

  When he doesn’t burst out laughing like I expect, my eyes slowly open to focus on him, and his are full of an emotion I’ve yet to see directed at me by anyone before—not even my ex. Pure, unadulterated, undeniable, irrevocable, soul-shattering love. And it takes my breath away. Which is okay, because I gasp and gain oxygen once more when he says…

  “Marry me.”

  Chapter 14

  Curtis

  AT THE LOOK in Erin’s beautiful eyes, I snap out of the spell she put me under and joke to try to calm the panic my words put on her face. “I mean, after we date a couple weeks and then give you time to plan a wedding. So like, marry me in a month.” I grin.

  “You’re like… joking, right? I can’t tell,” she squeaks, narrowing her eyes on me.

  I look down into my drink for a moment, not really knowing how to answer. I’m serious as fuck right now. And if we were in Vegas, I’d throw her over my shoulder and haul her ass into the closest wedding chapel. But I know it sounds absolutely fucking crazy to want to marry someone after not even knowing each other for an entire day, so I… don’t exactly backpedal, but I cool my jets a little while still being perfectly honest. “You are the embodiment of everything I’ve ever dreamed of in a woman, and more. You have qualities about you that I didn’t even know I could ask for in a partner, and I’m pretty damn sure that after experiencing… well, you—just being around you, spending time with you, getting to know you—I’ll never in my life be able to live without… you.”

  She glances at my drink then back up to my eyes. “Dafuck did they put in your Horny Gator? It’s supposed to make you an insatiable lover, not… crazy,” she murmurs.

  I reach over and take her hand, pulling it to my lips so I can kiss her knuckles before enclosing my other hand around it too. “I know. I know I sound absolutely insane right now. But you can’t tell me you don’t feel it too. You already admitted it earlier, and we already promised not to play stupid games. I’m just trying to be completely honest with you.”

  Her face looks thoughtful as her eyes drift back and forth between her hand enveloped in mine and my eyes, and just when I think she might jerk away and run out of here screaming, she relaxes a little, pressing her lips together before giving me a slight smile. “I feel it too, Curtis. I do. But there’s something about me you need to know before you go wanting to make commitments, because in the end, I can’t give you what you want out of life. I can’t give anyone what they want in the end. Not even myself.”

  I squeeze her hand, pulling her closer across the table. “So why don’t you take me to the more adult destination you promised me, and let’s have a grownup talk about everything, and you let me decide just what I want out of life,” I suggest gently, and she nods.

  Without another word, she weaves her fingers through mine, picks up her drink with her free hand, and leads me out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. The street isn’t as crowded as it was before, still full of life and partying, but not nearly as packed. It makes it a lot easier to travel down the walkway to the next place she wants to show me.

  We walk in heavy silence. Not exactly uncomfortable, but with an air of anticipation of a serious conversation. I’m both excited to learn more about her, and anxious to hear what she seems to think is a deal breaker when it comes to herself. In my mind, there is nothing this woman could tell me that would make me not want to be with her. Not just in my head, but in my heart and soul as well. There’s nothing we couldn’t overcome. No demon I wouldn’t fight for her. Whatever she has to say, I’ll just have to convince her it doesn’t matter. All that matters to me is her.

  We walk until it seems like we’re at the end of Bourbon Street. It’s quiet down here, and dim, almost eerily so, after being in such a loud and bright environment. We come to a small brick building with several doors lining the front and sides, which are all open. I read the wooden sign hanging beneath the covered doorway, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, Piano Bar & Lounge.

  It’s dark inside, to the point I’m not really sure if it’s still open, until a couple walks out one of the doors lining the front before heading in the direction we came.

  “Lafitte? As in…?” I prompt, wondering if it’s the same Lafitte her best friend made a huge discovery about a few years ago, and let Erin lead me inside the little building.

  “Yep. According to the legends around here, this place is the oldest structure to be used as a bar in the entire United States. It was built in the early 1700s. So that means it survived all those fires we learned about on the tour. Later on in the 1700s, they say it was used by John Laffite and his brother Pierre for their smuggling operation. Their pirate friends would bring all their stolen goods and store them here to avoid all the government fees and shit. Jean used the building as a blacksmith shop, which was the perfect cover,” she explains as we lean against the bar.

  There are several people here, but nothing like the crazy crowd from earlier up the street. The atmosphere is almost soothing, even if it is a little creepy. The entire place is deeply dim, with the only light coming from candles on each table. There are dark wooden beams spaced out running along the entire ceiling, and dead center on the bar is an ancient brick double-sided fireplace that looks like it could crumble and collapse at any second. It looks like we’re on the set of a period-piece movie, and I’m pretty sure if I glanced toward the other side of the bar, Jack Sparrow would be rallying a crew to go steal back his Black Pearl. I decide this is my favorite place we’ve been so far in all of New Orleans.

  I pull Erin close as we wait for the bartender, nuzzling her ear when I lean down to tell her, “Thank you for bringing me here. This place is amazing.”

  She snuggles closer to me. “It’s one of my all-time favorite spots. And wait ‘til you try the drink.”

  Just then, the bartender makes it to us and asks what we’d like. “Two Voodoo Daiquiris please,” Erin answers, giving me an excited wiggle of her eyebrows and making me smile.

  “Coming right up,” he tells us, and turns away to create our concoction using unmarked bottles before filling the rest of the large white plastic cups using a slushy machine. When he sets them in front of us, I hand over my credit card, signing the slip when he places it in front of me.

  Erin glances behind me and around the fireplace, her face brightening when she spots what she’s looking for. “My favorite table is open!” she squeaks, hurrying over to the rickety looking wooden table and chairs in the corner of the bar.

  When we take our seats, I reach to pull her chair closer to mine by the leg but think twice. It looks like it could fall apart at any moment, so I decide to pick mine up carefully and move closer to her instead. “So what is a Voodoo Daquiri?”

  “That’s the thing. Nobody knows. But it’s provocative,” she breathes the last word, and I laugh, recognizing the quote from Blades of Glory. “I’m hoping you can finally solve the mystery with your taste-testing superpower.”

  “Dude. How shitty would it be if we lived in a world full of superheroes, and that’s the only power I got? Fucking taste-testing,” I gripe.

  “Captain Taste Buds!” she exclaims in an announcer voice.

  �
�Super Tongue!” I mimic her tone.

  She bites her lip at that. “Well. That one makes me think of something completely different.” And then she gets an overdramatic look of worry on her face. “Oh shit. If you’re a super-taster, does that mean….” She shakes her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “No, no. I ain’t got nothing to worry about. ‘I have never had any complaints in the poonany odor department.’”

  I hold up my hand, finishing the scene from The Sweetest Thing. “‘High-five on the clean poonany.’” She claps her palm to mine and bursts into a fit of giggles, and I shake my head in wonder. “I swear, it’s like we’re the same person when it comes to the movies and shows we both love.” With all our fun banter, I feel the weight of the conversation we came here to have lighten just a bit, especially when she takes a sip of her drink and turns to rest her head on my shoulder. “I can only imagine what our mouths are going to look like after we drink these. What the hell is it?”

  “Well, Lil Wayne calls it Purple Drank. It’s grape flavor is all anyone really knows. And it’s supposed to make your clothes fall off,” she says with a smile.

  “Isn’t that what tequila is supposed to be for?” I ask, referring to the country song.

  “Could be what’s in it, I suppose. Take a sip already! You’re killing me,” she urges, sliding my cup up to the edge of the table right so the straw is right in front of me.

  “Why, sugar. Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask, feigning offence.

  She scoffs. “Duh. I wanna get you home and take advantage of you. And that’s much easier when you’re full of Voodoo juice.”

  I chuckle, finally leaning down and putting her out of her misery. And holy shit, it’s delicious. “Yep, definitely grape. And even though my sense is slightly dulled from the Hurricanes and the Horny Gator, I’m tasting… Everclear and most definitely bourbon. Ha! I’m drinking bourbon on Bourbon Street.”